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foxgloveprincess · 18 days

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My Heart is a Hollow Plain

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

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

Word Count: 6.1K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The gods will bless you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums in question, impatient for an answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What could you possibly pray for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will this suffice?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I serve you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my lord,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please go,” I plead.

Its head tilts. Its tongue flicks. It stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yours.”

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

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

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

“Welcome home, Loki.”

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

#loki x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #medieval au #mythology au #loki fanfic #loki fanfction #the avengers pantheon #dark #dark fic #polytheistic au #yandere vibes #dub con #tw dub con #heed the warning #18+#minors dni

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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By the King’s Hand🐍XIX

Masterlist

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

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

Summary: Your isolation brings you close to disaster.

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

Thank you. Love you guys!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your majesty, Queen Sinthia, yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” you uttered.

“No,” she dismissed, “eat.”

🐍

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did not–"

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't deny that."

"You will send her away."

"I will do as I please–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your majesty, this cannot–"

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

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

"He is yours too, you wouldn't–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🐍

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

Not until that day.

"The queen is aware of you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And Lucinda was the culprit?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And would you come with us?"

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

You smiled, a weak uncertain smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #by the king's hand #au #medieval au #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor #king!loki

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imsonick · 2 years

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Imagine...

You are lady in waiting to queen Sarah in time when the king dies and New Kings Stucky are coming from they provinces to take over the throne. They have mistresses- but the queen dowager does not approve of them.

Suddenly you catch eyes of both of them with a little machination by the queen- she just want you to marry her sons.

But you are not so willing as the Kings would like, so it gets a little darkish...😈

#stucky #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #fanfiction #yandere steve rogers #yandere bucky barnes #dark stucky x reader #dark stucky #yandere avengers #medieval au #steve rogers #bucky barnes

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theruffiansretrorampage · 9 months

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art by Simon de THUILLIERES

#Marvel #Avengers #Thanos #Guardians of the Galaxy #retro #vintage #medieval

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darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

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Thou Shalt Not Covet

Status: In Progress

Summary: Your marriage is challenged by the wandering eye of the king. (Medieval AU)

Thou Shalt Not Cover

Thy liege, thy lord

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prismaiden · 2 months

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but my duty must be done, even alone. ©

#i'm quite proud of how this turned out!#anri as the avenging angel #as with all my single-muse blogs i won't be promoting much #⚘ self-promo #dark souls rp #soulsborne rp #fantasy rp #medieval rp

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rebelmeg · 1 year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now enjoy a smattering of inspirational pictures!

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

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

Thor will absolutely wear a bejeweled loincloth and little else.

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

Clint's got THEM ARMS to show off.

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

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

#i seriously have SO MANY PICTURES saved for inspiration #so many wings #so much jewelry #so many outfits #this think is 17k words and at least 5k of that is just background and what everyone looks like and what they're wearing #king tony #concubine avengers #everyone has wings #thor has a lot of piercings #there's a swimming-pool sized jacuzzi #and a secret science lab that literally disappears into the wall #it's also a weird mix of sorta sci-fi but also sorta medieval?#i dunno #obadiah stane is suspicious but can't prove anything #partly because the harem will make him uncomfortable on purpose by putting on very convincing displays of public indecency to get him to go #tony loves it #and tony loves them #and they love tony #it's just an excuse for excellent visual aesthetics and lots of sweet interactions #someday i will finish it!#mcu #fanfic #avengers

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manicr · 1 year

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

Writer: Jonathan Hickman

Art: Sean Chen

#fantastic four #civil war #bullseye #avengers #this is such a mashup of eras #like late medieval to high renaissance #plus the superhero stuff

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foxgloveprincess · 4 days

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

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

A Little Ficlet for Another Taste of Devouring Rush

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gardens?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#stucky x reader #steve rogers x bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #medieval au #mythology au #polytheistic au #dark #dark fic #dub con #tw dub con #the avengers pantheon #✨rachel replies✨#brasspistol

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Text

To Bend the Knee

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, abuse of power, mentions of violence, blood kink, crying kink/dacriphylia, humiliation, oral. My tags are not exhaustive, proceed at your own risk.

