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doumadono · 4 months

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Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Hawks, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, viking themes, viking!Bakugo, viking!Kirishima, viking!Aizawa, viking!All Might, blood and injuries, gore, implied smut (non-con), Shoto is a massive jerk

Summary: impatience simmers within you as Touya's trip lingers. Upon the troops' return, the horrifying news unfolds — the prince has fallen in battle. Grieving, you brace for no further blows, only for Shoto to remind you to always expect the unexpected

Word count: circa 11.3k

A/N: if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU • MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER • NEXT CHAPTER

ACT V - NEW BEGINNINGS

The biting cold pierced through Touya's sleep, and the distant echoes of an unfamiliar sound drew him out of the warmth of his furs. Shifting quietly, he glanced over to see his younger brother, Shoto, still deep in slumber. The tent flaps rustled lightly with the night breeze, and Touya reached for his dagger, his breath visible in the frosty air.

Carefully, he wrapped himself in a thick fur, its warmth a shield against the harsh northern chill. As he stepped outside, the moon cast an ethereal glow on the snow-covered landscape. The world seemed frozen, a silent expanse of white.

The muffled sounds persisted, guiding Touya through the darkness. He noticed the sleeping figures of their fellow warriors, their breath creating small clouds in the frigid night air. Only Hawks sat near the dwindling fire, his attention fixed on the rhythmic motions of polishing his axe.

"Prince Touya," Hawks greeted without looking up, his voice low yet carrying an air of confidence.

"Hawks," Touya acknowledged, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Did you hear that noise? Something's not right."

Hawks paused, setting the axe aside, and finally looked at Touya. The firelight flickered, casting shadows on his sharp features. "I heard nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps it's just the wind playing tricks on your mind, my lord.”

Touya tightened his grip on the dagger, his instincts telling him otherwise. "No, it was different. Like footsteps or the creaking of snow under pressure."

Hawks raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Your senses are sharp, Touya. But I assure you, all is calm."

As if on cue, the wind howled, carrying with it an eerie stillness. Touya remained unconvinced, his gaze fixated on the vast wilderness surrounding them. "I'll take a quick look around. Better safe than sorry."

Hawks nodded, resuming his task. "Do what you must, my lord. But don't let your imagination run wild. These lands can play tricks on the mind."

Touya acknowledged the advice, leaving Hawks by the fading fire. Each step through the snow amplified the hushed night. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but determination fueled his movement.

In the quiet expanse, Touya's senses heightened. The darkness revealed no secrets, and the mysterious sounds remained elusive. Yet, as he patrolled the perimeter, a lingering unease settled within him.

Touya's boots crunched softly on the snow-covered ground as he wandered back to the camp. The cold air stung his face, but it was a welcome distraction from the thoughts that had been haunting him. The familiar sight of the camp brought a mix of comfort and yearning.

He found a large rock, partially buried under the pristine snow, and with a heavy sigh, he brushed off enough snow to make a seat. Settling down, he gazed at the camp bathed in moonlight. The tents stood stoically, and the dying embers of the fire flickered in the crisp night air.

Yet, despite the serene surroundings, Touya's mind betrayed him. It drifted away from the snow-covered landscape, back to you. Your laughter echoed in his ears, and the memory of the warmth of your body against his lingered like a sweet torment.

He closed his eyes for a moment, a deep breath escaping him. The image of you, the one he cherished above all else, filled his thoughts. The way your eyes sparkled, the sound of your voice, and the gentle touch of your hand were etched in his mind. In the midst of the harsh Viking world, you were his sanctuary. "I miss you," he whispered to the quiet night, as if the wind might carry his words to you. "These missions, the cold, the battles — they all feel so empty without you by my side, sweet Y/N."

His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns in the snow as he lost himself in the memories. The way you teased him, the shared glances that spoke volumes, and the moments of quiet understanding between you two. The world outside may have been harsh, but in your company, Touya found a refuge — a haven of warmth and love he never knew before.

He longed for the day when he could return to you, to feel the comfort of your embrace and to hear your laughter once more. The countdown to being reunited seemed to stretch on endlessly, each day a reminder of the miles that separated them.

