#this is a reference to the winter war

[truth-nebraska]

Biden has begun dropping breadbaskets for the people of Gaza, he is such a kind and benevolent leader <3

[coldarena]

mota uniform studies + a very good boy

[agir1ukn0w]

the only reason why men should wear dog tags is so I can pull on them with my finger

[calliopesartblog]

can’t even go through a metal detector

[ravewing]

easy books

war and peace was stressing me a little bit because the font they used in the book i bought is like size zero point seven or something ridiculous. and also even though its not as difficult to read as the historical biographies and whatnot that i normally read i was still having to go back and reread entire chapters because i kept getting the characters and events and words all mixed up right

so after i got 60 pages in or something i was saying to myself 'well im like. five percent done with this book now' so i deserved a reward and i was just going to reread JUST ONE wof book for fun (darkstalker legends. also it reminded me of how much i hate darkstalker and how much i absolutely love thoughtful and also indigo ps i also cried. maybe ill yap ab that book later)

but then after i finished that there were still a lot of hours left in the day and really what was i going to do, go back to war and peace after only two hours?? fuck no i needed a vacation you guys come on

so now im rereading arc two over again because its been like three or four years since the last time i did so. currently halfway through winter turning at the moment but you know what i earned this treat ok guys.

i havent sat down and read a silly easy book in so long (lie btw i reread the lost heir a few months ago but that doesnt count). like since last november i have been nonstop reading historical nonfiction grown up complex books so being able to relax and read a little kiddie small words book series like wof again is so oughh im literally cruising rn guys.

maybe ill buy the warrior cats book series because i only read the first arc of that and that was way back when i was in third grade. so like seven years ago jesus christ. easy books they could NEVER make me hate you

[softguarnere]

*slides a crisp $20 bill across the table* being an intelligence officer working with Nixon and having a thing for each other because I’m in love with how you write him 🫶🏽

Hold Me Close While I Think This Through

Lewis Nixon x reader

A/N: "I'm in love with how you write him" when I tell you I'm sitting here with tears in my eyes 🥹 I've literally had the worst writer's block this past week, so I hope this came out okay! (As always, this is written for the fictional depiction from the show - no disrespect to the real life veterans!) 💕🕊️

Warnings: language, drinking, this isn't proof read - we die like men 🫡

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through Regimental HQ somehow makes the morning seem a little more crisp, new, and exciting. A few people spare glances in your direction as you pass. None of them matter, though. Not when you’ve got your eyes set on the two men sitting at a table straight ahead – one of which the sight of makes your heart run wild like a race horse, the only thing containing it the bars of your rib cage . . . and the knowledge that he’s married.

“Well good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Nixon chirps as you approach. Leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk and sipping a cup of coffee, he looks like he owns the place. No other person in the Army has looked quite so relaxed this whole war. He looks like a spectator, not someone who’s always in the midst of danger, gathering intel and navigating the chess board that is military politics. It's a stark juxtaposition to the man beside him, who’s flipping through some papers and scribbling notes on them every now and then, looking serious.

Winters offers you a small smile. “Morning, (Y/N).”

“Morning, gents.” Playfully, you push Nixon’s feet off the desk before taking a seat next to Winters. “We all know that if you had your way, no one would be sleeping later than you.”

“Oh har har.”

“She’s got a point, Nix,” Winters says with a smirk. “You wouldn’t be at half of our meetings if I weren’t forcing you up.”

“Not you too.”

“Honesty is a virtue.”

Before any more digs can be made at his expense, Nixon grabs a file from a stack on the desk and tosses it in your direction. It lands beside you with a weak thwack! on top of some other papers that he’s left laying about.

“New assignment,” he says by way of explanation.

Flipping it open sends waves of excitement flooding over you. Your eyes keep skipping ahead, trying to take in all the information at once. Can this be true? You have to reread the carefully printed lines several times to make sure that you’re not imagining things.

“Oh my God.”

Winters pauses mid-scribble, glancing up at you. “Well that’s more than the usual exasperated sigh.”

Nixon smiles around his coffee cup. “Let me guess: they want another map?”

“No.” You read the lines one last time – just in case. Carefully, you close the file and run a hand over the cover with the same reverence that a priest might a Bible. “They want to send me behind enemy lines.”

Nixon chokes on his drink. “They what?!” He splutters.

You’re too proud to notice the way that your fellow intelligence officer’s face goes pale, or the way that Winters sends him a worried glance. All you know is that this is your chance. To get out from behind the desk and into the field. To do something that will make a real difference in the war.

This is your time to shine.

--

God, he hasn’t been this uncomfortable since he was eighteen and standing in the living room at his graduation party while extended family milled about, pumping his hand with congratulatory handshakes and then wandering off to judge the furniture placement and snicker over hors d’oeuvres. He had spent half the evening sneaking pulls from a flask to loosen up, and besides the incident in which one of his mother’s cousins had shoved a piece of cake into the face of an uncle from his dad’s side, the only thing he can really recall from that evening is the stifling feeling that accompanies dressing up and rubbing elbows with society’s upper crust.

Ironic, that going off to war and hoping it would get him away from all that somehow managed to throw him right back into the remnants of that suffocating existence. He needs a drink.

Snatching a tall glass from a waiter that’s passing by, he downs it in one long gulp before giving the sprawling ballroom another once over as he tries to get his bearings. There’s really nothing to see except a bunch of rich German officers strutting around, puffing out their chests while women who gleam under the heavy armor of precious stones that they wear trapse after them, clinging to their arms and occasionally managing to drag one to the dance floor.

Something catches his eye. Along the far wall, one woman shines brighter than the rest, despite the fact that she wears nowhere near as much jewelry. She doesn’t need it; she sparkles all on her own – she is her own precious gemstone. With her simple gown and demure demeanor, she looks like a modern day Cinderella observing the party, not sure if she should join in or not.

You play your part well. Nixon knows better; you are not nearly so shy and reserved. It’s all an act to attract young officers in the hopes that they’ll dance with you and let some key bit of intel slip in an attempt to impress you. None of this is real – not really, Nixon knows that.

So they why do his hands automatically clench into fists at his side at the thought of a Kraut officer flirting with you – dancing with you – even looking at you?

He knows the answer. He has known it for a long time, even if it took Dick – of all people – pointing it out to him to make him confront his truth. The honest fact of the matter is that Lewis Nixon has fallen for you – hard. But there’s a war on. And the fact that he’s married. Not to mention that you obviously only think of him as a friend.  

Sometimes fiction can be a veil behind which the truth hides itself. And undercover, what are the two of you tonight if not a piece of fiction? he reasons.

If you’re surprised to see him, your face betrays nothing when he joins you along the wall. Your smile is pleasant, your shy demeanor unchanged as you pretend to introduce yourself to him in flawless German.

Then, quietly, “What are you doing here? Where’s Lieutenant – “

“His orders were changed,” he says quickly. There’s no need to mention the fact that the intelligence officer you were supposed to be meeting was put on a different assignment at Nixon’s request. It didn’t take much convincing to make the upper brass see that his upper class background enables him to better navigate parties such as this one. And only Dick seems to realize why he was so adamant about being the one to accompany you behind enemy lines.

You give him a sideways glance. You’re too smart not to have questions about the sudden change of plans, but there’s no time for any of that when you’re surrounded by people who would gladly kill you both in a heartbeat if they were to find out who you really were and what you were doing.

“Danced with anyone interesting tonight?”

“Only him.” You risk a subtle nod in the direction of a young officer who stands among much older men, all of them covered in ribbons and awards. “Some sort of protégé who can’t hold his liquor and was a little too eager to tell me all about his most important assignments the second that I gave him a shy smile and the honor of a dance.”

That idiot? Dancing with you? A chill runs down his spin at the thought of that Nazi bastard with his hands on your waist.

“I’ve been trying to slip away for the last half hour, but every time that I start for the door, he comes back around to offer me another dance.”

Nixon offers a woman passing by a pleasing smile, and laughs like you’ve just said something funny before whispering, “Do you think you’ve been compromised?”

“No. I just think that the slimy little lizard isn’t too eager to let a real life woman who laughed at his jokes slip away.”

“Well, we’ll see how confident he is when he realizes that there are other men here who are far better dancers.” He offers you a bow and then extends his hand to you. “Shall we, Fräulein?”

In all the time that he’s known you, and after all your training, he’s never seen you break character before. But something about the way that your smile spreads across your face tells him that there’s a first time for everything.

You fit your gloved hand into his. “Wir sollten.”

The image of the young German officer’s face falling, looking completely crushed as he sees Nixon leading you onto the dance floor, will forever bring him a sense of satisfaction – especially when he storms out of the ballroom, followed by confused looks from all the older officers and party goers. Good, let him throw a tantrum over not getting his way. He wouldn’t deserve you in a hundred different lifetimes.

The music is just loud enough that no one can overhear you when you whisper your question from earlier as you dance, guarded by your close proximity. “What are you really doing here, Lewis?”

Lewis. Not Nixon. Not Nix. Lewis.

His name, yes, but you’ve only ever called him that a handful of times. Something about the way you say it stirs the feelings that took him so long to name.

“I couldn’t let you come here by yourself,” he whispers back. In any other situation, a look of annoyance at what that might imply would have crossed your face, but you don’t break character because of the people watching. “Not that you aren’t capable! Of course you are. You’re the most capable.”

“But you didn’t trust me enough?”

Fuck, he’s already made a mess of this whole thing. That’s what he gets for acknowledging his feelings instead of numbing them with Vat 69. He was never taught to articulate his emotions; Dick made it sound way too easy.

He fumbles for an explanation. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you coming into this alone. I mean, you wouldn’t have been alone, but without me, I mean.”

Smooth.

You raise an eyebrow. “But why?”

Is it his imagination, or standing so close, is your heartbeat stuttering the way that his is?

“Because I never want to leave your side,” he admits. “And I couldn’t handle it if something happened to you and I wasn’t here.”

Your eyes widen to the size of saucers. He’s sure that he’s said the wrong thing. Leave it to him to dig the hole even deeper.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

His face feels hot. Was the ballroom this warm when he arrived, or is the building suddenly on fire?

“I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m trying to make a confession.”

“But . . . you’re married.” Unfortunately, you’re right. “And there’s the war and the non-fraternization policy.” Double whammy. Still –

“I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”

You hesitate, maybe for the first time in your entire life. There’s no denying that there’s something between the two of you. Acknowledging those feelings and acting on them though . . . that could be a bad idea. Because just like there’s no denying the mutual feelings you share, there’s also no ignoring the harsh facts that you’ve just pointed out.

“Dick is gonna kill us.”

Nixon laughs. “If Sink doesn’t beat him to it.”

Another mutual feeling bursts into bloom: anything could happen in this war, and it’s already taken so much from everyone – why not enjoy what you can while you can?

“People are watching us.” Around you, couples are beginning to pull apart as the song comes to a close. You and Nixon are still fit together, your right hand clasped in his left, his right hand on your waist.

“Someone is always watching us. Occupational hazard.” He smiles, half because he’s right – your job means that you’re always either watching someone or being watched – and half because you’re so beautiful and he’s so lucky to be dancing with you that he wonders who wouldn’t be watching. He’s so nervous that he wonders if he actually speaks aloud when he asks, “Do you want to give them a show?”

The words must make their way out, because he can hear your breath hitch in your throat. Then you smirk, just like you usually would at one of his ideas.

“Shut up and kiss me so that we can make a grand exit.”

He may outrank you, but he’s all too happy to comply with your order.

[jackiequick]

— A trip to New Mexico, how fun right? Well, sorta! | Marvel Phase 1 FanFic

Timeline: Set during Iron Man 2 and in between Thor

Summary: Coulson was assigned to go see what the hell was happening in New Mexico and decided he might need, more like want, some assistance and who better to keep watch of the town than a blast from the past SHIELD agent?

Pairing: Coulson & Underwood, Darcy Lewis & Jason Underwood and etc.

Established uncle & nephew relationship: Tony Stark & Jason Underwood

Characters/mentioned: Clint Barton, Rei Stark, Jane Foster, Pepper Potts, Natasha Romanoff and etc.

Click here if you like to read the previous fic

—//—

The day was young and the sun was still shining among the city across Miami into the Stark Mansion. Pepper was off at Stark Industries with Natalie Rushman, who’s real name is Natasha Romanoff, meanwhile Jason took care of the business around the household. It’s been rather hectic lately so someone at least needed to make sure no one starved and everything was well taken care of.

He thanked god his grandnephew, Rei Stark, beautiful mother was taking care of the boy this week. Because then, they would have another mystery on their hands with how curious that child can secretly be.

He was answering a few questions about a financial calls in the living room and flipping across channels on the TV that involves news about the latest Stark Expo, stuff involving Dr. Bruce Banner, The Feltons daily news and information about The Strange Family son, Leonard Strange.

As well as a small crisis forming in New Mexico appeared on various news channels. He rolled his eyes knowing S.H.I.E.L.D. was probably getting word of it already and coming to—

Suddenly the floor started rumbling loudly underneath his feet and the other things started shaking. He quickly turned over to catch a lamp that almost tipped over and crashed.

His eyes widen and shouted into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back, Laura!”

He swiftly made his way down the stairs to see the basement turned open floor lab was being destroyed. And in the middle of it stood his only nephew holding back a jackhammer as AC/DC blasted into the headphones he was wearing. So he wasn’t actually listening or notice him standing there.

“HEY! BOB THE BUILDER CUT IT OUT!” Jason shouted stumbling through the rubble, deeply crackled opened walls and dirty floors that surrounded them.