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

Summary: Your brother is killed by rebels and you’re forced to flee the realm, but is your escape any better than staying? (Medieval AU)

Characters: king!Peter Parker

Note: @queenoftheworldisdead sent me this ask and I answered it in over 6k words lmao.

‘Your homeland is in chaos. with the clothes on your back you flee to one of the neighboring kingdoms. Which place do you make your new home? King Steve, King Frank, King Tommy or King Peter ‘

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

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

"Your brother is dead."

Those words echo in your head as the wagon rumbles beneath you. It's cold, muddy, foggy; a living evocation of your grief.

Your brother is… was the king, how could he be dead? You never asked that for it doesn’t matter. Your guard, Dunstan, assures you that answers can wait.

All that you know is it was a skirmish at a crossroad in Morhag. That the other lords, the Duke of Garber, Earl Victor, the Marquess of Kerb, are divided, the rebels between them, and the lower barons in chaos. You must go for the revolting army is already upon the road to your keep.

You dress in plain clothes as Dunstan advises, looking little different than your maid, Callista, and pack only what you need; a keg of wine, some wheels of cheese, hard bread, and salted meats, a kettle, and big bellied cauldron clustered in the back with you and the single maid.

The rest of the household must flee. There are no tearful goodbyes, only grievous silence as the castle is looted for the road ahead.

You lean against the wall of the wagon, Callista holding your arm as she quivers. She’s a young girl, not even bled yet, but your only companion. Dunstan rides in a dark cloak that hides his armour, his sword at his hip and reins in hand.

You keep your head down as it begins to rain. You don’t know where you’re going or if perhaps, the singular soldier may decide to submit you to the advancing rebels. Distant booms have Callista whimpering as that new deadly weaponry thunders; you picture the cannonball barreling through the walls of your hold.

You have far to go, wherever you may go. If perhaps you might find the Duke and his forces, you might join them. More likely, you won’t get that far. The rebels are ravenous, propelled by the recent low yield of their crops and your brother’s exorbitant taxes; a decree you wrote to him of, advising him to think better of it. His dismissal was sealed in wax; Sister, I know you haven’t a husband to mind you, so mind yourself.

He was always bullish, always thought he knew best, always defiant. He was king after all so why should he heed any guidance by that of his own mind; a mind molded for the weight of the crown. Not like your father who always bid him towards sound counsel from the nobles appointed to gird his whims. Did not the old king declare that his son’s impetuous nature would cost him his head?

Still, he didn’t deserve to die and he would always be your brother. Kind or cruel, dead or alive; you can only think then of the boy you ran in the stables with, the one who cried when he lost his favourite toy.

You mourn inwardly but do not weep; there is no use for that, not until you are safe.

“Sir,” you call to Dunstan as the rain falls in sheets. He cannot hear you.

You pat Callista’s shoulder and wriggle away from her needy grasp. You move between the barrels and steady yourself against the back of the driver’s perch.

“Sir,” you raise your voice.

“Aye?” Dunstan turns his head slightly.

“Where are we going?” you ask as the droplets ping off your hood.

He’s quiet as he snaps the reins to quicken the horse, “somewhere dry for this night…” he reluctantly answers, “and after, God knows.”

His response is as you expect but unsatisfying. You know of no haven ahead or behind you. Not for a princess with a dead brother and a bounty on her head. You thank Dunstan and sit back down with Callista before she can panic.

“Your highness, did he say where we ride to?” she asks as she clutches your cloak.

“Call me ‘lady’,” you insist as you sit back and keep your hood down as the rain slakes over the cloak, “we will be alright, Cal,” you assure her, “Sir Dunstan has arranged for it.”

She nods and sniffs as she clings to you like the child she is. You might have a daughter her age had you married. You might not be wet and terrified. You might be anything else if many things were different.

🏰

“Won’t budge,” Dunstan huffs as his boots slip in the sludge and you nearly fall to your knees, the wagon lurching but not dislodging from the muck.

“My lord,” you stand and touch your sides as they burn from the effort, “what can we do?”