With a heavy heart, Touya opened his eyes, refocusing on the camp before him.

The moonlit night cast an eerie glow on the snow-covered ground as Touya's eyes narrowed, catching a hint of movement to the right of the camp. Dark, crooked silhouettes emerged from the shadows of nearby bushes, and instinctively, Touya tightened his grip on the dagger, rising from his snowy seat.

Silent as the wind, he moved towards the camp, his senses heightened. As he drew closer, the outlines became clear — a pack of wolves, their eyes gleaming with hunger, led by a massive, black alpha. Time was of the essence, and Touya knew he had to act swiftly. "Wolves!" he shouted, the urgency in his voice cutting through the night.

The camp stirred, warriors scrambling to their feet, roused by Touya's warning.

Hawks grabbed his axe and joined Touya at the forefront.

The alpha wolf, towering over its pack, snarled, signaling the onslaught about to unfold.

The first wolf lunged at Touya, its fangs bared, but he sidestepped with a dancer's grace, bringing down his dagger with deadly precision. The clash of steel against fur echoed in the cold night air as the skirmish erupted.

Hawks, his axe a lethal extension of his will, swung with calculated brutality. His strikes were a dance of death, each swing met with the desperate howls of wolves. His movements were fluid, a deadly display of skill honed through countless battles.

Touya, too, fought with a controlled ferocity, his dagger slicing through the air. Wolves leaped, jaws snapping, but he evaded and struck with lethal accuracy. The snow around them stained with crimson as the battle waged on.

Meanwhile, Hawks battled the remaining wolves, his axe a whirlwind of death. The warriors from the camp rallied beside them, forming a united front against the relentless onslaught. The air was filled with the clash of weapons, the snarls of wolves, and the shouts of warriors determined to defend their camp.

The aftermath of the vicious wolf attack left a somber scene, with fallen warriors scattered across the snow-covered ground. The hungry wolves, driven by primal instincts, had bitten through armor and flesh, leaving no room for mercy.

As Touya fought to defend the camp, the harsh reality of the night unfolded before him.

In the chaos, Touya's keen eyes caught the movement of one particularly aggressive wolf, its maw stained with the blood of fallen warriors. With a sinking feeling, he realized it was making its way towards his tent, where Shoto likely still slept, blissfully unaware of the impending danger.

Touya's conflicted emotions churned within him. The familial bond he shared with Shoto clashed with the tumultuous history of rivalry and strife. Yet, beneath the layers of resentment, a protective instinct emerged.

Ignoring the exhaustion and the wounds that marked his body, Touya lunged towards the black alpha, the very embodiment of the danger. With a swift, determined motion, he plunged his dagger into the left eye of the alpha, a howl of pain reverberating through the night.

The wounded alpha, blinded and enraged, howled in fury. Seizing the opportunity, Touya sprinted towards his tent, his heart pounding with urgency. The shadows danced around him as he raced against time, driven by a brotherly love that transcended the bitterness of their past. Touya's heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted towards the tents, a surge of panic coursing through his veins. The distant cries of victory were abruptly drowned out by the guttural growl emanating from within the camp. His steps quickened, the urgency of the situation etched across his face.

Upon reaching the tent, he was met with a chilling sight. One of the wolves had managed to get into the tent where Shoto lay peacefully asleep. The growl rumbled from deep within its throat, a menacing prelude to the imminent attack. The wolf's predatory gaze locked onto Shoto, who remained blissfully unaware of the impending danger.

The growls of the approaching wolves tore through the tranquility of the night, reaching Shoto's ears finally as he lay within the confines of the tent. The cold air seemed to carry a sinister undertone, and with a start, Shoto's eyes snapped open. His breath caught in his throat as he realized the danger that lurked just next to him.

Turning his head slowly, Shoto's eyes widened as he beheld the massive silhouette of the wolf. Its fur blended with the shadows, and the gleam in its eyes spoke of a hunger that sent a shiver down Shoto's spine. Young prince knew that a single misstep, a solitary muscle twitch, could trigger an attack.