If his eyes couldn’t widen even more, his eyes darted down to the 1970 model of Stark Expo he helped design decades ago laying on the ground. The model that both Stark siblings, were discussing on becoming something evolutionary different for the world. He wasn’t as smart as them to understand everything they studied and created but he understood it was far too important to not model the idea.

He reached forward lace his fingers crossed the model and questioned, “Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?” Repiled the A.I.

“What is this? I mean, what is he building?”

“It’s to be believed Mr. Stark has discovered a New Element and is determined to use it to power his suit for a greater timeframe.”

“A new element? Damn. Alright, turn the music off.”

JARVIS did what was told as he unwired Tony’s music as the brunette genius shouted confused and insulted by the actions. Until his eyes fell on his uncle with a nod, “Hey.”

“Hey.” He replied removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

“You’re creating a new element, i see.”

“Yup! After 20 years, dad is still taking me to school and I’m surprised I’ve haven’t seen it sooner.”

“Because it wasn’t time for you figure it out eariler. Need help?”

“Seriously?”

“You ruined my floor.”

“That’s means your helping!”

“But your cleaning up afterwards.”

“Damn it.”

The two got to work, opening walls, expanding wires, lengthened the tunnels across the room. Tony coined it ‘hardware mood’, using his hands to create the lengthy contraction instead of his machinery. ‘Going old school’ as Jason liked to call it, pulling apart drilling into the tunnels and adding placements to the sections.

It placed looked insanely messy but you knew where everything is.

By the time, Tony was drilling in something the door to the basement opened as Agent Phil Coulson walked in saying, “I heard you broke the perimeter.”

“Uh, yeah that was 3 years ago, where you’ve been?” Tony replied, walking over to the tunnels and vents they built. 

“Doing some stuff.”

“Yeah well, me too and it worked.”

Both men chatted, as Tony wondered around the room grabbing items as Coulson picked up a half built Shield that could’ve belong to Captain America. That was when Jason stepped into the picture returning with another box of tools, cables and basic hardware.

The blonde smirked snatching up the item, showing it to Tony who’s face light up, having Coulson help them put the Shield underneath the tunnels to level it. Perfectly leveled.

“I’m busy, what you want?” Tony said, receiving a light slap on the arm from Jason due to the attitude he gave Coulson, “Ow!”

Coulson held back a small chuckled, “Goodbye. I’ve been reassigned, director Fury wants me in New Mexico.”

“Fantastic. Land of enchantment.”

“Or so I’m told.”

Jason spoke up, “The small crisis in New Mexico, involving the decency sized craters with a hammer smacked in the middle of it?”

“Good, your informed.” Coulson added with a half smile.

“I saw the news.”

“I would like you to come, Stark seems to be handling things here perfectly well.”

“Yeahhh. Nope! I’m retired.”

“Never too late to jump back in the game.”

“And I’m busy.”

Tony gave his uncle a look to go do it and get out of the house, that he can handle everything from here. He weighted his options, not wanting to leave his house unsupervised and tired of going deep into SHIELD missions, he rather likes retirement.

“I don’t know, man. Again, I’ve been retired for more than 15 freaking years.” Jason exclaimed.

Coulson thought for a moment, he really wanted to have company for a couple of days and said, “You only need to scout the town and see what’s happening.”

“Undercover work?”

“Yes. Only for 4 days, i promise than you can come back.”

“2 days. I’m only doing simple work, let me remind you that i rather not mess with the others there.”

“Fine by me. Waiting for you in the car.”

Tony giggled at the speechless face his uncle made. It was priceless! He told him to go ahead with Coulson for a few short days, he promised he won’t reck the house, hopefully. Plus he knew the man had a suitcase still packed from their trip to France upstairs.

He sent a playful glare to his nephew, grabbing his things and met Phil outside.

The man drove them to New Mexico, taking stops to stretch their legs and eat on the way there. Both men chatted to keep the time at ease, having respect for one another and actually enjoying the company. Phil Coulson wasn’t a half bad, but that doesn’t mean he won’t heist to tease him.

“So, how’s the thing with May going?” Jason let out ever so causal, sipping a bottle of water.

Phil blinked hearing him and awkwardly blushed, “I—i-how did you know that?”

“I heard of the story that you were on a undercover mission with her and a few interactions were made.”

“It was completely professional.”

“Oh, so taking 2 minutes to unhook her bra was professional?”

“There were cameras! I was trying to sell that we were together.”

Jason snickered, “Oh yeah according to her, you sold it.”

“That was an act for the camera!” Coulson added trying to defend himself, “So you and May talk, huh?”

“Quite a bit. Her emails about you are hilarious.”

“Remind me to call her later. And i will have you know, I was being a gentleman.”

“Oh yeah, of course Phil. You were committed.”

“I think i did alright. You think i was committed?”

“Your one of a kind, Coulson. Don’t ever change.”

The rest of the ride meant a few jokes here and there, stopping for snack break and bringing up movies along with latest shows on TV. There were a few mishaps and things that needed to be taken care of during their stops.

They arrived soon enough to New Mexico, as an SHIELD base was already being formed around the outsets of the town nearby the crater that held the hammer. The moment they exist the car, Jason slid down darting to examine the hammer in awe. Plenty of people tried surrounding and lifting the metallic gray block from the ground but it didn’t seem to budge at all. 

“Wow..” muttered Jason, giving a once over to Phil who snapped pictures.

The carvings were immaculate, the lining was framed perfectly, the engraved symbols were placed in a fitting manner. The hammer looked one of a kind. Magical. Ungodly amount of time and effort was made into making it. Jason must admit he gave credit to the people who shaped such a glorified item.

Hell, the man stepped over looping the brown handled into his grip trying to lift it himself. He grunted and huffed, taking a couple of breaths trying his mightiest to lift the god damn hammer. But nothing! It didn’t even bother to slightly budge for him. He sighed, releasing the grip of the handle and stomped up to the previous stop he want in.

“Anything?” Coulson asked, humoring his attempt to lift the hammer.

“Nope.” He replied, huffing and massaging his grip, “That thing is stuck!”

“Yikes. Here’s the deal, your gonna get a change on clothes then scout the town.”

“How about you? Gonna try and lift it yourself?”

“Haha! No, I’m handling a few pressing matters and help set up the base of operations.” 

Jason nodded walking back to the car, he seemed out of breath from trying to lift the god damn hammer. It was super glued to the ground, not even trucks and machines with horsepower could even remove it from the ground.

He found himself a nicely fresh change of causal clothes. Being a brown jacket with a olive green t-shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of his favorite classic sneaker. Along with a pair of simple sunglasses that were gifted by Pepper last Christmas. He carried his old school SHIELD ID, walkie-talkie and a handheld gun in his pocket. Just in case.

The man wondered around town, taking notice of the simplicity of it all. The houses, buildings, stores that held the items needed to built a good foundation, a general grocery store, a diner that held the delicious smell of pies, a bar and plenty of other places to visit. It made him smile. He liked it a lot, especially since the afternoon sun shinned just right above the cloud, giving the waves a cozy breath of fresh air.

He enjoyed it.

He walked around, entertaining himself at a coffee shop nearby the gas station. He was waiting in line, reading the signs on the wall and giving small nods to older folk or pregnant women who walked past him, letting them go in front of him. He wasn’t in a hurry to get out or anything, his job was the scout the town and see what type of people they’re dealing with.

And so far? Everyone seemed to be general folk living their day to day lives, working 9-5 meanwhile the teenagers and children were out at school or something.

Everything was going good until he was accidentally bumped into by someone.

He didn’t see the person, only what dropped on the floor next to his feet. A older brunette doll, that was wearing a purple dress, a white lab coat, strapless heels and a ponytail. Alongside a pair of sunglasses on the doll. Looked more like an cool action figure than a doll, designed by wonderfully crafty people.

Little did he know that the young girl who this doll belonged to would be important to him later on. As well as the mother.

He chuckled as his eyes darted up to the person, “Hey sweetheart, I believe this is yours?”

The young girl turned around, her red skirt bouncing in the wind from the movement she was making and fixing her crafty jacket a bit, pushing up her bangs to face the man. Her big brown eyes were covered by square frames. Along with adorable dimples.

“Ohh? Oh! I’m sorry mister..” She repiled shyly with a smile, and gently taking the doll from him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t want to lose her, she’s smart.” He replied with a smile.

“Yeah my doll is a scientist! She’s love coffee, dresses in purple and uh, stuff.

“Hahaha. That’s amazing, um sweetie?

“Hmm?”

“Sorry to ask, but um where’s your mama?”

“Uh, she’s getting extra coffee from her and a few friends.”

“And she left you alone?”

“I’m not that’s little, you know. I’m 15–16!…ish, very soon.”

“Child. You’re still a child.”

“I’m almost 16, sir.! Sorry for shouting.”

“Don’t be, it’s alright.”

He was just about to ask her name when..

“Mew Mew!”

Came a voice, sounding it belonged a women. She ran up to them, holding a box of donuts and a two cups of coffee. The women seemed to a short brunette with long curls, a beanie that bounced with her every step and glasses. She was pretty! Her features matched the young girl perfectly, it made him smile knowing that her mother returned quickly.

“Mew Mew, i told you to stay put, sweetie.” Said the mother with a smile pushing up her glasses, sounding sweetly protective of the girl.

“I’m sorry, i had to throw out my trash mom.” Apologized the young girl.

“At least tell me where you’re going next time. This place is sorta crowded. You almost gave me a huge fright!”

“I’m sorry. I will tell you next time. But I’m okay! I promise!”

The brunette noticed the man and said, “I’m so sorry about her! She just ran off and i had no idea what happened..i hope she wasn’t too much trouble or anything.”

That was when Jason spoke up with a politic tone replying, “Oh no! It’s completely alright, you know how kid—I mean, teens are. Just be lucky, it was me who found her and not some other guy.”

“You have kids? I mean no offense, your like a young and tall bachelor.”

He chuckled, “That i know of, I have one. He’s at home with family.”

“You’re new around here, huh?” She questioned with a smile.

“It’s obvious isn’t it?”

“YUP! I mean the jacket means your suitable and out of town, no offense.”

“None taken. I’m just here for two days, I needed some rest from a long trip.”

She smiled, “Well you pick a odd place to stop. Oh well, welcome to New Mexico. I’m Darcy and you already met Mew Mew.”

“Melissa!” Cut in the young girl, with a grin.

Jason nodded with a small laugh and decided to use a nickname of his, “Nice to meet both of you. I’m JJ.”

“JJ, huh?” Darcy challenge with a smile, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll find out my real name later, if your lucky.”

“Well i like it! It’s cute. Oh I’m sorry again for taking up your time.”

“It’s okay, doll. No one was breaking any bylaws or anything. You seem like your in a hurry as well?”

“Oh yes! Meeting up a fews friends of mine for breakfast and stuff. Oh shit, we’re running late. Thanks again, JJ!”

“No problem! Be careful and stay safe out there.”

The women walked away with a smile, glancing back at him thinking about something as her daughter waved at the man. He chuckled, waving goodbye to the pair noticing he was finally next in line and made a quiet order. He thanked the sweet barista with a charming smile, who giggled softly at his politeness, as he made his way around town. 

His thought went back to the women he met earlier, Darcy, and her grinning daughter. They seemed like kind folk, but a part of him felt like he seen something in Darcy’s face before. Like he met a version of her in the past. Maybe her mother or an older sister? He didn’t know what it was, but he felt calm and a bit like himself around her aura.

He smiled.

Moments like that made him feel good. He has seen and met plenty of faces beforehand in his life. People on missions, dates he was dragged into going on, parties he danced at, walks in the park and just faces that made him feel a sense of déjà vu. A charming old feeling, per say.

As he scout the town, he scanned the area and the people, when suddenly he heard it. A loud banging tune. A righteous voice that could sent a smile to any man or women who met them. His face whipped around to hiding across the corner of a store, noticing the group.

A short light haired brunette with a beauty mark, an older man dressed in a patterned shirt and a tall blonde wearing a brownish jacket. And next to them stood Darcy, along with her daughter. But his eyes bounced back to the voice.

The mannerisms of the blonde haired man held such strong attitude towards the others around him. Tall and muscular like he was meant to do business with someone. The voice was righteously kind and oddly enough to seem like he lost his footing. His young facial features made him look like he was sculpture by…

A god.

Jason smirked. Pulling out his phone, he called Coulson, simply saying, “I think I found your sources, Phil…”

——

He returned back to the base of operations.

It was jarring scurrying up the step, having not been in a SHIELD makeshift office for more or less 15 years. Practically 20 years! A heat wave hit him. The man would’ve shivered at the thoughts and memories that had the option to wash over him.

He snapped back towards Coulson watching the man work, watching scanners and scouts shouting loudly across the room. He even noticed a blonde man dressed in black in the corner, tightening his arrowheads giving him a small nod, acknowledging him.

“Phil. We have your guy.” Jason spoke with a clear voice, catching the people in the room’s attention.

He explains to Coulson to try getting into contact with a Dr. Jane Foster and her little group of misfits, collecting as much information they can. Coulson was impressed by hearing this, already on the same page before he showed up finding information about Dr. Foster, calling orders to everyone who was in the area.

Jason nodded, about to walk out when somebody tossed a gun at him. He caught it and examined the weapon. A position for a sharp shooter.

“Hey—wait, no! Coulson, we had a deal. I ain’t doing this. I did the light work you asked for.” Yelled out the blonde following the agent across the halls.

“Yeah well, I had other plans. I figured you’ll like to get a front row seat on the action, high up.” Coulson said, with a small smile, “If he shows up.”