“Take what we can carry and continue afoot,” he checks his sword, “we can take the horse but risk riding it to the grave.”

“The horse can carry our luggage,” you say, “we could move quicker than without, couldn’t we?”

He considers you, his eyes red and tired as your own feel puffy and your face drawn, “you’re clever, yo– lady.”

“At times, but it hardly matters now,” you say, “Callista, take the salted rations and fill some skins. The kettle is lighter, we will make due with that.”

“Yes, m–lady,” she nods and turns to her task, crawling up into the wagon.

“If we can, I think the girl and I should seek new garments,” you tell Dunstan, “they seek out a princess, I think trousers might deceive them.”

“Mm, if we happen upon them,” he sighs as he moves to detach the horse from the wagon, “though we are best to avoid populated areas. The rebels disperse to the villages. I’d rather some burglar than one of them.”

“I’ll help the girl. We must away swiftly, when this wagon is discovered, they will catch scent of us,” you turn away as your damp skirts swirl.

“Ah,” he utters.

“What is it?” you stop at the end of the wagon and peer back at him.

“Only… I wonder should you’ve been a man, might you’ve been a wise commander, unlike your brother,” he muses.

“What good is wondering? I am a woman and have only you to command,” you chide and turn back to climb up into the wagon, “Cal,” you call to the girl, “quickly, quickly. Before the ground dries.”

🏰

Days afoot and you are ripe to collapse. The three of you march through dirt and fields, hide in brush as riders pass, eat handfuls of rations and mouthfuls of wine until you must boil water to drink and fill your skins. Nights spent in shifts of watchfulness, a knife passed between you and Callista, as Dunstan prizes his long sword closely.

On the dawn that marks a week in flight, you find a loft to hide in as the spring sun turns stolid. It is a rare moment of reprieve from your frantic retreat. The horse chews some hay as you search the place.

Among the barn, you find some clothes, old rags stained and patched anon, but suitable disguises. You keep your cloaks but don the loose trousers and long shits of the fieldhands, a drooping cap to cover your hair.

You climb back up and hand Callista over her new clothes as Dunstan hides his mail beneath grey wool. You take the knife he lent to you for your wakeful watches. He looks up as the girl changes in the corner.

“Keep it close,” he says, “we’ve still far to go.”

“And do we know yet where we go?” you wonder as you examine the blade.

“The border, it is our only option. The rebels are close, we see the smoke not far from us and the villagers speak of a capture,” he sighs, “we must continue to listen to them above the roll of their wheels, make certain we are not among the gossip.”

You frown and look at Callista, her long hair dark and silky like a horse’s mane. You spin the knife slowly and nod.

“Sir,” you offer the handle to him, “you must cut my hair away.”

“Your highness?” a rare slip from secrecy.

“Both of us,” you insist, “tillers do not wear their hair so long and the cap will not sit right if we do not.” Callista looks up and grasps her tangled hair in despair. You give a soft smile, “it’ll grow back, Cal, I’m sorry.”

“Girl,” Dunstan says sternly, “she does speak shrewdly.”

“Whatever we must do,” her voice cracks, “as the princess bids.”

“Very well,” you turn and sit before Dunstan, “I’ll go first.”

🏰

Dunstan declares you are two days from the border as you leave the horse sweaty and slobbering along the roadside. Any further and the beast will keel over. You can only hope another discovers the steed or that it wanders into a rich pasture. You strap a bundle of what little you have left of the salted meats and your gathered nuts and fruits to your back and hang the kettle beneath it.

Callista shoulders another bundle and Dunstan a full pack. You continue, the three of you, soles to the wet ground as you persist. The night before you spent trembling in a ditch as riders rode up and down the road, calling to each other, speaking your name in their search. Now, you do not dare to remain on the main way.

You return to the fields and the forests, weaving in and out between trees and high grass. You’re worn to the bone. You don’t know you have two days left in you and Callista looks little better. By evening, Dunstan carries the girl.

You sleep against large oaks and you take the last watch to see the dawn above the branches. You rouse your companions and feed Callista your share of the morning’s meal; it isn’t much but she seems enlivened. You ready for another day of walking. It seems more and more that you are headed for one death or another.