Touya, sensing the imminent threat, moved with a predator's grace. Silently, he approached the wolf from behind, his dagger gleaming in the moonlight.

Shoto's heart pounded in his chest as he watched his elder brother with the corner of his eye, a mixture of fear and hope swirling within him.

As Touya lunged forward, time seemed to slow. The blade flashed in the cold night air, and with one swift and precise motion, he slit the wolf's throat. The wolf’s growls turned to gurgles, and its once fierce eyes now reflected the glint of death.

Shoto, still frozen in place, watched as Touya's decisive action saved him from the impending danger. The wolf collapsed, its lifeblood staining the furs of the tent beneath it. The camp, now bathed in an uneasy silence, bore witness to the aftermath of the fierce struggle.

Touya, standing over the fallen wolf, cast a quick glance back at Shoto. “You okay?”

“Yeah…” Shoto exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath, and nodded in gratitude.

Touya nodded in response to Shoto, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond between them. As Shoto hastily donned his fur and reached for his axe, the brothers emerged from the tent, greeted by the cold reality of the aftermath. The once serene camp now bore the scars of the recent struggle, marked by the fallen bodies of both wolves and warriors.

Surveying the scene, Touya's gaze fell on the fallen warriors, a somber recognition of the price paid in the night's skirmish. The brothers shared a moment of silent mourning for their fallen comrades before turning their attention to the survivors.

Hawks, with his axe still in hand, approached the duo. His eyes, however, were fixed on Shoto, completely disregarding Touya and the fresh wounds that adorned his forearms and shoulders. There was an air of concern in Hawks' voice as he addressed Shoto, "You okay, my lord?"

Shoto, though visibly shaken by the recent events, nodded in response. "I'm fine," he replied tersely, his gaze flickering briefly toward Touya.

Touya, despite the wounds that adorned his frame, remained stoic. The chill of the night seemed to seep through the fabric of his torn furs.

Hawks, seemingly ignoring Touya's injuries, continued to address Shoto. "Good. We need everyone on their feet. The night is unforgiving, and we can't afford to let our guard down."

Touya stated, "We need to find and kill the alpha. It couldn't have gone far. Until we bring it down, we won't be able to rest. The alpha might return with other wolves, and we can't afford to let that happen."

Shoto exchanged a glance with Hawks.

Hawks, always decisive in his actions, nodded in agreement. "Touya's right. We can't let that beast roam free. It's a threat to the camp and to our people. Let's go after it, end this, and secure the safety of our kin."

“Hans,” Touya turned to one of the warriors. "Collect the fallen comrades and do your utmost to attend to the wounded before our return," the leader instructed.

The elder man acknowledged with a solemn nod, a silent commitment to carry out the directive in the face of adversity.

The trio, bound by a common purpose, set out into the frigid night once more. The snow beneath their boots muffled their footsteps as they followed the trail left by the retreating alpha. The air was thick with tension, the awareness of the lurking danger guiding their every move.

Touya, with his senses sharp and focused, led the way.

Shoto and Hawks followed, their axes at the ready, prepared for whatever awaited them in the dark expanse of the Viking wilderness.

The trio moved cautiously through the dense thicket, their senses attuned to every rustle and snap of twigs beneath their boots. In the distance, a quiet guttural growl reverberated through the still night air, signaling their proximity to the wounded alpha. The sound set an eerie tone, foreshadowing the impending confrontation.

As they pushed through the bushes, the landscape opened up into a small meadow blanketed with thick snow. Moonlight bathed the clearing, casting an ethereal glow upon the pristine white canvas. In the center, the massive, black alpha wolf limped away, leaving crimson trails in the snow.

The alpha, sensing the pursuit, paused and turned to face the approaching threat. Its fur, once sleek and powerful, now clung to its scarred and mangled frame. The air became charged with tension as the alpha bared its fangs, a silent declaration of defiance.

Touya, undeterred by the formidable presence before him, stepped forward. His dagger gleamed in the moonlight as he closed the distance between them. T

The alpha, fixated on the approaching menace, seemed to recognize the danger that loomed.