“Whatever you plan on doing, you better keep an eye on them and make sure no harm comes to them. Their group had a child with them.”

“Relax Wood—”

“Underwood.”

“Sorry, Underwood. I won’t harm anyone, we just need to speak to that one guy. I promise we’ll try to play it safe, but we don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

“You’re window with me will be closing very soon, Coulson. So make it quick, then I’m out.”

“Crystal clear, Underwood. But I do have a question, why did you come?”

He blinked and just shrugged, he really didn’t know the true answer to that question. He thought about it, trying to word it in his mind the best he can, leaving out a few details for himself.

“Because my nephew wanted me out of the house..and I-I had no other choice but to make sure SHIELD that knows what they’re doing…I’ve seen the records and it’s utter chaos.” He answered softly.

Coulson nodded and pressed, “We’re trying to fix it as we go along, I promise. Why did you retire? You know either way, it won’t last. You will always have a part of you that wants to come back to this..I mean look at your life now.”

Jason didn’t answer him this time, just walked away with a grip on the rifle. He knew the plenty of reasons why he retired and honestly he enjoyed retirement, hoping to get this job done. But it won’t say most of it out loud himself.

———

This time, we was perched on a high level outside with the archer he saw earlier. Clint Barton.

The man wasn’t half bad. Snarky, has a murder stare he can appreciate, very knowledgeable about stuff and honestly a pretty chill guy. Along with a bit grumpy due to the rain.

In the New Mexico, it was raining again. The last two days have on and off again rain with sun and wind. Mother Nature didn’t seem too happy. Some agents didn’t mind it meanwhile the others were annoyed by it.

He doesn’t mind the rain too much.

“So, you’re the guy Nat was telling me about?” Clint said after a few minutes of silence between them.

Jason was hunched over readjusting his gun, and looked over his shoulder heading him, “What?”

“Natasha. She told me about you.”

“Uh, Clint, I don’t know a Natasha, buddy.”

He chuckled, “Ohhhh! You don’t know? Your women from legal, Natalie Rushman, is actually an agent of ours..”

“The fuck?” Jason let out, taking a moment to connect the dots and groaned, “God damn it! Pepper hired her, and didn’t even notice the clues.”

“Ah, well, she’s good at her job! Could fool anyone. She’s a widow for gods sakes!”

‘So was my big sister..’ He thought to himself, before adding, “Yeah, she fooled me. Uh, what did she say about me?”

“That you’re agile, smart, kind.” Clint snorted, “And bit of a grump. No offense! She likes to tell me about her missions and the people she meets, but she doesn’t know much about you..”

“And I like to keep it that way. For your knowledge and hers, I’m uh, just a family friend of Stark’s.”

“A very close one it seems. You didn’t seem like you wanted to leave the house.”

“Yeah well, someone needs to keep an eye on them. Enough about me, Clint, what about you?”

“Simple man like you, i guess. I remember wanting to work with SHIELD for a long time and I’ve been working 9-5 for some time now, trying to perfect my craft.  Oh, I have a beautiful fiancé not a lot of people know that.”

Anyone can see the soft grin on Clint’s face mentioning the last part. He seemed very proud of it, as if he was planning on starting a family with whoever this fiancé was. In result, it had Jason smiling.

“Treat her right, Barton.” Jason told him with a smile.

“I try.” Clint replied, “You got anyone?”

“Uh..um, it’s complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“I take girls out on dates but it never last.”

“Hmm! You need to try finding a girl outside of your usual spots.”

They waited. Wait long hours of the day, Clint on his leveled perched up with his bow and arrow. Jason on the other side, underneath an umbrella, his gun in hand, eyes narrow. It was dark, rainy, quiet, you couldn’t hear much. Only the ruffle of trees, wet sand being slouch around and machines working.

Until they heard it. The grunts, groans, yells and pure shouting that started picking up pace. The running from starts perked Jason and Clint up in positions.

Then the pair saw it, the situation of a tall, blonde man with full on muscles over his body. His wet hair and pissed off look that made him look like Zeus. Clint got a clean shot at him and Jason narrowed, his gun able to get a closer look.

“Damn he’s uh, good looking..” Jason muttered, couldn’t lie and thanked god his old friends weren’t here to make heart eye at him.

“Yeah he is..” Clint muttered back then started asking Coulson to fire, who ordered him to wait.

The tall blonde man raised growled and roared like a large monster of rage, his hands gripping onto the handle of the hammer. He smirked as he pulled and grunted waiting for a result, but nothing came. Just like when Jason pulled it earlier. No result.

However, this man looked upset, screaming and his knees fell to the ground. He looked defeated. Like dialing back on doing a simple task, like he meant to lift it. Jason blinked, trying to think onto what this god was trying to achieve!

‘God of what?’ He asked himself, watching the man to see if he would do anything else. A part of him might’ve been empathetic toward him, if he wasn’t standing the freaking rain roaring in defeat and annoyance.

He snapped out of this thoughts when Coulson called it. Jason ran down with other agents cuffing Thor wrists together. Clint lowers his bow and arrow. They brought him into a room to be interrogated by Phil Coulson, the blonde man stayed quiet the whole time…

—————

Coulson paced back and forth, he just wanted a name. He bite his nails. Proof that this man has something to hide for he can report back to Fury. Phil kept glancing at the monitors, watching this man’s movements. It wasn’t moving, just looking defeated.

Clint was doing research measures for this case, Jason watched the scanners. His eyes stayed on the blonde, wishing he heard his name earlier when he was scouting the town, but he didn’t. Darcy nor Jane Foster said his name. Jason narrowed in on the tall blonde recognizing something, trying to connect the dots.

He seems to be a strong man. Maybe we he brought to Earth due to a punishment? Did he screw up with somebody? Who made him this way? So many questions were running across his head, watching the clock.

Again, he recognized the look, the same one his nephew shared two years ago before announcing himself as Iron Man.

He’s in need of finding himself, grounding himself in humanity.

Coulson locked eyes with Jason, knowing his time was almost up. Less than 12 hours and he’ll be gone back to Miami. 

“You talk to him.” Phil remarked.

“What? No.” Jason rejected the request.

“We just need his name. He said he’s a god compared to the men here.”

“Every man thinks he’s a god. I’ve been near it, he’s just bluffing.”

“Exactly why you should go! Please, i just need it and we can focus our research with the equipment we stole from Foster.”

“You stole from Dr. Foster. Not me.”