That night, you do not settle. Dunstan whispers that you can cross into Arache before the dawn. Callista swears she can make it even as she clings to your arm and you resign yourself to the final push. What he does not mention is the river. He enjoins you to bundle your cloaks above your shoulders.

“Hold my arm,” he whispers to Callista, “and lady, you her other. Keep her in the middle so she does not drift away.”

You listen to the rushing waters. You shiver.

“Can we not wait until it is calmer?” you ask.

“And await our pursuers at the same?” he challenges. You are all tired, all irascible.

You say nothing more and grab Callista’s thin arm as he takes the other. He guides you down the ford and steps into the water first. He’s slow as he plants his feet in the silt, moving one foot at a time until Callista gasps at the cold depths. You follow last and struggle to get a good hold on the riverbed.

You move in unison, little by little, swaying and wobbling as you reach the middle. Your breath clouds before you as your teeth chatter. Your boot meets something slimy and you slide back, falling to your knees as you pull Callista down with you and Dunstan lurches, staggering until he can dig his heels in.

He pulls the girl up first, grunting with the effort as you clutch her wrist desperately. You struggle to stand again as the water soaks your clothing and weighs you down. Your muscles ache as you push towards the other side of the river, your eyes meeting Dunstan’s in the moonlight. He nods and stretches Callista until he can grip a root along the shore.

Finally, you’re able to push yourself further and urge Callista up ahead of you as Dunstan helps. He catches you before you can slip again and hauls you up into the mud, puffing as he falls back onto his ass. He bends his knees and rests his elbows on them as you lay and gulp down air.

“Welcome to Arache, princess,” he grumbles, “let us hope we might find welcome here.”

You say nothing as your dread rises. You wonder if you will be welcomed.

🏰

The sun is hidden behind a blanket of clouds. Your clothes do not dry in the grim grey as dew keeps your boots cold. Callista shudders as she keeps her arms crossed. You worry for her as she sniffles and sneezes. Dunstan offered his cloak to her as his is the only that remained dry in your chaotic crossing.

By noon, you must rest as the girl begins to weep. She’s sick. You feed her some weak broth made from boiled jerky and feed her gently. You unclasp the cloak and use it to form a hammock beneath her so you may carry her between you and the guard. How loyal he is that it makes you want to sob yourself.

“Sir,” you call to him as the girl chatters, “how come you’ve led us this far?”

He’s quiet. He exhales as he crushes twigs beneath his feet.

“I did not wish to die in your brother’s war or upon his vengeance,” he confesses, “but I did not wish for you too, either. You are most unlike him.”

You accept his answer but do not blame him. Many would call it cowardice but death is not an easy duty.

“I wouldn’t want you to, either,” you return, “do you know where we are?”

“Southeast,” he says, “but I could not place us on a map.”

“And where do we go?” you ask that incessant question.

“We find a tavern and perhaps then we will have our bearings, at least a warm hearth for the girl,” he continues on without pause. “You still have some rings.”

“I removed them when we traded our clothes,” you counter.

“And I retrieved them,” he says, “you will need your family ring to prove your name. That or we live as paupers and the girl…”

He does not say it but the truth swings with her. She will die without proper accommodation, even then, she may still perish.

“You are prudent, sir,” you praise, “much more than I.”

“You are in your own way,” he says, “there is a road ahead, let us follow it.”

🏰

Another day before a tavern sign beckons to you. You almost shout in glee but haven’t the strength. You carry in Callista as Dunstan barters with the keeper. Other travelers sit around tables imbibing ale and scarfing down roast hen. They are upon their own treks without a care for the arrival of scraggly men in rags.

Dunstan cradles Callista as he carries her up the stairs on his own strength. He puts her in the only bed as you make a fire in the hearth.

The walls feel surreal as you stand and glance over at your companions. You do not deserve either of them. A princess without a cause. Survival is hardly an honourable pursuit.

“I’ll fetch some food,” Dunstan says, “you should rest with the girl.”

“And the morrow?” you wonder as you hang your cloak.

“Let it come to us before we seek it out,” he grumbles and yawns, “one night to recover our wits and wills.”