"Hawks, head left. Shoto, make your way to the right," Touya commanded, his movements deliberate as he advanced toward the wolf. He didn't allow his gaze to waver, maintaining unbroken eye contact with the creature. Breaking that connection would trigger the wolf's attack, and Touya couldn't afford a single blink in this dangerous dance between predator and prey.

Shoto and Hawks shared another glance before silently adhering to Touya's directive. They moved with utmost stealth, the only sound the hushed crunch of snow under their boots, as they navigated the shadows of the night.

Touya began a deliberate circle around the wounded animal, and in response, the wolf mirrored his movements, growling and revealing its still bloodied, menacing fangs to the scarred man. The tension hung heavy in the air as the primal dance unfolded.

The wolf, fueled by a mix of pain and aggression, was the first to make a move. In the blink of an eye, it lunged at Touya, meeting the assault with swift retaliation. A dagger found its mark in the animal's side, but rather than deter it, the attack seemed to stoke the flames of its fury.

Touya, thrown off balance, toppled to the ground. The wolf, undeterred, closed in, its snarling muzzle snapping dangerously close to the scarred man's face. In the struggle to fend off the relentless predator, Touya's desperate plea cut through the frigid air, "Help!"

For Shoto, the unfolding scene was a twisted opportunity. It seemed as though disposing of Touya could be easier than he had initially thought; all he had to do was wait and watch as his brother faced the relentless assault of the wolf.

Hawks, torn by a lingering human instinct to intervene, hesitated. However, his intention to step in was halted by Shoto's raised hand, a silent command to stay back.

As the wolf persisted in its attack, Touya fought back with determination. The dagger found its mark several more times, warm blood coating his hands as he struggled to free himself from the ferocious jaws. In the midst of the struggle, Touya's voice cut through the tension, a desperate plea for assistance. "What's wrong with you, Shoto?! Hawks, help me kill this thing!"

Shoto's eyes narrowed, a chilling resolve in his gaze. "Don't you dare to move," he warned Hawks, the threat laced with a cold determination that left no room for negotiation.

Touya's brow furrowed for a fleeting moment at the words of his younger brother, but determination fueled him. With a final effort, he managed to free himself from the relentless jaws of the wolf, crawling away to the edge of a high bluff that marked the meadow's eastern boundary. The wolf lay motionless a short distance away. Touya, on trembling limbs, slowly knelt, gasping for air, his body still trembling. He then directed a bewildered gaze at his younger brother. "What the hell!?"

Hawks observed the unfolding dynamics, crossing his arms over his chest, a silent witness to the family drama.

Shoto, undeterred, approached his older brother with a sneer. "Don't misunderstand me, dear brother. I appreciate your help back in the camp, but I'm not about to owe you anything. There's a chasm between us, and nothing will erase it. Life is cruel, always has been. Survival favors the strongest, and, sorry to say, you don't fit that description."

Touya's expression hardened as he slowly rose to his feet. "What the hell, Shoto? I made it clear some time ago — I don't want the power, and I sure as hell don't want that damned earl's crown. It's yours if you want it."

Shoto sighed, idly playing with his axe as he closed the distance between them. "Yeah, yeah. The problem is our illustrious father doesn't see it that way. Rumors are circulating that you've gained favor in his eyes, especially after that last successful raid. I can't let you snatch away what's rightfully mine. I'm sorry."

Touya turned to Hawks, a look of disbelief in his eyes. "Hawks?"

Keigo shrugged, his allegiance clear. "Sorry, my lord, but I've always been loyal to Shoto."

Touya let out a derisive snort. "I can't believe this. I never wanted any of this division between us. It's always been your paranoia about power. I never wanted to harm you, Shoto. I never wanted to take anything from you. All I ever wanted was to live my own life. That's it. You're our father's prized possession, not me."

Shoto tilted his head, a wide smirk playing on his lips. "Indeed. Unfortunately, our father perceives things differently. And now that you've acquired that damn thrall, freeing her and all, I can't wait until the day you get her pregnant. That would seal my fate entirely. You get it, don't you?"

Touya snorted, tightening his grip on a dagger. "I never intended to be at odds with you, Shoto."