Jason grumbled underneath his breath, reminding himself he’ll be gone soon. He walked away, removing his jacket and took a long sigh, sucking his teeth before entering the room.

~~~~

He entered the clear room, holding a glass of water for the man and a snack. A bag of chips he stole from the vending machines.

He sat down in the chair across from him, handing him the items.

“What’s this?” Asked the blonde, holding the glass of water and small bag.

“Water. I can promise you it’s not drugged or anything. You need it after taking out those men.” Jason explained, with a kindness in his tone.

“Why? Are you with them? Theses men. Son of Col and his soldiers.”

“Not exactly, your highness. I was just sent to scout the town and keep an eye on the people, especially after the ruckus at the moment.”

“You mean to cause me and theses humans harm then…?”

“No. I didn’t, that was Coulson’s doing. I didn’t know his intentions until now. He know he’s on a time crunch with me and he just ask one thing of you.”

“And what is that?”

Thor stayed silent, looking down after asking that question. He leaned against his chair, inching forward to drink the water and bag of the chips he was given. He was hungry and very much appreciated the small offering. He watched the man, sitting in front of him. He held such kindness, honesty and plenty of gruff to himself. As if he had a lot of trouble in his mind.

“Who are you?” Thor asked him, sipping his glass.

“Why would you like to know? He asked, rather intrigued by his eyes.

“You offered to show me a far cry of kindness.”

“Because, if you live long enough, you see the same eyes in different people…”

Thor was honestly taking back by his words. Those were powerful enough just to be written in stone. He wondered if this man was playing a role or actually meant every word in that sentence. As if he lived plenty of lives, such as himself. A part of him choose to highly respect it.

“What’s your game, mortal?” He asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“No, no game your highness. You have your secrets and so do i. And i can tell you don’t want to be here.” Jason told him honestly, “I’ll just like to know your name. Please?”

“..I’m Thor. Son Of Odin.”

“Your a god..?”

“Yes. What do you mean by the question?”

“A man of your status must’ve been sent here for a reason, my lord.”

“I was casted out of my home for being a ruckus and disobeying my orders…but i can assure you, I didn’t mean to cause you harm..”

“I can tell. Thor, i don’t know how long you’ve been here on Earth but what I’m about to say might ease your thoughts.”

“Hm?”

“You were sent here to learn a lesson. I can only imagine what it might be, however that’s for you figure out.”

“A lesson?”

“There’s always trials and errors to overcome. And I believe you might have to learn something from being among us humans..”

The god of thunder stayed silent simply nodded, listening to him as his mind ran with billions of thoughts. Jason stood up from his chair thanking him for that small information and he’ll request for Thor to be released soon enough.

He was about to leave the room when the god of thunder stop him.

“What’s your name?” He asked, his blue eyes pooling and twirling in curiosity.

He looked over his shoulder with a simple half smile, “Jason Underwood, your majesty.”

With that last comment he left, telling Clint what he found from his conversation with the blonde. It wasn’t much, he wasn’t going to tell Barton about what exactly happened in that room. Keeping that information private until further notice. He only said that his name was ‘Thor’ and that he’s a god.

Clint nodded taking note of what was said to tell Coulson later. Jason nodded, snatching up his keys. His work here was done. He hoped.

He took the first chance he got, returning back to his motel to pack his things and head back home.

The man was driving to Miami turning back the radio, when he received a call from James Rhodes. Rhodey was telling him what recently happened with Tony, the fight with Pepper, the issue with his suits and whatnot. Along with the fact that Tony decided to take off in his suit and sat on a giant freaking donut. It was a rather long list.

“He did what?!”

Was all Jason yelled out the phone, as he reached a red light.

As if he week couldn’t get any weirder…

—//—

Thanks for reading this story! Also is this my soft reboot of a cooler sweeter MCU? Yes. Yes it is.

Did you catch the two pop culture references? ;)

Pls reblog, like, share and comment for more

Tags: @mandylove1000 @gcthvile @msrochelleromanofffelton @gaminggirlsstuff @hanlueluver @triptuckers @rooster-84 @sherloquestea @meiramel @hangmanbrainrot @morgan108 @eliohasmyheart @blackheart-beauty @yetanotherwells @savemewattpad @blueboirick and etc

[hayabs]

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[actlikeyouvebeenthere]

[baron helmut zemo voice] the UN has exploded and it’s my fault….. but i stay silly :3

never before has a strangely freakish little man captured my heart like this. i hope he is doing okay. yes i know the outfit is inaccurate it’s my first time drawing him and i did it from memory OK!!!!

[mastersoftheair]

going back to seriously looking for new MotA information truly reveals how many people consider "the pacific" the redheaded stepchild of the hanks/spielberg ww2 projects, if they consider it at all

[scham-wcan]

The vacation home

Winter, after spending the afternoon and evening unpacking with Ruby: The Schnee before you is as sober as the day she was born

Cinder: You’re drinking

Winter: it’s milk

Cinder: it’s brown

Winter: it was an ugly goat

Cinder: it- and you smells like bourbon

Winter: I’m sorry I just really wanted this to be a special get away

Cinder: it is love, just- look we love Weiss… and tolerate Ruby- but we can have plenty of fun. Okay?

Winter: Alright… one more drink?

Cinder: you and I can finish the bottle, but no more you’ll be as kyung over as Willow was after 50 of these

[god-of-jotunn]

ok wait so when nat says to bucky in civil war : "you could at least recognise me", is she talking abt when they met on a mission and he shot her? or when he trained her in the red room?

[winterinhimring]

Sometimes a book is so wrong that you just have to set it down and cackle ominously for a few minutes.

[novaursa]

The Dragon and The Wolf

- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)

- Word count: 3 681

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.

The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.

Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.

From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.

You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.

Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.

The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.

Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.

"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."

Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."

His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."

Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.

"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."

There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.

"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."

There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.

“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”

He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.

As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.

The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.

You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.

Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.

"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."

There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.

You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."

Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.

One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."

The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.

"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"

The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.

You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."

Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.

"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."

A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.

You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.

There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.

You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."

With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.

You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.

Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.

As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.

But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.

A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.

The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.

Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.

You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.

When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.

As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"

Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."

You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."

Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."

Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."

His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.

"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.

Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."

You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.

Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."

Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."

The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.

[thebibliosphere]

Joy I have to ask - what temperature do you think it is inside Wayne Manor?

Is it essentially outside temperature except where the fireplaces are? Does Alfred have a one man war against climate change? Is that why Bruce spends so much time in the basement?

Depending on which timeline you follow, Wayne Manor was built in the late 1800s. Having worked in giant historical homes, I'm telling you now it's a fucking pain in the ass to update the heating systems in those buildings. I know we've got comic book logic to contend with, and they've got massive generators in the basement to keep the cave running (sometimes it's turbines powered by the water flowing through the caves), but I also think it's plausible that to avoid damaging the historical facade of the building, you might walk around the house and see box fans shoved into the window frames during the summer because fuuuuck trying to install modern AC through 18th-century brickwork.

As for heat, well, for a frame of reference, the James J Hill house up here in MN—built roughly around the same time during the Gilded Age when the Waynes were pioneering industry in Gotham—was forced to rely on a boiler roughly the size of a steam engine to heat the house and used 250 tons of coal each year to keep it warm. That boiler provided hot water and ambient heat through steam radiators, but they also still had fireplaces in almost every room to try and compensate for the winter. The house was updated for modern heating and air conditioning within the last 40 years, but with a house that size and ceilings so tall, it's not particularly efficient. They still rely on box fans and space heaters to keep the space habitable during summer and winter.

New Jersey is not as far north as Minnesota, but the temperatures can still drop comparably low, especially when you factor in the seafront Gotham is on. So, while I do think they likely upgraded the heating systems at some point (they can't keep guzzling through coal like that), I also can't help but feel it's got to be cold as hell in that house unless they're being meticulous about lighting fires and airing every room out to prevent damp.

Because that's another thing. If you're not keeping your stone house warm, you risk damp and water damage, and I feel like Alfred would rather gnaw off his own arm than let Wayne Manor crumble to dust with black mold festering in the original French plaster.

So he's not so much fighting a one-man war against climate change as he's fighting a one-man war to keep the house dry. He's walking through rooms no one even uses, making sure the steam radiators are working and opening the windows a crack to let the condensation out.

Is he also turning off all the light switches as he goes? Yes. Is he always yelling, "Why is every screen in this house turned on if no one is using them?" also, yes.

Is Bruce also down in the cave huddled under an extra cape, overclocking the batcomputer to stay warm? Also a distinct possibility.

[sunboki]

— ENDLESS WINTER. a Christopher Bahng fiction

Christopher Bahng x f. reader

TROPE. Beast! au, Mage! au, enemies to lovers (she wants to kill him), marriage au, angst

WARNINGS. violence, kidnapping, mention of a past war, descriptions of murder, reader is injured, hyunjin is a bit of a pain, hinted minsung (hehe), blood, kissing (dubcon), cursing

WORD COUNT. 12k words

AUG'S NOTES. if there’s ever been a more spontaneous fic in history it would be this… every sentence is write is purely self indulgent…. (genuinely a written version of the stories i make in my head while laying in bed)

SYNOPSIS. As heiress of the Magus, otherwise, Mage Clan, you find your position ripped from your fingertips when the Beast Clan conducts a raid. Left the only survivor, you make it your priory to stay alive in a ravaged Kingdom. That is, before you’re captured.

alternatively :

Starvation becomes the least of your problems when you meet King Bahng.

Hiding in the kitchen’s cupboard was definitely not your intention.

Neither was the Kingdom getting raided by the Beast Clan or being the (presumably) lone survivor in the castle, but fate would have its way, whether you liked it or not — this one just a bit more severe than usual.

Your mother once told you of the Beast Clan, of their ferocity and inability to handle things diplomatically. In her opinion, Beast were barely able to be considered Human.

Well, these words came after the Mage-Beast War; a grueling, disgustingly brutal dispute that caused what was referred to as the “Endless Winter”, a curse put upon the nation by a Magus overseer bidding every day of every year with, well, “endless winter”.

She told you how the ground used to be a wondrous green. Soft beneath your fingertips like feathers. Now, blankets of snow stretched as far as the eye could see, killing off any remaining expanse of foliage.

Although years had passed since then, your Kingdom was still recovering, still navigating importing routes in order to supply necessary goods.

Yet, everything was rapidly adapting, whether that was the snow-shoe rabbits roaming your vast tundra or the unexpected growth of fur on the bottom of the horse’s hooves.

Growing, learning.

Magus, though a lineage of magic practitioners, had begun to dull over the centuries. There was no need to learn with peace eminent, and the more aged those wielding supernatural abilities became, the less said abilities progressed into your generations.

However, Magus is the hearth of your Kingdom, and for as long as you live, the title shall reign supreme.

A title that, used by enemies and allies alike, had modernized from its ancient form Magus, to Mage.

Dinner held in the customary hall began that night, seat upon seat homing each member of the family adorned in their extravagant clothing.

Your father occupied the upmost chair, his plate stacked full of greasy lamb and pork bones. You, on the other hand, had had your fill chatting the cook’s ear off, slipping sweet potato wedges here and there as you talked.

Ms. Maewether was her name, a sad soul who carried her love in her cherished dishes. A love reserved for her late husband, a Beast himself, who unfortunately passed in The War.

Back then you asked her questions to the moon, about what they looked like specifically — if they really had eight inch claws like all the other children gossiped, if they could feel.

The last one was important, because everything Ms. Maewether told you you believed without a doubt, and the number one thing she pressed was that Beasts can feel, so very deeply. Just like humans.

The War changed that, and tension rose tenfold, especially as each Kingdom recovered from their countless casualties.

Luckily, your life had been peaceful, having been born young enough you could hardly remember.

Had been peaceful.

A scream from outside redirects the table’s conversation, relatives and siblings alike turning their head to gaze out the window.

Your blood runs cold.

Beasts, left and right, are slaughtering. Their clothing stained in blood that certainly isn’t their own, blades in clutch.

Immediately, panic ensues. People are trampling over each other to get out, disregarding every instinct but to stay alive. It’s chaos.

Dodging flailing bodies, you anchor yourself in a secluded cupboard below the countertops, shrinking as close to the wall as possible.

A few moments after everyone evacuates the Dining Hall do you hear cries. Yelling, gargled sounds. You cringe back imagining, stifling your breathing as much as possible.

Suddenly, a thought comes to mind, a thought that might just be responsible for saving your life.

Smell.

Ms. Maewether warned you a Beast’s smell is like no other, like a dogs. Twenty times as heightened as a persons.

So slowly, silently, you fish your hand into the small bit of darkness in front of you, locating a small bottle of cooking grease you wince upon finding — forcing the awful smelling concoction over your body, masking your scent.

Right after sitting down the container does the door creak open, heavy footsteps belonging to none other than a Beast. You can hear it in their sniffing, the clicking of their claws. Chills scatter your arms.