“Sir,” you concede and go to the bed, touching Callista's clammy cheek.

The door opens and closes. The guard locks it from without and you go to the basin to soak the rag folded beside it. You wipe Callista’s face and down her neck. You strip away her clothes and wrap her in a sheet before nestling her under the heavy quilt.

The fire quickly warms the small space as footsteps creak on the stairs and pass without.

You lay down beside her and stare at the ceiling. You don’t care so much about yourself but this girl doesn’t deserve to die for you. She gave up her hair and her innocence, she does not owe you her life.

Dunstan’s return keeps you from crying. You sit up as he offers a plate of roasted potatoes and poultry. You salivate but insist first on trying to feed Callista the bowl of brown stew. She wakes at the smell of food but remains disoriented; a few mouthfuls before falling back into oblivion.

“There are king’s men downstairs, gaming and drinking,” Dunstan says, “we should approach them in the morning.”

“Why not now?” you ask as you eat with your hands unabashedly.

“They are drunk already which means they will be late to mount,” he explains, “I did hear the keep of Haslow is near to us. They are likely from or on their way to the castle.”

“And do you think they will help us? That they will not turn us over to the rebels?” you lick your greasy fingers as your stomach squeezes in delight.

“Arache has made no declaration for or against,” Dunstan says, “but I know a king does not take the murder of another lightly. And, your highness, it must be said, you are a valuable asset.”

You narrow your eyes at him and swallow. You considered the bounty the rebels had upon you but realise then, that offered by a king would be a deal higher. The guard’s mission does not seem so gallant anymore.

🏰

Your journey is quick compared to your escape from your homeland. The king’s men were amused at first, thinking you mad, but when you presented your ring and spoke to them in the noble language, their laughter died. They rented a carriage for you and Callista as Dunstan bought himself a horse with another of your rings.

The castle of Haslow is smaller than most but picturesque. Your arrival stirs the household to life.

Callista awakes now and again. She’s confused but not so drawn. Her sneezing has subsided and she sleeps without a rattle in her lungs. You insist she shares your chamber at the keep, though you fear it might be a prison, still uncertain you did not flee one possible captor for another.

You’re made comfortable. A tub is filled with boiling water and you ease your road-weary body into the steaming pool. You sigh and linger in the heat before finding the strength to scrub yourself raw. When you emerge, you feel a new person; almost as you were before but not quite.

You think of your brother, Arkan, but cannot cry for him. Not yet. There is still so much unknown. You dress in the clothing provided; a shift, a gown that’s a might too tight but of fine dyed cotton, a hood to cover your shorn hair, and slippers of soft silk.

You are permitted to walk the corridors but do not overlook the men in livery at each corner, as they do not overlook you. Dunstan joins you for supper but you have less to say than upon the road. He will not acknowledge his intent to barter for your head and you will not admonish him. He must live with his misdeeds and you your own.

On your second day in the castle, Callista wakes before you. You think you are dreaming until she draws you into a weak embrace. Her eyes round at the chamber and dares to ask if it was all a fever dream. You assure her otherwise but that you are safe.

You call for a bath to be drawn for her and she washes as she sings behind the screen. You smile and she heartens you further as she clears the plate brought to her. If you might ask for anything from the king, it will be for her; that she is ensured a long and happy life.

Callista is still unstable on her feet but you have Dunstan carry her to the balcony not far from your chamber. You sit with her and watch the walls and the green gardens. The sun is out and warms you after your long, wet journey. Your days are spent basking in that pleasant purgatory.

Two days past a week since your arrival and a fanfare erupts beyond the gates. You look from above as the winches are turned and the heavy doors open with the grinding of chains. A party rides through with banners, five men on horses, the king at their centre.

King Peter was a prince when you last met him. A boy even. He was at least half a decade younger than you, yet was presented as your suitor when he was only fourteen. That was long ago, when you were still a marriageable prospect.

He peers up. He does look older. A man now but still young. He raises a gauntlet and waves in your direction. You bow your head respectfully; he recognises you too. Perhaps once he sees you closely he will realise how you’ve aged; that you are past your own years of potential. And perhaps, that’ll serve you a quick death over a lifetime of imprisonment, or even torture at the hands of angry rebels.