Shoto retorted, "Yet it always seems to come down to a fight, doesn't it?"

Before the brothers clashed, Hawks yelled, "Shoto, step aside, the wolf!"

The younger Endeavorson swiftly turned his head for a brief moment, spotting a black wolf poised for an attack. In a swift maneuver, the two-toned haired man dodged, creating an open space between the fatally wounded alpha and his elder brother.

Touya found himself without enough time to evade the impending attack. Bracing for impact, as the wolf leaped toward him, he struggled to maintain balance on the slippery snow. For a fleeting moment, he believed he had regained control, but as he took a step back, the ground beneath his feet disappeared — he stepped into the void of the bluff.

Touya let out a scream, the sound mingling with the wolf's howl as Touya’s dagger once again found its mark on the animal's side. Together, they plummeted into the darkness of the night.

Soon, the night reclaimed its overwhelming silence.

Shoto rose to his feet, accepting the hand offered by Hawks to help him stand. The two exchanged a glance and slowly approached the edge of the bluff, peering down.

Several meters below, they observed Touya's lifeless form pinned beneath the massive wolf that had descended with him. Touya's left leg twisted at an unnatural angle.

Hawks, witnessing the gruesome scene, fought back a wave of nausea, gasping at the sight.

Shoto, however, maintained a stoic expression. "Seems like my problem has resolved itself. Fate decided to lend me a hand that night. I thought we might have to resort to poison, huh. Move, Hawks. We need to return to camp and share the unfortunate news with our fellow warriors." With those words, Shoto left, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips.

Hawks watched Shoto in silence, his gaze lingering for a moment. Then, he turned his attention back to the scene below. A quiet tear traced down his cheek, falling onto the snow stained crimson by the alpha's blood.

Meanwhile, you went about your daily tasks in your new, free life, the familiar sense of accomplishment warmed your spirit. The small hut, now a cozy haven, stood as a testament to your new position.

Helga and Natsuo, friends who had become like family, offered their unwavering support during the two days it took to set up your new home.

One evening, Helga entered the room, "How's everything coming along, dear Y/N? Need any more help with the arrangements?"

You smiled, grateful for her presence, "Thank you, Helga. I think we've covered everything. Your help has been invaluable."

Natsuo, sitting near a tiny fireplace, chimed in, "It's the least we could do. This is a fresh start for you, and we're glad to be a part of it."

As you arranged items on a shelf, Helga leaned against the doorframe, "I must say, this place looks cozy. It's a far cry from the constraints of the past, isn't it?"

You nodded, "Indeed. Freedom was a gift I never knew I needed. And having friends like you made it all the more special."

Natsuo grinned, "Well, now that your new home is all set, what's next on your agenda?"

You paused, looking around, "I think I'll just try to find myself something to do.”

Later in the evening, Natsuo brought pails of water to your hut. He greeted you warmly, "Evening! Thought you might need some water after your day."

You thanked him, taking the pails. As you both sat outside your hut, enjoying the cool breeze, Natsuo couldn't help but notice a hint of sadness in your expression. "Something on your mind?"

You sighed, "It's just... Touya has been gone for so long on their mission. I miss him, you know?"

Natsuo nodded empathetically, "I get it. He'll be back, though. The missions are tough, but he's resilient. And you've got us here to keep you company in the meantime."

You smiled, appreciating his comforting words.

As the evening unfolded, the sound of shared stories and laughter echoed under the night sky, creating a comforting ambiance. Natsuo, always a good companion, shared anecdotes from the day's activities, lightening the mood.

You couldn't help but be grateful for the supportive community you now found yourself in. The conversations provided a soothing balm to the longing for Touya's return. Natsuo's presence, in particular, brought a sense of camaraderie that eased the ache of missing your partner.

"Touya will be back. The missions are demanding, but he's resilient. In the meantime, you've got us here to keep you company, to share these moments. We're like family now,” Natsuo spoke reassuringly.