Another enters as the second door creaks, muttering something incomprehensible to its companion. At this point you’re pressed to the other side of the cupboard, both hands covering your mouth.

Your heart thunders in your chest, beating unbearably loud the longer you huddle.

Walking past where you lie, a Beast stops, body ducking down close enough you can hear its labored panting. You wait, waiting for the door to be flung open and for your death to await.

It doesn’t. And you thank whomever above for the echo of its presence fading away into the distance, barely relaxing against the highly uncomfortable hiding spot.

Instead, a blood curdling screech rips through the atmosphere, comparably close to where you hide. Abruptly, it stops, the thump of a body against the floor making you staunch the nausea building like bile in your throat.

It takes three days for you to finally peer out of the cupboard, the entirety of the Kingdom completely void of a soul.

Taking your first few steps around do you notice a woman, obviously slain by the puddle of blood surrounding her and the putrid stench. Her mouth hangs open—horror-stricken, frozen in place. You vomit in the sink.

For about a week do you roam the murder-house of a castle, finding purchase in a non-blood-bathed room and the many, thought to be endless amount of food.

You won’t leave, simple.

As long as the Beast Clan believes they’ve killed everyone, you’re safe.

That reminder was assuring, until your food supply dropped exponentially and a new problem situated itself on your platter.

Worst case scenario you die of starvation, the likelihood high if you stay here. Solution? Hunting.

Granted, you’re not the most skillful hunter, but you’re also not horrendous with a bow. Except, it’s not your aiming abilities you stress, it’s the chance someone sees you, the enemy sees you.

Four weeks in and you’re left with no other choice than to bundle yourself in layers upon layers of clothing and heed the feeble weaponry available.

Blizzard frost permeates your vision, wobbling steps making your hunger evident the more you roam. A horse would’ve been effortlessly useful, but selling yourself into that fantasy had been futile upon realizing they either took or killed all escapades.

A hare catches your eye, pale fur barely divisible from the terrain below. Carefully, you crouch down, elbow stretching the arrow back as far as possible whilst maintaining a solid grip. Steady. Steady.

Shoot!

The arrow flies, puncturing the animal in its chest enough to where it thankfully doesn’t suffer, flopping over rather pathetically instead.

However, your success is short-lived.

Stalking forward to snatch the creature quickly, a shadow looming overhead halts your footsteps. Behind you.

Before you can think to run, you wind back, meager arrow in hand providing little defense against the attacker.

First thing you take in is how huge they are. At least six feet tall if not taller, brilliantly ruby eyes revealing its true identity.

Beast.

With ease the man has your efforts pinned, curiousity overflowing as the animal looks at you. Yet, he doesn’t look like an animal, and apart from those eyes of his, no other factors would’ve revealed him to you but that.

This Beast has a fox-like face. A younger stature and smaller, slanted features.

“Hyung, what is this?” He asks, lifting your petrified frame like you were the rabbit you’d killed earlier.

His older counterpart glances over, and any hope of getting released plummets upon those wild crimson hues focusing in on you—knowledgeable as to what you were.

The cooking grease had long worn off, and your identity was likely as apparent as can be.

Mage.

Older Beast easily roaming through the snow, his fingers tangle into your hair, drawing out a cry when he jerks his hand up, forcing your gaze to meet his through the searing sting of your scalp. The younger grimaces.

His long, nearly white hair is tied into a ponytail, sharp cheekbones and calculating stare beyond intimidating. Beneath his left eye you note a small, distinct mole.

“One remained, huh.”

It’s a fever dream walking into the Kingdom that, compared to yours, looks positively flourishing with life. Beasts of all kinds roam about, carrying on with their daily lives, oblivious to the winds of death they’ve swept your way.

Everything in your body feels as if it’s shutting down, unable to feel the sensation of your legs as you trudge forward, the younger, much kinder Beast ensuring you kept pace.

Freezing temperatures carry on the longer snow falls, gluing strands of hair to your forehead, blanketing your lashes while your nose runs incessantly.

In front of you now lies the castle, far grander than you could’ve ever imagined. Twin spires peek above the low-hanging clouds, stone columns towering above.

From your distance you spot two knights positioned on either side of the entryway, large armored helmets with hawk feathers adorning the ridges.

One knight stops your ascent, the light-haired man rolling his eyes profusely.

“Minho, this is important.”

“Important enough you’re bringing a Mage into the Kingdom?”

His voice smooth as honey, he sports a dominant tone when speaking. Stare observant, he watches the other Beast’s expressions with uncanny precision.

“Because if you haven’t noticed Hyunjin,” He leans forward a bit, whispering. “You have the entire Kingdom’s attention.”

At this, either of the Beasts who escorted you turn around, and upon doing so are met with hundreds, if not thousands of eyes boring into their soul. Whether it’s younger Beasts or aged soldiers, those heinous vermillion orbs seem to see through you.

You gulp.

“C’mon,” Hyunjin harshly beckons, nudging you forward through the gates with the younger quick on his tail.

Every color in the Palace is monochromatically grey, although strikes of royal blue reside in large drapes hung from perched balconies.

Similar guards to those outside sift throughout the room, familiar hawk feathers litter everywhere in sight, paving paths to the core of the room where a throne sits.

Pointed edges flank either side of the massive chair, the ocean blue rug underneath reflecting up and out of the ceiling — a glass design stretching wide across the throne room, emphasizing the dusky weather outside.

According to the younger Beast whose title you learned as Jeongin, the King was currently participating in a hunt with Changbin (the lead hunter of the Palace), so after hasty appreciation of the sheer volume of this breathtaking castle, you’re forced toward the dungeons.

Jeongin wears a pitying frown, promising to return with some food to your chambers in the case the King doesn’t arrive for a while.

At least someone in this Kingdom doesn’t insist you’re beheaded.

“Finally, somebody else is here.”

A voice erupting from the darkening depths to your right make you jump, chained wrists clanging abruptly. Through minimal lighting of the burning lamps hastened upon the walls, you make out the silhouette of a man, face bunching in a sweet manner when he smiles.

Unusually, his hands aren’t chained.

“What’re you in here for?” You begin, gaze narrowed in confusion. The chubby-cheeked stranger smiles haphazardly.

“I would ask you the same thing. I’m the King’s Advisor, he just gets tired of me and puts me in here sometimes,” Your chamber-mate sighs, and once you take in what he professed, the urge to laugh becomes too strong to control.

Laughing for the first time in quite a while is sort of relieving, especially when this new acquaintance of yours begins whining his dismay, aimlessly trying to hush your giggles.

Red eyes. You can see them blinking up at you, gleaming when he grins his pointed teeth.

Quickly pausing, you wait in horror as he gradually sniffs in.

Your stomach sinks.

“Wait… You’re a Mag—“

His phrase is cut off by a loud ringing noise, a familiar echo of keys tunneling down the dungeons stairwell.

Another stranger unlocks the door. He’s burly, with curly hair in disarray. Cuffs of animal fur wraps around defined biceps, his top a tight-fitted arrangement of fur and woven leather paired with small iron spikes studding the shoulder lining.

A scar passes down the corner of his lip, long since healed but remaining faded.

“C’mere,” He ushers, voice gruff and rumbling when he unlocks your shackles, big hand pushing you forward up the stairs.

If anybody here had pure Beast in their bloodline, it would be this man. His demeanor is rough, but his touch on your back is surprisingly gentle whilst guiding you upward.

Again you’re granted with the wondrous sight of the Throne Room in all its historic glory, although your gaze directed at the floor keeps you ignorant to so many heads bowed, so many voices cast to silence upon the click of footsteps approaching.

And when you look up, you meet strikingly blue eyes—perhaps a genetic mutation of a sort.

They’re stunning, enrapturing almost, and you find the need to break eye contact immediate, more dire than normal while staring down at you.

Plump, full lips and perfectly sculpted facial features seem that of a Greek god’s, too ethereal to exist in your reality. A glittering, silver crown sits stark atop a black nest of hair.

Either arm rests on the sides of the throne, and you swore you’d never seen someone look so, King-like. That, and the massive cape of wolf-skin draped over his back.

A devil, dressed as an angel.

“Your Highness, this Mage was found near the L/N Kingdom by Hwang Hyunjin and Yang Jeongin while scouting the territory.” A palace-woman announces, the same guard who lingered outside, Minho, standing to your side.

Your blood boils, disregarding every ounce of amazement once inhabited.

It’s him. The man responsible for the demise of loved ones you couldn’t count on all of your fingers and toes.

Minho, as if sensing your frothing rage, mutters through his helmet a staggered warning—remaining upright and unmoving at attention.

“Do not move and do not look into his eyes unless you’re asking for death.”

Your patience dissipates, lip twitching involuntarily.

You can’t remember the last time you were genuinely angry. You were happy, surrounded by people you loved.

Those people weren’t here now, they were killed.

“You murderer! You’re a—“ Your attempt at lashing out at the King stalled when Minho kicks the crevice between your knees, forcing you down on the carpet below.

“Monster! A bloody— fucking— Monster!”

Palace representatives gasp their bewilderment, some beckoning you away to the dungeons, others urging Minho to end you right here and now.

It wouldn’t matter, would it?

The King’s raised hand stalls the accusations, his familiar clicking footsteps nearing closer till he stands before you.

Shifting down into a squat, the man tips your chin up to meet cerulean again, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“Don’t get it mixed up little one,” He murmurs, the pad of his thumb controlling your movement.

“I did not kill your family. Your family killed themselves.”

Fist sharply winding around for a punch, he catches it before you can even register your predicament, iron grip strong enough you fear he might just snap your wrist in half.

“And I wouldn’t recommend fighting back, otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Concluding his threat the further he bends your wrist, you whine, face scrunching from the pain until he finally stops, amusedly surveying your expression.

Denying your own enraged shaking, you suck your teeth, focus vehemently pinned onto him.

“Why would you care about my safety?” You snarl, trying to wriggle his hold off to no avail.

“Because,” The King cocks his brows. “I like you.”

About to spit another word, he interrupts you, index tracing the veins of your arm.

“Plus, I could break you any time I wanted, Mage. So behave.”

You shiver.

Your second day and you feel as if you’re officially going insane.

The only person tolerable here is Jeongin, that chamber guard whose name you don’t know, and Felix, the castles cook. You barely see the King, and even when he’s present he’s usually quartered in his study.

What he does there remains unknown, information learned in the mere form of startled maids leaving the room and gossip among those wandering the Kingdom.

“Do you know what he does?”

Felix looks up from the dish he was laying in front of you, wispy blond locks bouncing with the movement.

“Does what?” He piques, ridding a stray piece of hair clinging to your sleeve.

“The King, what does he do all day long?”

One thing about Felix you love, his honesty. Regardless of if most would tell a quick fib and flee, Felix, although occasionally working around a topic, takes the time to actually explain things to you.

Allows you to learn more of the place you’re going to have to call home.

“Hm..” He pulls a chair from your right to drop into, and for a moment, you see Ms. Maewether in that smile of his. Your heart aches.

“Chris— I mean, King Bahng is always busy. He plans trade agreements, oversees the hunts, and basically keeps this castle alive.”

Chris?

“Who’s Chris?”

Felix nearly squeaks, burying his head in his hands. Evidently, you weren’t supposed to hear that part, but an eagerness to know more about this solitary King kept your hesitance at bay.

“That’s his name. Christopher Bahng, but you’re not allowed to call him that and not allowed to tell anyone about us having this conversa-“

“Tell who?”

You quite literally almost fall backwards in your seat, failing to anticipate the pair of hands placed on Felix’s shoulders.

A pair of hands, followed by a pair of ocean blue eyes, boring right into you and the horrified boy in front of you.

King Bahng. In the flesh.

“Oh.. Hey Chri— Hello Your Highness.”

Again he corrects. These two must know each other.

“Tell who, Felix?” He speaks, tone nothing short of teasing—though the boy looks just as startled, practically sweating through his clothing.

Still adorning that flanking wolf-cape of his, his dark hair is slightly messy, expression distorted curiously.

You hate him to admit, but King Bahng is horribly attractive.

“Nothing! Nothing at all, Your Highness,” Felix chirps, fixing you with a ‘Don’t say a word’ glare you cease to argue with.

Rising up from your seat quickly as if you had any duties in this Kingdom to tend to, you find yourself stalling.

You have so many questions. …And the overwhelming urge to slap him across the face.

You’ve received a fair warning on the latter.

“I’ll be off now, Your Highness.”

The last words come out involuntary, used to referring to your own father this way. It made you sick to know you regarded his murderer the same.

And though the King didn’t stand extremely tall (considering how young Beasts were already your height), his hulking stature felt as if it could swallow you whole, pointed canines flashing when he smiled, sending your head reeling.

Pleased.

King Bahng was pleased hearing something nonthreatening come out of your mouth.

Vile.

Yet, you simply curtsied and hurried off, ceasing to notice the immediate growl Felix directed in the King’s direction.

“Good lord, I know she smells good but you’re practically undressing her with your eyes,” The freckled boy grumbles, returned with an uninterested expression from his friend.

Before the King can head off to whatever meeting he has planned, however, he spins on his heel.

“Have you consulted Seungmin about the scent-blocking salve?”

“Possessive, are we?”

His glare shuts the cook up immediately.

“If there is one Mage left, it’s mine. And since she’s the survivor, she’s mine.”

Yeah, he’s not beating the possessive allegations. But if he’s going to gain your trust, and eventually, after much thought, become mates, he’s keeping every other Beast in the Kingdom at a distance from you at all times.

“Jeongin will report when it’s completed. And Chris?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t expect her to warm up to you.”

King Bahng hums.

“I don’t.”

And with that, Felix follows your exit, leaving the King to his own devices, your nectar-sweet smell lingering in his nose.

“If I stare at the same wall for hours and hours, shouldn’t it break by now?”

“You’re a Mage, not telekinetic,” Han replies, repetitively scanning over a piece of parchment assumed to be a guest list.

In the midst of your incessant boredom, you found yourself following the King’s Advisor around, peering over his shoulder at the endless list of haughty names written in languid ink strokes. 

Amongst them, you ceased to find your father’s name. You knew it wouldn’t be there, but somehow, you wished if you blinked enough it would magically appear. 

King L/N, written in that same, cursive font. 

Rounding a corner, you conclude if there’s anyone you avoid more than King Bahng (a.k.a Chris), it was Hyunjin. That man was a serpent in a Beast’s body.

Catching sight of his dreaded ponytail, you hastily retrace your steps, hiding behind a massive doorframe while Han stares at you as if you’re a rodent scurrying at his shoes.

“He won’t bite y’know.”

“If only you would’ve been there when he first found me,” You whisper angrily, practically clawing at the wood desperately till he leaches you out.

Leaching enough, in fact, that you end up right in Hyunjin’s line of sight, who surveys you up and down with a cocked brow to the point you’re sure steam is billowing from your ears. 

Mocking. Ruby-red, mocking eyes.

He does bite. He sinks his teeth into the flesh and tears. 

You won’t bleed without biting back. 

Han’s iron grip tightens on your arm as slowly, oh so slowly, Hyunjin walks closer. 

The strategist prowls, edging right up in your face—noses a thread-width apart.  

His glower sets your fury alight, lips curled in a deriding notion.

“No need to glare, wouldn’t want wrinkles ruining that face of yours.”

“No need to get so close unless you plan to kiss me, mutt.”

Though, just as Hyunjin preapres to lunge, a big hand holds him back, animal fur cuffs indicating it isn’t the King who stepped in.