His attention falls to a groom as he dismounts and hands over his reins. You turn to Callista and gesture her to her feet. She rises as she flutters in excitement, “is it the king?”

“It is,” you confirm, “I must ready to face him.”

“He is unmarried, yes?” she wonders as she follows you inside, “you are a princess-”

“I rejected his betrothal years ago when it was presented by his uncle,” you dismiss her, “and now I am nearly thirty and likely barren. Callista, it is best we keep our expectations practical.”

She’s quiet as you proceed down the corridor. She touches your sleeve softly, “do you think he will send you back?”

“I cannot say or guess,” you tamp down the panic had yet been dulled by inaction.

“Will…” her voice squeaks, “will he have you killed?”

“I do not know that either,” you say.

🏰

You are informed shortly that the king will join you for supper. Callista tries to tidy your hair but you wave her away and tie a ribbon around your head instead. You prefer not to face Peter with foolish attempts of extravagance. No, you will come to him with a shred of dignity and sheer honesty.

Servants appear to arrange a trestle in your chamber and two chairs. You note there's no place for your maid, though she would be expected to stand as it is. You dress in one of the three dresses provided to you, all of a style well past fashionable. The buttery yellow silk with trumpet sleeves and a high belt fits you best so you choose that and the white slippers beaded with amber.

You wring your hands as you pace and Callista weaves thread around a frame, “your highness,” she says as you clutch your hands over your chest, “you are nervous. I’ve never seen you thus.”

“Oh,” you force your hands down, “I think too much.”

There is a rapping at the door, suddenly. You turn to face it as Callista sets down her weaving and stands. The door opens as a servant steps inside and announces the king’s arrival. Peter enters in red velvet and a gold circlet on his brow. You bend your leg and curtsey to him as Callista does the same behind you.

“Princess,” Peter greets as he stops before you and holds out his open hand, “you needn’t lower yourself to me…yet.”

You put your hand in his and stand. He kisses your knuckles and runs his thumb only the only ring on your fingers; the one with your family crest. He is short but broad, his cheekbones and jaw well-defined, and his dark eyes bold.

“Your hands require more jewels,” he declares, “a princess cannot walk around with naked fingers.”

“Your majesty,” you bow your head, “I am most grateful for the welcome I’ve been shown in Arache. Haslow is a most beautiful castle and I have been shown nothing but kindness.”

“You always spoke so eloquently,” he rebuffs but not meanly, “come, sit, let us sup. I’ve had a rather long week of riding and I heard your own journey was harrowing.”

You let him lead you to the table by your hand and sit before the covered platters. He lets your hand go and takes his own seat across from you.

“Marlon, you may excuse yourself, and the maid as well,” the king orders.

You peek over at Callista as her eyes round. She scurries over to follow the servant as he holds the door, shutting it behind them as they disappear into the corridor. Your anxiety twitches in your fingers and you curl them to keep from showing your uncertainty.

“It has been a long time, Princess,” Peter says without humour and his face hardens, “you do recall our last meeting, don’t you?”

“I do, we were young,” you say.

“I am still young,” his cheek dimples coyly, “I recall…” he uncovers a platter and picks at the soft cheese, “that I received your refusal from some envoy.” His jaw clenches, “like a boy, not a man.”

“Your majesty, that was more than a decade ago but I apologise that I slighted you, it was not my intention,” you say carefully.

He chuckles as he lifts another lid, steam escaping from the dish of seasoned trout, “do you apologise because you require my grace or do you mean it?”

“I am not mean-hearted, your majesty,” you reply, “and there were many suitors I did not pursue–”

“Oh, I am aware,” he smirks, “the princess of the sands, they call you. Barren and dry.”

You wince. There was a time when such an insult would have you agape and calling for justice. You cannot afford to be offended, nor are you a girl that acts so foolishly. You are a woman and what he says is not untrue.

“Unmarried, without issue,” you confirm, “as you might surmise, this life has not been an expected one.”