As Natsuo prepared to leave, he looked at you with a thoughtful expression. "You know, sometimes these expeditions take longer than expected. It's the nature of the missions we undertake. They can be unpredictable, but it doesn't mean something has gone wrong. Touya is skilled, and they have a strong team with them." He continued, "I understand it's tough waiting, especially when you miss him, but it's part of this life. We've all been through it. Just remember, when they return, it makes the reunions all the more special."

With a warm smile, he bid you goodnight, leaving you with a sense of gratitude for the new beginnings and the supportive companionship that now colored your days and nights.

That night, as the moon cast an eerie glow through the tiny window of your hut, sleep enveloped you in a suffocating darkness. Tossing and turning on your modest cot, you found yourself trapped in the clutches of a haunting nightmare.

The air in the room felt heavy, and the silence of the night was disrupted by your whimpers and soft cries. In the realm of your dreams, shadows morphed into menacing figures, their faces shrouded in darkness as they circled around you. Each step they took echoed like a sinister drumbeat, intensifying the dread that gripped your soul.

As you lay paralyzed in the dream, the figures closed in, whispering malevolent secrets that clawed at the edges of your consciousness. Their voices, a chilling chorus, spoke of death and despair, weaving a tapestry of nightmares that threatened to consume you whole.

“He’s dead… He’s dead…”

"Only despair and sorrow lie ahead for you."

The cold sweat on your brow mirrored the intensity of the nightmare. Your cot felt like a prison, the thin fabric of reality separating you from the abyss of your subconscious fears. The figures, now distorted specters, reached out with ghostly hands, fingers like icy tendrils threatening to grasp your very essence.

In the grip of this macabre dream, the fear of death loomed large. The shadows converged, swirling around you like a vortex of impending doom. The nightmarish scenes played out in vivid detail — the echoes of your own cries, the palpable scent of fear, and the taste of desperation lingering in the air.

As the nightmare reached its crescendo, you jolted awake, gasping for breath. The moonlight spilled into the room, offering a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness of your dream. The reality of the small hut and the sound of your racing heart gradually replaced the nightmarish visions, but the residue of fear lingered, haunting the corners of your mind. The weight of the dream clung to you, a spectral reminder of the fragility of the human psyche in the face of the unknown.

Tears streamed down your face, and stifled sobs resonated in the stillness. Clutching your pillow as if it were a lifeline, you whispered Touya's name over and over, a desperate mantra that echoed the ache in your heart. “Touya, my love… Touya…”

Instinctively, an unsettling feeling gnawed at you, urging you to acknowledge that something was amiss. The weight of the night pressed upon you, and a haunting sense of foreboding hung in the air.

In the hushed hours before dawn, you made a decision. The nagging intuition that something was wrong compelled you to seek solace in Natsuo's understanding. As the first light of morning painted the sky, you resolved to confide in him, hoping that together, you could unravel the mystery that lingered in the shadows of your troubled dreams.

"Hey, Katsuki!? You think he's alive?" The tall, square-built man with red hair asked, casually skinning a massive, black wolf.

The ash-blond man, crouching next to a seemingly lifeless scarred figure, nonchalantly touched the man's shoulder with the haft of his axe. There was no immediate response. "It seems he's damn well dead, no doubt."

The red-haired man packed the wolf's skin into a sizable saddlebag secured to the side of his white mare. "We shouldn't leave him like that. We should bury him."

"Tsk! Oi, Kirishima, don't expect me to touch this rotting piece of shit. If you want that so much, bury him yourself. I can dig a damn hole. What the hell. We came to hunt, not deal with this crap."

"We apparently hunted down a dead man," Kirishima joked lightly, strolling closer. "Hmmm, he must've fallen from that bluff."

"He must've been a complete idiot then to get so close to the edge. Idiots always end up with the crap, don't they?"

Kirishima poked the other man's shoulder. "Quit with the disrespect. Odin's watching!" He snorted and crouched next to the man. "That's one nasty wound on his leg. Maybe it's a blessing he died, otherwise, he'd be crippled…"

"Enough chatter, start doing something!" Bakugo growled as he walked aside, scanning the ground for a spot less frozen to dig a grave.

In that moment, Touya's left hand twitched ever so slightly, and he let out a gasp filled with pain.