The man who had fetched you from the chambers earlier divided either of you. Shorter, but evidently stronger. 

“Control yourselves, both of you. For as long as she stays in the Kingdom, she’s The King’s property—“

“I am no one’s property,” You snarl, and the guard turns.

Basked in clear lighting, you can finally see him. Honing dark brown hair hanging above his eyebrows, the same scar resides by his mouth, though, his eyes are much kinder than you expected.

Taking a slow inhale, he reads your conflicted expression like an ornate mirror.

“One mage in the Kingdom of Beasts? Sorry to break it to you, but yes, you are his property. So as long as she’s here, nobody lays a finger on her, understood?”

Glancing to each person, either of them ease their apprehension, the bewildered Jisung next to you stifling a breath, Hyunjin rolling his eyes with a loud huff.

Baiting seconds pass, and in that period of time do you realize you never caught his name. Specifically, the guard’s name.

“Excuse m-“

“Seo Changbin,” Han interjects. “His name is Seo Changbin.”

Ah. Right.

Now on the roster of least-likely to kill you, Jeongin, Changbin, Felix, and Han.

Filled with a need to evade, you stand merely as a spectator as each horridly red hue snaps to stare at you, your heart spiking an alarming rate. 

The King’s Advisor’s fingers tighten to the point you’re sure he’s blocking blood flow.   

“You need to leave. Jisung, get in contact with Seungmin and see when the salve is done,” Changbin instructs, already shoving Hyunjin away.

Salve. What salve?

Failing to give you any explanation, you’re dragged off, boisterously complaining before the highly annoyed man abruptly pauses, finger nudging your forehead irritably.  

“You smell.”

Then he leaves, and you’re left to wonder if you’re still in primary school or the Kingdom of Beasts.

You smell? What’s that supposed to mean?

First thing in the morning, you’re torn from your slumber with a blazing sun scorching your eyes.

Your canopy beds silken drapes doing little to block the attack, you whine to an apologetic Jisung who merely sighs in return.

“Sorry sleeping beauty, but we have an appointment to attend this morning. Can you handle getting dressed on your own?”

You roll your eyes, groggily pulling yourself upright. “I was an heiress, not helpless.” 

To which he cracks a miniature grin and slips out the door, allowing you to hurriedly strip off your chemise and messily arrange your stays and petticoats.

Out of all things you’d been deprived of, a part of the L/N Clan unable to be divided was your garments.  

Somewhere, in the midst of fabric and citrus scented soap, you swear you can still smell bits and pieces of home.

What this appointment entailed you failed to ask, gingerly hustled down winding hallways barely illuminated with sunlight. 

The Kings Advisor expertly winds further and further down, georgian architecture littered in symmetrical golden portraits and decorum, casement glass windows twinkling as you walked past. 

Having reached a dead end, you’re pleasantly surprised to watch Han jar a brass doorknob open, paving a breathtaking view of the garden ahead. 

Garden had to be an understatement. This amount of foliage was nothing short of a forest. 

Flowers of all kind surround your walk to a shrouded greenhouse, abnormally brick relative to it’s stone-castle counterpart. Its walls are overgrown in slithering vines, door nearly invisible without proper inspection.

Jisung, having noticed your amazed expression, chuckles.

Granted, it’s been years since you’d seen any form of green vegetation, your astonishment felt justified. 

“We’ve arrived.”

Oh how you wish to stay here forever. Not captive by the Beast Clan, no, but in this garden, hidden.

And if the last door took effort to pry open, this was a new challenge entirely. Through thickets of dense hedge and tangled branches, Jisung had to quite literally ram himself into the chittering wood for entry.

“Knock next time would you?” A voice projects from inside, belonging to a man clad in rounded spectacles, a slightly hooked nose, and cleanly hair parted to the side. 

The Kings Advisor, apparently having known him, beams his prize-winning smile upon seeing the man.

“Seungminnnn—“ Han drawls out, excitedly waddling over to wrap him in a crushing hug. Stiffly, Seungmin pats his back, an action you fondly watch from afar. 

“Ah!” The more ebullient of the two springs up, turning to you. “This is Seungmin, he runs the apothecary here.” 

Nodding stiffly, Seungmin ushers you to one of the many mahogany chairs circling a gateleg table; a vase—likely jade with its pale green hue—filled with indigo hydrangea presides in the center.

“And,” Han’s outburst cuts off your awe. “He’s practically my little brother.”

Now you’re in awe again, but for a different reason. And by the evident frown on Seungmin’s face, he can tell.

“Shocking, right?”

Yes, shocking for certain.

Though, before you can reply, Han slaps his hands on either of the man’s shoulders, expression transformed into one of seriousness. 

“About time I left then, yeah?” Was spoken while his form hurriedly retreated out the door, leaving you with more questions than answers to what just occurred.

“..He forgot something again.”

Biting back your laugh, you finally take a seat, given ample time as Seungmin shuffles off to the side to acknowledge your everything to its fullest extent. 

Matching the plant-infested interior, verdant drawers scatter the corners, a lone, looming medicinal cabinet left ajar as the chemist poured over a variety of assorted concoctions. 

Air stained with a damp smell of earth, you notice, much to your curiosity, the longevity of such a place.

This apothecary, though inside the castle, feels like an entirely new settlement of its own. An establishment existing before the war, rebuilt (inefficiently) enough to where it was only required to stand stable.

From first sighting you’d grown an attachment to it, but this newfound understanding, these newfound details setting the apothecary apart from your predicament let you imagine yourself anywhere else, back to a nostalgia you longed for.

A short term fix.

“This.” You’re handed a phial from overhead. It’s a slightly green substance, thicker in texture that rests heavy in your hand. “Is for you.”

Slipping across from you, he surveys your analyzing, arms crossed over a deep brown waistcoat.

“And this is..?” You inquire, looking up from the cork-sealed glass.

“A salve. You had better not waste it, material is low as is and I’ve been waiting years for this winter to end already.”

Well that didn’t answer your question. You’ve heard conversation about a specific salve for days on end, but no genuine explanation caved in—

‘I’ve been waiting years for this winter to end already.’

Repeatedly mulling over the words, you can practically feel your heart palpitating, head beginning to spin. 

..End already? The endless winter.. ending?

“So you’re saying,” You murmur, placing down this special salve in order to truly regard him.

“There’s a way to end the Endless Winter?”

His brows crease critically, seemingly sarcastic.

“There’s an end to everything sweetheart. Life, death. Start, finish. War,” He meets your eyes with a conniving grin, a face you hadn’t seen on the man before.

“Peace.”

Automatically, you roll your eyes. 

Peace? Peace when there was no peace left to be made, no kingdom remaining to make peace with?

“And how do you think the nonexistent Mage will make peace with Beasts?”

Seungmin grins.

“Well there is a Mage left,” He scornfully states, flicking your forehead whilst you palm the sting, frown evident. 

“And as far as making peace goes, marriage.”

Marriage. 

What.

“Wait- so you’re telling me big bad King Bahng could’ve just hooked up with a Mage and called it a day and everything would be fine?”

Seungmin clears his throat.

“One, Bahng doesn’t ‘hook up’. Two, it’s not as easy as that.”

Of course it’s not as easy as that. Why would it be?

You wish to claw your eyes out of your head, anticipating his explanation. 

“Because if you weren’t aware before, marriage ties between Mage and Beast are very difficult to establish. Bahng is picky on everything, and even pickier when it comes to mates.”

But before you can argue there were thousands of suitors roaming the L/N Kingdom for him to pick from, Seungmin interrupts. 

“Plus, if anyone else were King I’m sure we would’ve had peace decades ago. You’re lucky you’re in the castle right now, otherwise you would be eaten alive.”

Your face scrunching worriedly, he rakes an exasperated hand through his hair, plopping down on the vanity’s chair.

“Your scent.”

Again, you’re reminded of Han’s ‘you smell’ comment. Why is it showing up a second time?

He groans frustratedly, wordlessly praying you understand.

You don’t.

“Mage have specific scents. You can’t smell it since you’re not Beast. But let me tell you, you smell fucking delightful.”

Oh.

That’s what he meant by eaten alive, and the entire ‘you smell’ conundrum.

Seungmin, rather entertained with the shock written on your face, shrugs his shoulders, nonplussed by the crassness of his earlier statement.

“Now you get the use of the salve, right? And why you’re not allowed to leave the castle?” 

Your mouth feels dry of response, beckoned toward the exit without so much as a peep passing through your lips.

However, right as the you’re halfway gone, he stops you, brows cocked.

“Do us all a favor and marry him, will you?”

And like that, the apothecary’s door thumps closed behind you.

If only the “him” he was referring to wasn’t King Bahng, you might’ve agreed.

Marriage in the L/N Kingdom had been a sacred event.

An event you’d been prepared for since childhood, fed daydreams of a day you would be married to a prince-like man with perfect features and a perfect personality, every element fabricated from a young age.

Truly, you loved it. Loved visualizing a life shared with your loved one, whoever that man would be.

Little did you know he might just be King of the Beast Clan.

No. You refused. Marrying a murderer, the murderer of your family, was the last thing you would oblige to. 

He sent the command, he led the attack, and you’d rather die than give him the satisfaction of marriage.

Although, one problem. Similar to life back at the L/N Kingdom, supplies only lasted for some time before shipments became low, and pretty soon (according to Seungmin) the salve you were given would run dry. 

Meaning, your meager chance of protection lay completely exposed, susceptible to any Beast daring enough to try something.

Two sides of a coin remained. Heads, you marry the murderer of a King and spring returns, or tails, you abstain and are eventually left vulnerable.

You’ve always been the person to confront a difficulty head-on, but, in this case, a different, defensive approach crossed your mind.

Run away. 

Despite Seungmin’s sensible reminder to not leave the castle, what other option sounded suitable? 

Die physically or mentally, pick your poison. 

Or maybe, never drink the poison in the first place. Evade.

Three days have passed since you received the salve, and after applying it behind your ears and between your elbows at dawn, you were free to do as you pleased—within the castle walls. 

Yet, tomorrow’s dawn would be divergent. Tomorrow, you would be days away from the Beast Clan. 

Sneakily roaming around, you managed to find certain outlets to your disposal. Nearby the chambers you’d been kept in was a moth eaten, hooded cloak seemingly unworn for quite awhile. Ideal for an anonymous escape.

Furthermore, amongst the colloquy during a dinner with Changbin and Felix in the Great Hall, you distinctly recall overhearing information about the stables.

If you were to flee, you needed a horse, and thanks to the guard, you knew right where to find one.

Unable to sleep the night before, your dry eyes blink through the dense darkness, sweeping the candlestick from your side table for a minimal source of vision.

Lathering a copious amount of salve all over your skin, you slip down the winding stairwell, grateful for the shadowed moonlight gazing down upon the Throne Room as you venture.

Bingo. There’s the cloak.

Sweeping the fabric over your shoulders, you slip the hood over your head, creeping down the steep steps leading into a surrounding ward.

On your left, across the butcher’s vendors. 

Blindly searching, the whinny of a mare alerts your close distance, carefully winding through lead ropes and linked fences to the first horse in sight. 

You have to be fast, the sun will rise at any moment it pleases, and it’s impertinent you’re gone by then.

Hoisting a mere saddle pad over the back, you deem the saddle too noisy, slipping the reins overheard and adjusting their length accordingly. 

Jogging forwards, you’re brisk to gain a running leap atop the horse prior to the thunder of hooves charging forward.

Closer to the gatehouse you near, a luckily open drawbridge allowing easy passage across. 

Faster, faster. You can’t afford to slow down. Daylight is beginning to peer above the horizon, warming your back with rays of sunlight amongst a snowy landscape.

And when the kingdom wakes up, it’ll be as if you were never there. 

But, an undecided factor stayed. Where would you go? There was no kingdom left for you, no home to go to.

For now, you needed to prioritize finding a hiding spot, if only for a night, that supplies warmth.

Given the opportunity, too long out here and you or your horse will indefinitely succumb to the frigid conditions.

Veering off sharply, you sidle beneath a barren magnolia tree, its thick trunk barely blocking the unforgiving wind. Pretty soon you’ll have to keep on, but for now, you’ll savor the temporary peace.

Blue skies indicate it must be nearing morning, and you assume the castle will be slowly waking up. By now, King Bahng would likely be awake as well, you’ve been told he doesn’t sleep well anyway. 

Scouts. He’ll send scouts most likely. Knights like Minho or Hyunjin.

Ugh, the mere thought of Hyunjin finding you a second time makes you nauseous. 

Except, the longer you consider it, King Bahng is the worst case scenario.  

I could break you any time I wanted, Mage. So behave.

Those words send an entourage of chills slithering up your spine, and not from the cold.

Because while Hyunjin is a type of spiteful strong you want to avoid primarily due to how annoying it is, King Bahng is a quiet strong, the kind that wouldn’t confess his anger, but have you witness it firsthand instead.

Enough thinking. You have to go. 

Using the bumpy roots below you for leverage, you wind a leg around the horse’s back, aiming to reach the edge of the territory before midday.

That was the goal, until you’re pummeling to the ground.

The moment is instantaneous, your horse releasing a shriek as it’s swiped right off its feet, slipping onto hard, icy ground and simultaneously crushing you in its descent. 

Almost like vomit you feel the screech of pain building in your throat, a numbness in your right leg along with the warmth of blood soaking your clothing doing little to sustain level breathing.

Then, in the midst of your hysterics, you look upon the visible side of your horse, a pair of claw marks scratched right across its stomach.

Scrambling out to the best of your abilities, you bite your tongue, praying this is one of Hyunjin’s sick, sadistic games and not an obvious ambush.

You refuse to die like this. You’ve survived once and you’ll be damned to give up now.

“I’m impressed. You’re not as weak as I thought.”

A sneering tone speaks from behind you. According to the claw marks, Beast, but not one you remember. And with your current state—being unable to rise to your feet—you’re utterly incapable of ascertaining an identity.

Instantly, your hand reaches up to trace the alcove beneath your ear and neck, any ounce of hope disappearing upon feeling for the salve. 

Gone.

“Now, care to tell me what a Mage is doing in Beast territory?”

He’s hiding behind you on purpose, drawing you into a sensory overload, a panicked frenzy of adrenaline and fear. 

Deer caught in headlights. 

A curved claw unlike those in the Kingdom of Beasts winds your head back, staring straight into the face of something you can hardly deem Beast, more like wolf.

He has this terrifying look in his eyes, and breath that stenches of metal and flesh.

This man is the kind of Beast you’d grown up believing in. Violent, merciless.

Minho, Hyunjin, hell, anyone. Please. 

As if second instinct, you assess everything around you, snatching the closest stick to you and jarring the sharp end through the bottom of his chin with all your might.

A gagged, sort of howling sound emits from above you, putrid-smelling blood spraying all over your face. 

In split seconds does another form appear in your peripheral, your dread heightening before ultramarine stills the horror in its tracks.

King Bahng. 

He’s quiet, expertly slicing the back of the neck, the attacker dropping to the ground motionlessly.

“I could’ve handled it myself.”

It’s a lie. He doesn’t respond.

If the first Beast hadn’t killed you, he certainly would. He said it himself, whenever he pleased, he could break you.

So when King Bahng’s arms extend toward your position on the ground, you prepare for the worst, crawling backwards as quickly as possible.

Surprisingly, he kneels down in front of you, and, as your vision clears, you notice the concern written on his face. 

Weird, the feeling compiling in your gut as he looks at you like that. The way your eyes build with tears, lungs finally hacking for as much non-congested air available without a single word said.

Just by his expression alone, you’re a fit of blood and tears, the aftershock hardly helping ease the experience. 

Crying, in the middle of a forest, with King Bahng as a witness.

“I know, I know,” Is all he whispers, and you barely recognize when he hoists you into his arms, the searing sting of your leg your only indication of movement. 