He considers you as he lifts a brow. He offers you a filet and you accept with courtesy. He focuses on filling your plates before he settles and picks at the spread before him. You haven’t much of an appetite but eating will keep you from fidgeting.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be so cruel,” he mocks, “you are likely eager to know if I will turn you over to the rebels.”

You swallow and take a cloth to wipe your lips, “I cannot say it has left my mind.”

“Hm, I rode for many days and my mind wandered with me, and I tried to think of what they should do to you should I hand you over. I heard of your brother, that they took his head and mounted it for the crows to pick at, that they pulled out his entrails and fed them to pigs, but not before skinning him as he bled out, still breathing.”

You put your fork down and covered your mouth. You’d not heard that. Only that he died. He watches your shock and disgust and seems pleased by it.

“I do think they might draw out your own end a little more,” he muses, “princesses are more fun.”

You drop your hand and push your shoulders back. You look him in the eye as he takes a bite of a stewed tomato. He takes his time in gulping it down and licks his lips.

“I’ve heard the price on you is quite high,” he teases, “and a king must always consider his coffers.”

“You toy with me,” you say.

He hits the table with his fist, “as you did me!”

“Your majesty,” you blink decisively as you bide your patience, “it is merely a political reality that a proposal may not meet with success–”

“We danced, we laughed,” he says, “so why did you say no?”

You take a breath. You never thought he held onto it. It was so fleeting of an encounter, you’d met many princes but none of them ever became your husband. At first, it was your father’s indecisiveness, then your own, then your brother’s attempts at leveraging you for however much he could get.

“You are much younger than me,” you say, “and I felt that difference between us and expected one day you would to. So, I thought you would find a younger princess.”

He’s silent as he glares at you. Such malice cuts into you like a dagger You didn’t expect it. Not from your memories of him as a sweet and bounding boy.

“I didn’t,” he grits out, “all these years and I didn’t. And now you come to me, asking me to spare your head. Did you spare me any thought at all, hm? I’m sure you shrugged and went back to your castle and danced and laughed with another.”

You clench your teeth down and hold your tongue. How can he be so mad at someone he barely even knew? How could you feel anything for a boy you met once?

“Your majesty–” you begin.

“Beg,” he sneers.

You flinch as if he’s slapped you, his tone dangerous. You stare at him, speechless.

“I said, beg,” he snarls, “get on your knees, princess, and beg me not to send you to the slaughter.”

You lower your chin and inhale, pulling your hands down to your lap to hide the shaking. You ponder letting him do it. Let him send you to your bloody end, to those violent serfs and their barbarous tempers. But you think of Callista, what might happen to her?

You stand and sidle out from between the table and the stool, lifting your hem from the floor as you near the king. You kneel, one knee at a time and look up at him. He shifts in his chair, legs wide as he watches you with blatant satisfaction. You bring your hands together and bat away your pride.

“Your majesty,” your voice quivers, betraying you, “I beg of you to spare me. Please. You are my only hope. Please, do not send me to die.”

He tilts his head and clicks his tongue, “is that it?”

You search his face. Your chest is hollow as you cannot hide your confusion. What does he want from you? Should you cry? You don’t even know that you can force the tears, you’ve been trying for weeks; for your brother, for your kingdom.

“Let me help you figure it out,” he leans back and unbuttons his jacket. You watch, frozen, as he pushes it apart and reaches to his breeches, unlacing the top and letting it droop, “princess.”

You furrow your brow as your eyes follow the open front of his jacket and stop just above his laces. He snickers and grips his thighs.

“Use your mouth,” he says, “for something useful, this time.”

You bite your lip and steel yourself. The humiliation rises in your throat like bile. You move slowly on your knees between his. He runs his hands over your short hair as you do and caresses the back of your head. You shudder as you spread the front of his trousers, his cock twitching just beneath.

You push your hand under the fabric and grip him. You pull him out above the vee of his pants. You’ve never touched a man before, never even seen one. You grasp him as his hand falls over yours. He guides you up and down his length, his fingers stretching across your skull.

He urges your head down and lips meet his tip as you pull back the skin from it. You part them and let your mouth slip down, holding back a gag as you close your eyes. Is this any worse than what he would give you over too?