Smoothly maneuvering you again his chest, he cradles your body close, one hand directing his horse as you ride back to what you assume to be the Kingdom. 

Through the aching pain, you can’t even be upset about returning, merely focusing on the subtle warmth of his body and the strength willing you to say something. 

“You speak nothing of this moment,” You murmur, the King’s body erupting into a tremor of laughter. 

“I speak whatever I like whenever I like, sweetness. No one touches what’s mine, yeah?”

Mine. You hate the effect he has on you. 

Yet, your snarky remarks are depleting in tandem with your energy; the soothing, shushing sound he’s making and the repetitive thump of hooves doing little to keep you from sleeps tempting beckon. 

Eyes drifting closed, his tightened grip pulls you closer, your cheek smushed into the fabric of his coat whilst lost in slumber.

“Hold on a bit longer for me, we’ll be there in no time.”

Recovery, to your luck, is swift. Either that, or Kim Seungmin is secretly a Mage, because within a week spent off your leg, you’re back to normal. 

A little sensitive to weight, but overall, healed.

Initially, despite the agony blazing through your body, you were thankful you barely recalled seeing anyone, swept into the apothecary immediately. 

The last thing you wanted to see after returning would be the faces. Plus, what about your friends? Jeongin, Felix, Han? You’re sure they looked destroyed. 

Except, it’s all fake. A feign kindness given to you only by sympathy. What do the faces matter anyway? 

You gorge that question to the very back of your throat when said Cook walks through the apothecary’s door, utmost apprehension apparent. He grabs your face, brows knit—but not in an angry sort of way, more like staving-down-tears. 

“Don’t you ever do something like that ever again.”

Past him, you can’t help but smile seeing Seungmin’s softened expression watching Felix, adoring his preciousness just as you are. 

“I promise.”

Nodding curtly, he turns around, leaving you to view the many ingredients scattered across his apron. 

He rushed here, cute.

“I’ll bring breakfast down here.”

Craning, you can barely make out his deep voice, lowered to a nearly inaudible decibel. Ears flushed pink, you’re filled with a worrisome amount of happiness seeing Felix’s embarrassment trying to maintain an upset facade.

“Hm? What was that?”

Ah, at this point you’re picking fun.

“I said I’ll bring breakfast down here.” 

Precipitously slipping outside, both you and Seungmin are left to stifle your bubbling laughter, graced with the most appetizing platter you’ve had the pleasure of eating a few minutes later.

However merciful those first few days were, dissipated. And in a short amount of time, you could feel the eyes boring into your back, the questions resting on the tip of tongues.

All the same, nobody mentioned it. And if anything, that made the paranoia grow. 

It was gradual. The subtle shadow you swore you saw in corners, the terror stopping your heart in your chest when you swear someone breathed down your neck. 

Your body may be healed, but your mind certainly isn’t.

To a degree that two weeks later, you’ve found sleep nearly impossible, lingering in the kitchen in the wee hours of morning, teetering on your wits end.

Some occasions it’s Felix who you see first, wiping the sleep from his eyes, loading coal into the furnaces to heat the kitchen for the day. Other days it’s handmaids, shuffling around busily, carrying goods to and fro.

This time, Minho arrives first, for once wearing regular clothing opposed to his usual armor, steaming saucer in clutch. 

Perhaps this is an opportunity, he is a knight after all.

“Hey Minho?”

Tired eyes sweep to your figure on the table, the rim of his cup held to his lips.

“I’m too paranoid and at this point I might die of sleep deprivation,” You huff, referring to his raging, bed-headed self . “…Could you teach me how to use a sword?”

He’s staring at you like you‘ve grown two heads, pulling a chair back to settle in, arms crossed over his chest. 

No sentences need to be said aloud, merely spectating the gears turning in his head enough to set your nerves on edge. 

Yet, in the midst of your waiting, you note a peculiar bruise peeking from his collarbone, another lingering a tad bit lower. 

“And you think a sword is going to protect you?”

The question is genuine, lacking the bemused nature you were expecting.

Another thing you’ve noted throughout your sleepless nights was the continuous amount of times you’d watch the King’s Advisor sneak into his quarters, a realization keeping your response baited.

Seems his love life isn’t a concern.

“Hey, those marks on your neck and shoulder, are those from Ha—“

“When do you want to train.”

All lightheartedness vanishing, you have to chew your lip to avoid ticking him off further by giggling.

“Tomorrow?”

Pushing in his chair with an agreeable hum, you merely whisper a hurried “Thank you” he grunts at, rushing off to who knows where and giving you leeway to recover from the hilarity of it all.

Tomorrow, however, came far too early, not anticipating to be woken up at the crack of dawn, grumpy enough the prospect of blackmailing the King’s Advisor became dangerously tempting. 

Yeah, good luck. He’s not budging until you’re on your feet. 

Seems you underestimated Han Jisung’s stubbornness.

Rushed into a loose gown, you’re led to the Inner Ward, an open sector in the middle of the castle. 

Upon being met with a too-smug Minho, you can practically see the word “payback” hovering above his head, busying himself with fetching supplies.

Perhaps this is karma coming back to bite you.

Ouch.

Except, you’re puzzled. You’re being taught how to deul, yet your teacher isn’t adorning armor nor gear of any kind.  

At your confusion, the knight chokes a cocky guffaw.

“First, we learn how to properly move.” He hands you a wooden sword. “If I so much as leave a scratch on you I’m as good as dead.”

Again, he may appear snarky, but his tone is nothing short of serious. Minho is hard to read.

Wait.

Seeing past your panic, the Beast seems to answer your unspoken question.

“King Bahng is visiting the villages today, he won’t be back till the evening.”

A wave of relief grounds your bones, standing rather pathetically while Minho aids in critiquing your position, instinctively shifting into his own in front of you.

“Now, there are a lot of things to consider when dueling. I’ll narrow things down. Don’t overestimate or underestimate your opponent, trust your gut, be aware of everything, and lastly, do not be afraid to deceive.”

Promptly, he’s lashing out before you can even process his advice, wooden weapon drawn above his head as your grip tightens, attempting to block the strike only for his foot to press into your stomach, sending you falling right onto the ground instead. 

“Isn’t that unfai—“

“Like I said, deception is your greatest weapon. In a game of swords, it doesn’t matter how dirty it’s won, it matters who won.”

He reaches a hand out for you to take, helping you back up again only to both fall back into your stances. 

“Keep in mind, your sword isn’t your only weapon.”

Minding his instruction, you continue onward, sparring heartily till the beating afternoon sun becomes too hot to bask in any longer. Amongst the four hours you had been consumed in training, you’ve snagged certain valuable points.

Calmness is crucial. Your mind streams clearer when you parried, void to the opponent’s increasing frustration—given an advantage of both agility and focus. 

Two, unpredictability is a gift. Minho is especially good at being unpredictable. 

Whether he charges headfirst or aims the forte of his sword toward particularly weak points, you begin to mimic his performance, growing closer and closer to conquering those signature tactics.

Of course, your enjoyment can only last for a bit before it spoils. 

Spoiling as in, Hwang Hyunjin’s random appearance, sauntering into the area as if he’s King himself.

“Well look at this, didn’t think I’d see our runaway and Minho here.”

There’s an air between Minho and Hyunjin, one that forbids Hyunjin from egging his superior on, just like when you were first brought to the Kingdom. Lucky for you, you could be degraded as much as he approved of.  

Feigning a dramatic gasp, he gestures to either wooden sword held in raw palms.

“No way, you’re learning how to deul?! Don’t tell me you’ve never learned basic attacks? Oh right, you never had to fight, huh, princess?”

You bite the skin of your cheek, minding your composure.

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough.”

Now he’s asking for it. 

“Say,” He sneers. “Let’s duel.”

Keeping Minho from intervening, you apologetically nod to his disproving expression. He knows it’s stupid, even while fetching his armor and adjusting the metal plating to your body, and you do too, but you can’t afford to back down, you won’t.

Testing your abilities carrying a legitimate sword this time, Minho grants Hyunjin a terse scowl, their own wordless agreement to tone down on anything too harmful.

Somehow, it grates your nerves further.

Straight away, he charges his right foot forward, the metal colliding with a loud ring, narrowing your body to shield your unprotected side.

Hyunjin, though skillful in his wrist mobility, clearly uses his size compared to you as an advantage, carelessly throwing around his jabs whilst relying on form alone.

You shuffle back and forth continuously, the commotion of metal rifle drawing the attention of Beasts alike throughout the castle, stopping their movements to survey.

Lurching himself forward once more, you will your legs to support you, balancing the crushing force of his pushing ascent with as much strength as possible.

“If you win, you get whatever sensible award you want,” He grits, using pure weight alone to gain higher vantage. “But if I win, you marry King Bahng.”

Suddenly, interrupting your stunned reaction to his proposal, Minho’s reminder breaches your eardrums.

Deception is your greatest weapon.

Honestly, you’re bewildered Hyunjin hadn’t played petty thus far, and you have no doubt he will any moment now. 

You can’t afford to waste the opportunity.

Maintaining your gaze targeted on his face, you steal the chance, slipping your sword right beneath his feet, hooking the guard just fast enough to cause his legs to buckle. 

The tip of your sword centimeters from his neck, you cock your brows, finding satisfaction in the glare he’s boring into your skin from his spot on the ground.

In a game of swords, it doesn’t matter how dirty it’s won, it matters who won.

“If King Bahng wishes to marry me, he will deul me himself. That decision isn’t up to you.”

Stalling his immediate laughter upon nudging the sharp point right up against his pulse point, you chuckle.

“I might have to do this more often, you’re not bad when you shut your mouth for once.”

Dropping your sword, you reach out a customary hand he rejects, either of you following Minho to the side stalls to return his armory before a haunting voice stops you in your tracks.

“One more match?”

You’d been ignorant to the Kingdom’s sudden burst of energy, the trembling chains of the drawbridge dropping onto cobblestone ground, the gates shifting open. 

Having appeared through thin air stands King Bahng, constantly arriving at the worst of timing. 

He’s clad in traditional armor, though his has fancier plating, cleaner sheen, azure hues hidden within the gorget.

Your stomach ties itself into a knot, piecing together the details.  

“If this is about the deal, I don’t think I-“

“Oh please princess, this was never up to you. We did this for the sake of the Kingdom, you think we ever considered your say in this?” Hyunjin interjects, quickly escorted away by a frowning Minho and an additional guard you don’t recognize.

Huh?

What… What is he talking about? For the Kingdom? What does he mean for the sake of the Kingdom?

Do us all a favor and marry him, will you? Seungmin’s words ricochet in your skull, the parts assembling perfectly into place.

But if I win, you marry King Bahng.

Marriage. 

They knew all along. They knew you were set to marry him and yet, no one told you.

If your betrayal had been violently inflicted, you would look like a rag doll. All this time, these moments you thought were glee-filled, hopeful.

Lies.

Tearing the King’s chance to speak from his fingertips, you pick up your sword, denying your shaky, white knuckles and replacing those broken feelings with rage instead.

No, you can’t afford to show weakness. You must replace these feelings as quickly as possible. 

No weakness, no mercy. 

“Fine, let’s duel.”

“But-“

“Pick. Up. Your. Sword. And fight me.”

Releasing a sigh, he cautiously pulls his own sword from its sheath, waiting to be counted off unlike Hyunjin.

However skillful you’d been before had completely vanished. Though, you would give yourself the benefit of the doubt, this fight meant your future, meant the minuscule bit of freedom you’d gotten to experience here.

The last thing you wished was to realize you had been lied to, but even more so to realize you’ve been lied to in front of the entire Kingdom, curious faces peering from the castle’s allures.

Your swings sloppy, you credit the severity of the blows as you attack and defend, evidently dueling with fatal intent.

You’ve lost this battle, you know it. Your senses are too overwhelmed to assess spatial awareness, and every muscle in your arm cries out for relief. 

Swept off of your feet in a repeated cycle to earlier, you accept, sitting below the tip of King Bahng’s sword, your defeat.

Almost automatically, the pieces of pride you’d attained after your victory against Hyunjin amounted to nothing. 

You may beat everyone else, but you will never beat this man, now matter how hard you try. The odds will always soar in his favor, and you will suffer the results of it.

This is not a game you’ll win. Because from the beginning, you existed as a marionette, enjoying such naivety till the comprehension as to who controlled the play hit you.

This theatre was particularly unforgiving.

He won.

If your insomnia before was grueling, this was an entirely new extreme. 

Averaging a meager two hours per night, you’re positive you’ve memorized the guest list by heart, staring blankly at the crinkled parchment, unblinking.

In a matter of days, the congratulatory ball will be held. 

You’ll be attending said ball as the bride.

Weeks ago, the guest list had simply been a past time, a mandatory errand for the King’s Advisor, a ball you weren’t aware, and wouldn’t be aware, was meant for you.

Your chest feels.. sad? Empty? 

Yes. Empty is the word. An emptiness gutting you from the inside, the ugly drawback of exhausted options and worthless optimism.

There’s a lot of things to ponder on as well, factors you have to analyze, ensure it wasn’t another stage for an audience you so foolishly performed.

No escape. 

Tuesday, two days before the ball, Jeongin drops by your door, carrying a package under his arm and that effortlessly adorable smile gracing picture-perfect features.

“This is for you, from.. um..” The anxious boy stammers, placing the binded package on your room’s veneer. 

“You can say his name, Jeongin, I’m not mad.”

He exhales audible relief, slender fingers wrapping around your hand before you can bid him farewell.

“He— The King, he’s a good person.”

You force a tight grimace, agreeing despite your contradicting expression.

Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn’t. You don’t know what to believe anymore.

Slipping from bed once the young boy’s footsteps fade in the distance, you gingerly unwind crimson ribbon, allowing the leather exterior to unfold. 

Inside lies a gown.  

A gown that, investigating how breathtaking it is, should be considered nothing short of a ball gown the longer you stare.

Designed as a mantua, the white fabrics paired with lace neck frill and engageantes add an elegance you’ve never seen before. Light, subtle blue hides beneath ruffles of the skirt, further accented by equally blue lace strings fastening the back together and outlining the seam of your square-cut stays.

You can only marvel at the gift given by your future husband, wishing so terribly you could simply run into his arms and pretend everything was well. 

If only it was under better terms, as if nothing had happened. If King Bahng was another man, it’d be possible.

And Wednesday night, the root of your problems bares his face, knocking at your door while you were under the impression it was Han instead.

Acting as if you didn’t care was much easier around everyone but him, especially when you were halfway into tying the laces of your dress, the dress he had purchased for you.

What awful circumstances.

“Don’t touch me,” You hiss, regarding the man across from you with a frown.

Lifting either hand in the air, he seemingly invites you to figure out the impossible strings yourself, cueing a very aggravated, very futile attempt at tightening the ties of your ball gown before (hesitantly) allowing the man to slip behind you.

Of course you had to choose now to try it on.

His touch irritably careful, he ensures the fabric is snug fitting but breathable, each woven thread in its coordinating pattern.

Where he learned this you have no idea, only aware of how horrific this close proximity is, your restlessness growing unbearable.

Running his tongue over his top teeth, he backs up slightly, taking you in with apparent speechlessness.

He clears his throat.

“I won’t apologize because I know it means nothing to you, but please, let me explain. I intended to tell you, I just-“

He sounds timid, like a child.

A sour, bitter fury froths like bile in your throat. You want to explode. 

“No. No. I didn’t want this! I won’t!” You wind around, pointing an accusing finger to his chest. “You killed them all, my family, my loved ones, children. I hate you. I hate you!” Your voice breaks, a gravelly, disgusting drawl raking your throat raw. Salty, burning tears drip down your collarbones.

Grievance. An innumerable stage of sadness you hadn’t reached before now, overflowing.

As he tries calming you down, you only grow angrier, pushing from your path to the door, ripping the handle awry.

Instantly, his arms wrap around your middle, hauling you back as you kick and scream, fingernails digging into any available skin, dress puffing as your legs flail.

Catastrophic.

“No- No!”

You’re certain the entire kingdom can hear you, but that’s the last concern occupying your headspace, too focused on escaping, far off as you had done earlier, anywhere but here.

“Stop crying,” He commands, either hand on your wrist pinning your back to the bed, expression morphed pitifully. His calloused hand swipes the storming rivulets from your cheeks. 

“Please, Y/n, please stop crying. It hurts.” 

Your response shortens into a simple sob, aching.

“It hurts..?” You murmur, eyes shifting over his face. “…You hurt?”

Incessant crying causing your skin to burn, he only blinks at you.

A fit of anger forms just as fast as it disappeared in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re hurting? You’re the sick son of a bitch that killed my family and took everything I’ve ever loved away, you don’t deserve to hurt!”

Sucking in a necessary inhale, you angrily flail, wrinkling your nose at the careful tilt of his head, the distance of his face from yours, every scar, every pore close enough to see.

What happened to the King who threatened to break you? Why is he pitying you, looking at you with such kindness?

Longing to bring up how useless the deal was, how the benefits of the marriage aren’t your responsibility, you simply glare, emotions a whirlwind you can’t explain, can’t say aloud. 

And all he does is stare. Staring like you’ve said nothing at all. 

You want to cry out, want to curse him for all eternity, curse those blue eyes that seem to pave a pathway through your soul.

But you don’t. He beats you to it.

“..Do you know why my eyes are blue?”

What?

“Because I’m not fully Beast. My mother was a Mage. She turned against my father after I was born, left us, and vowed to do everything in her power to destroy Beasts.” 

Your face contorts nonsensically, his tight hold on your wrists loosening the longer he speaks.

“And I assume,” He redirects your head, forcing you to maintain eye contact. 

Rearing deja-vú reminds you of your first encounter. 

“No one ever told you Mage’s started the war.”

You scoff.  

“Or that the Mage planned to cut off all trade supply simply out of spite. And so, I did what I had to—“

“You did what you wanted to. You killed helpless people because of your own problems, my family had nothing to do with it!” Vocal cords throbbing the louder you scream, you try kicking your legs to no avail. 

“Your family, Mage, had everything to do with it. My people would have died-“

“Mine already did. So now what?”

A minuscule pinch occupies his brows.

“You weren’t supposed to be alive.”

“But I am, so you might as well let me join them.” 

He sighs, a stray, obsidian strand of hair hanging over his forehead.

“You know I can’t do that.”

You test the words on your tongue, wedging your hand out to grab his face, feeling the dip of his jaw as he sucks in a breath.

When you first met, he had told you he’d break you. This change of heart confuses you, grates more anger in your chest.

“And why is that?”

Opening his mouth, he momentarily closes it, then opens again, contemplating the statement with caution.

He’s right, in some way. 

You’re not supposed to be alive, not supposed to be saddened. You were meant to be in the ground with them, be one of the many bodies littering the L/N Kingdom, granted an eternal sleep. 

Yet, you aren’t. 

You survived, and you despise this man with every fiber of your being for that.

But things cannot change. You can’t bring them back, and his situation is just as painful as yours. 

You both lost people, or, would’ve lost people.

An explanation or an apology, as he said, isn’t necessary.

So you’ll get what you want, tangibly.

Forcefully grabbing his chin and jutting him closer to you on the bed, your voice drips with venom, noses mere breadth apart.

“Then end this winter and marry me, Your Highness.”

For a split second you swear his gaze drifts to your lips, but you shake the thought away, his sharp canines glinting off the mirrors reflection. 

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one to propose?”

“You killed my family, no need for formalities.”

“Care to remind me why you agreed to marry him? Weren’t you planning to kill him?” Felix piques, apron woven around his thin waist, skillfully measuring flour that’s dusted over his nose.

You needed to get your anger out, then devise a plan. Show King Bahng you weren’t going to succumb to his charms, tricks. Ever.

You hum from your spot on the counter, conversing just as you’d done back in your kingdom with Ms. Maewether. 

Technically, he was your new Ms. Maewether.

“Oh no, I still plan on killing him, I just want something first.”

Except, you didn’t talk about murder in front of Ms. Maewether. That was new.

He raises an eyebrow.

“And what would that be?”

Snapping your fingers, you cheerily tap your heels against the cabinets below.

“I want to see spring again.”

Silence overcoming the kitchen, it takes Felix a full minute to understand your preposition before bursting into unadulterated laughter. Well, until he realizes. Then he pouts.

“Aw, I was really looking forward to seeing Chris rejected at the altar.” The smaller Beast whines, popping a piece of sugary sweet dough his mouth and handing another to you.

“Hey, now that’s just cruel,” You mumble, muffled by the delicacy you’re currently chewing on.

“According to you yesterday, not really.”

Ah. Right.

“We just… have a lot to talk about.”

The phrase sounds stupid, but it’s true. Logically, emotionally it’s true. There is a lot in need of discussing.

For now, you’re indifferent.

“I’ve always thought you two were similar.”

The cook’s outburst catches you off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve always wanted to protect what mattered to you most, and maybe, one day, you can understand why he did what he did.”

Leave it to Felix to be your reasonable opinion.

Nevertheless, an invisible barrier rests between you two. A lie. His lie. The Kingdom’s lie.

“Felix, I will never understand why he did it,” You humorlessly chuckle, hopping from your spot. “So tell me, why did you lie?”

All morning you debated the right time to confront him. Tonight was the night, the congratulatory ball, the wedding. Why wait? 

Freezing with his back turned to you, he stops mid-slice, dropping the knife atop the cutting board and gradually facing you. 

Oh Felix.

His nose flushed pink, lips quivering, you allow him to race forward and hug you, head tucked into your shoulder while you stand there, motionless.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It was decided from the start, but we were told not to tell you, not until King Bahng told you himself.”

You want to tell him it’s okay, make some jokes, act like things are normal. Though your arms stay glued to your side.

“I guess Hyunjin beat him to it, huh?” 

His arms tighten around you and, with a sigh, you pat his back, gently nudging him off of you where you can hold that sweet face of his.

“But don’t worry about me, alright? I can handle this, and I forgive you, so let’s move on from this, Lix.” Tenderly rubbing the skin of his cheek, he meekly smiles, an action you can’t help but feel relieved seeing.

You’re strong. You have to be strong. For Felix, for Han, for Jeongin, for your friends throughout the Beast Clan, you’ll be strong. You’ll enjoy wearing the gown regardless of who bought it for you, cherish the wedding no matter the man you’re wedded to.

If you’re going to have to live like this forever, you might as well make the most of it.

On today’s occasion, you’re dressed by a hand maid sent to your quarters, polished and puffed to perfection by the time five o’clock arrives and the banquet officially begins.

And when you see yourself in the mirror, you’re not exactly sure who stares back at you. 

She’s pretty, yes, but she isn’t Y/N. She’s a Queen, the Queen of the Beast Clan.

Your stomach wrenches.

By tomorrow, you’ll be married. Married to King Bahng. You will be a wife, the wife of a King just as the L/N Kingdom intended. 

The thought continues to plague your mind, sucking more and more oxygen from your lungs that as you’re escorted to the ball room.

You can hardly inhale and exhale normally as Changbin, whom you appreciate enormously, walks you down the aisle, past an abundance of people you’ve never seen before. Beasts, business men, acquaintances alike.

Sensing your panic, your linked arms allow him to spare you a meager glance you anxiously return.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

All previous calmness long dissipated, when you finally redirect your attention from your feet and take in King Bahng waiting at the altar, your rampaging anxiousness increases tenfold.

As the audience claps and either of you turn with your backs facing the crowd, you scorn your lack of a poker face when the King rests a hand on your back.

“Breathe,” He utters, only a whisper you heard. 

Wishing to thank him, you bite your tongue, considering the man you’re referring to in the first place prior to replying.

A sharp nod of your head is enough.

Stifling an exhale, you spin on your heel, both bowing to the public before facing each other and holding hands, an action that shouldn’t cause goosebumps to swarm your arms, but does anyway.

“You plan to smash my face in at our wedding?” He murmurs below the customary vows, acknowledging your fingernails digging into his hand.

“Keep giving me ideas and I migh-“

The retort vanishes when he presses his lips to yours, doubling back in shock before his palm on your back keeps you close.

Granting you breathing room if only for an instant, a slow grin tugs at the edge of his lips. 

“Then before I die, let me have this first.”

And he dives right back in again, kiss surprisingly tender compared to what you’d expected. Something bruising, dominating.

Instead, the King was soft. Soft as he held your cheek in a hand, soft when pulling you in by the waist.

Separating if only for a fraction of a second, you reach to hold his face, every instinct beckoning you to push him away dissipating into nothing but the nullified drone of your head and the insistent racing of your heartbeat.

“Are you that nervous, pretty? Your heart is-“

You pull him to your lips once more, hating how easy it is to forget, how his lips numb your thoughts—though unable to get enough.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

The guests hollering in your peripheral the lone sound breaching your eardrums, you can’t help thinking. 

He did this for his people just as you would’ve done. As for the Mage instigating the war, some secrets shall remain hidden, unable to be answered. You have to accept that among many things. 

The King has done nothing but care for you, and as much as you resent him for it, you respect him, if only a tiny bit, as well.

He’s irritable, and not to mention annoyingly handsome. His sympathy-filled eyes might be the death of you, and those dimples of his are stupidly lovable.

But he’s your husband, and somehow, strangely enough, you don’t find yourself hating the thought as much anymore.

Not when he holds you, and especially not when he kisses you as if it’s your last.

After the many hours spent celebrating, you couldn’t have been more enthusiastic about returning to your quarters.

Joined by King Bahng, you find traversing as easy as ever with the help of the (half) Beast behind you, helping navigate past multitudes of people, oddly comforting touch on your back guiding you through the hallways.  

Arriving at your room, he pauses, awkwardly shifting his weight on his heels, bewitching gaze flitting left and right, uncharacteristic to his usually smug attitude.

“…Was the kiss too much?”

King Bahng, asking if his kiss was too much?

You wanted to photograph this moment in your mind forever, debating on whether you should tease him about it, egg the normally stoic King on. 

However, you tip his chin down, pressing a chaste, soft peck to his lips, amusedly observing him freeze before melting into your touch.

“Could be better.” 

He huffs a sigh in response, and you’re left wondering if this is the same man who threatened to break you, the one who now looks like a pouty toddler.

Although, just as you slip by, he takes ahold of your wrist. 

“Goodnight Y/N.”

You crack a smile.

“Good night Chris.”

And, suppressing your chuckle, you close the door behind you.

Hastily undressing into nightwear and slipping into bed, you stare up at the ceiling, hours passing from the ticking of a clock in the corner, echoing around the room. 

Then, abruptly, your door creaks open.

“My gods, what are you doing here?” You whisper into the darkness, the door creaking behind his crouched form, King Bahng’s crouched form.

“I needed to see you.”

Ah. Don’t say things like that. 

Pulling the covers further over yourself, you squint accusingly at the man as he enters, silencing your urge to reprimand he saw you mere hours earlier, presumptuously sitting opposite to you. 

He scans what’s visible, fixating on your hand for a moment.

“You kept the ring on?”

Noting the gleaming jewel on your ring finger, you can’t help but feel slightly bashful. It’s not like you’re really married, but the thought sends a sort of satisfaction spreading throughout your chest. 

“If I take it off, will it become winter again?”

He grins, giggling childishly. 

“Is that the only reason?”

Debating on your response, you wet your lips, looking back up at his barely distinguishable face shrouded in darkness.

You have no doubt he’s thriving off your hesitance. 

Oh how badly you wish to wipe that look clean, but in reality, keeping the ring on feels as if a part of you from your own kingdom is with you, similar to your old clothing.

The part of you that, if not invaded, would belong to someone loved, newly wedded.

“No,” You mutter, though the phrase is barely audible.

He perks up.

“Hm?”

You regret saying that. But he’s already heard, there’s no use lying aimlessly.

“I said no, that’s not the only reason.”

“Care to tell me the other reason?” 

Rapidly averting your attention to your hand, you discover speaking is easier when not looking at him. 

“Keeping it on makes me feel like I’m really in love. I like imagining that, being married.”

You miss the sad lilt crossing his face.

“We are married.”

Without missing a beat, you meet his stare.

“Are we?” 

Unlike before, there’s no waver to your voice, no caution. 

Winding around to your side of the bed, he settles beside your feet. 

You clear your throat.

“I wanted to see spring again, and to you, I’m simply a present. A playtoy to your disposal. This isn’t marriage, not how I was taught, this is just a business arrangement.”

Nevertheless, the hurt leaks into your voice. So long to a resilient tone. 

“Y/N, don’t do this to me.”

Come to think of it, it’s the first time he’s ever called you by your name apart from last night. 

Having had enough of his nonsense, you spring for his collar, dragging him below you on the bed. Opposite to earlier, you’re on top this time, you’re in control.

“You don’t deny it.”

A silence passes.

“I would deny it a thousand times, but you wouldn’t believe me. And I don’t blame you for that.” 

He sucks in a breath.

“I only ask you don’t doubt this marriage. This isn’t a business arrangement, and I will treat you with as much respect and love as possible, even if you don’t want me too. That is what marriage is, how I was taught.”

It’s your turn to inhale, lost within the confines of this dark space. 

“Chris, do you love me?”

You both have people you love, people you want to protect, wanted to protect. It wasn’t his intention to hurt you, not when he found you after you ran away, not when ordering a salve to keep you safe, nor now, as you lean above him. 

Like he told you. You weren’t meant to survive. You were supposed to be peacefully asleep, forever. 

This man, this Mage, this Beast, is as much a murderer as your savior. You choose how to condemn him. 

“I do, more than you could ever imagine.”

How can you stay mad at a guilty man, a man who kept you alive when you were on the brink of death? Who now professes to loving you, wanting to give you a marriage you’d been cheated of, give you everything you’ve been cheated of with everything in his power. 

Hovering right by his lips to the point your chests touch, you place a miniature kiss there.

“I hate you, so much.” 

Then another kiss.

His arms, wrapped around your more elevated form, drag you down in an embrace. One hand presses your face to his shoulder, another rubbing circles on your back. 

“And I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, sorry.”

Raising up, you can’t contain the tremor of your lip, the way your eyes shakily close shut as you steal a third kiss from his lips, a kiss he returns, hands carefully holding each side of your face.

“Chris?” You manage, currently straddling his lap, his body resting against the headboard. 

Kindly, he keeps a palm against your lower back, helping you balance.

“Can you show me what it means to be loved?”

You never understood how a person could melt until this moment. He wears that look again, like in the forest. The look that makes you cry.

What love looks like for Christopher Bahng, you don’t know. You have no doubt there will be ugly moments, moments you’ll reconsider, rethink. 

You’re both hurt, some wounds still hurting. But for him, for you, you’re willing to take that chance.

“I’d be honored.”

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