He shoves you down until he’s prodding at your throat, forcing you down until he’s buried in you. You choke and kick your feet. He chuckles and eases you back before slamming you back down, a loud, gross noise rising from you as you hold back your vomit. He does it again, setting you in a ruthless motion as he fucks himself with your mouth.

He hand snakes down your neck as he feels himself inside of you, grunting and groaning. You spit drips out as you brace his thigh, your body at his mercy as he uses you. You can hardly breath around him as your head throbs and your eyes roll back, his tip hammering at your throat.

He pulls you off of him and you fall back with a cough, gasping for air as you wipe your mouth with your sleeves. Your eyes are wet as he stands and you push yourself away from him. He bends and grabs you by the front of your dress. You latch onto his wrists as you try to free yourself.

“Peter–”

“What did you say?” he growls as he shakes you, your head bouncing off the floor with a crack.

“I– I’m sorry,” you babble, “your majesty, please–”

“Shut up,” he drops down to his knees and straddles you, “you don’t make the rules anymore, princess.”

“Please,” you claw at his sleeves as he tugs at your skirts, shifting to pull them from beneath him, “what are you–”

“Exactly as I’ve been dreaming of all these years,” his fingers spread over your throat as he pins your head down and pulls his knee back between your thighs. He spreads your legs and feels under your shift, rubbing along your folds, “oh, princess, your reputation does not prove true.”

He shoves two fingers into you and you squeal, your heels hitting the floor as you wraith, his hand tightening around your throat. He rocks his hand as pressure gathers around his touch. You stab your nails into the sleeve of his overcoat as the circlet slants on his head.

“Pl-e-ase,” you croak, “I didn’t–”

“This is my price,” he pulls his fingers out sharply and spreads your slickness along his cock, stroking himself as gets closer, “I get your cunt and you keep your head.”

You whimper as he presses his tip to you, rubbing it up and down as he wets himself. He stops at your entrance and pushes his free hand against your shoulder, his weight centered on your neck.

He rams his hips down and impales you in a single motion. You scream at the pang it sends up your spine and the burning in your walls. Your legs kick around him as he thrusts again, grunting like an animal as he bares his teeth. Your tears spill over, at last, as he ruts, heavy breath as he snaps his pelvis against yours.

His hand slips down to your bodice and he tears the silk, bearing your shift beneath it. He rips the the laces apart and frees your chest, meanly groping your flesh as he fucks you, harder with each dip of his hips. You sob and cling to his jacket as you grit down the pain.

“I always thought you were… beautiful, princess,” he growls past his shallow breaths, “but you’re even more inspiring when you cry.”

You sniff but can’t hold back the storm of despair, the peak of weeks of silent fear and suffering. You bawl as you arch your back, his intrusion your final defeat in the war for your freedom. What’s worse than a barren princess but a used whore?

“Mm,” he bends and bites your nipple hard until you squeal. He rolls the bud between his teeth and nips over to the other, another hard bite as you slap his shoulders. “You are delicious, princess.”

You whine as his nose brushes up and he nuzzles your shoulder, hips still rocking frantically as he slips down. He sinks his teeth into the muscles beside your neck and you unleash another wail, the room blurred by your endless tears. You feel hot blood seep out as he bites down and it fills his mouth as he hums.

He finally relent as drags his lips up your neck as he cradles your head, leaving a sticky trail of blood. He kisses you, the metallic flavour tainting your tongue, and pounds you into the floor. His mouth slips from yours and he licks your cheek, lapping up the salty taste of your tears.

He groans and his pace turns uneven as he pushes his head back, the muscles and veins in his neck bulging as he smothers a roar behind clenched teeth. His last thrusts are deep and devastating, a warmth pooling in your core as he cums and falls limp over you.

You lay beneath him, weak, unmoving. You cannot stop crying, no matter how you try. The trickle of his seed slowly leaks out between you and you turn your head away, quaking in your desecration.

“Might you reconsider a betrothal now, princess?” he breathes as he speaks against your cheek, “I could win back your kingdom for the runt I just put in you.”

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