The sudden movement startled Kirishima, causing the red-haired man to fall back onto his butt. "Fuck! Bakugo! He's fucking alive!"

Bakugo returned to the two and once again pushed the man's shoulder with the hilt of his axe, eliciting a growl of pain. "Kill... Me..." the scarred man whispered.

Bakugo scoffed. "Oi, dumbass, shut the fuck up! Kirishima, guess we gotta take him with us. Even though I'd rather let him die here, it'd be merciful, given his injuries. He's one ugly fucking bastard. Odin himself would get fucking startled looking at this fucking extra."

"We need to bring him along. I'm certain our earl will be interested in this fellow."

"In a damn cripple? You're out of your damn mind, weird hair!" Bakugo growled, contemplating how to get the injured man onto his horse. "I think we gotta build some makeshift stretchers or something. Damn it! Let's move! I don't want to stay here at night. The wolves might have come back."

As Bakugo and Kirishima returned from their expedition, they made their way through the bustling settlement until they reached the earl's hall. With a determined stride, they entered the great hall where Earl Toshinorison held court.

Earl Toshinorison, known as All Might, commanded both respect and awe with his formidable presence. Standing tall and proud, he bore a robust and well-built frame that spoke of a lifetime of battles and victories. His golden hair, though now touched by strands of gray, retained an air of regality, cascading like a radiant mane around his shoulders.

His face, marked by the lines of wisdom and experience, harbored a strong jawline and a pair of piercing, blueish eyes that sparkled with a blend of authority and kindness. Despite the weight of leadership, there was a warm and approachable demeanor that endeared him to his people.

Earl Toshinorison adorned himself in attire that reflected both his status and prowess. A sturdy cloak, billowing with every movement, bore the symbols of his leadership. Beneath it, he wore armor crafted with care, a testament to the battles he had faced and the victories he had achieved.

In the midst of the settlement, he occupied a grand throne within the great hall, a symbol of his leadership and the heart of the community. His voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of authority tempered with a genuine concern for his people.

Earl Toshinorison was not just a leader; he embodied the spirit of a protector, a warrior whose strength and benevolence guided the community through the challenges of Viking life. The combination of his imposing stature, seasoned wisdom, and compassionate leadership made him a figure revered and admired by all who called the settlement their home.

"All Might, my lord," Bakugo greeted with a deep bow, acknowledging the leader of their community.

The earl, seated in his imposing throne, turned to them with a warm yet authoritative smile. "Bakugo, Kirishima, what news do you bring?"

Kirishima stepped forward, his demeanor respectful yet filled with a sense of urgency. "Earl, we found a man on the outskirts. He seemed injured, left for dead. But, surprisingly, he's alive."

All Might's expression shifted to a thoughtful concern. "Alive, you say? A life saved is a tale worth hearing."

Bakugo and Kirishima nodded and gestured to their companions to bring in the injured man. As they approached, Earl Toshinorison observed with keen eyes.

Aizawa, their most ruthless warrior among Toshinori’s settlement, accompanied them. His stoic presence added an air of seriousness to the situation.

The injured man, now resting on a makeshift stretcher, was laid before the earl. Yagi leaned forward, assessing the wounds with a discerning gaze. "A warrior left for dead. Curious."

Aizawa, standing at attention, spoke with his usual pragmatism, "He should've met his end. Perhaps fate has other plans."

All Might nodded in agreement, "Indeed, Shota. We shall tend to his wounds and learn his tale. A life spared under these circumstances may hold a purpose yet unknown."

The air in Skjaldvargr crackled with anticipation as the weary troop led by the Endeavorsons made its way back to the settlement. A murmur of excitement swept through the crowd, and the people gathered in the heart of the village began to cheer, their voices rising in a chorus of relief and hope.

As the warriors, dusted with the tales of their recent endeavors, entered the settlement, the cheers intensified. The crowd's eager eyes followed chests and sacks, laden with the spoils of their expedition. It was a moment of shared joy and anticipation as the warriors slowly unpacked their burdens, revealing treasures and goods from distant lands.

However, the elation in the air was tainted by a somber truth. The troop that returned was noticeably smaller than the one that had ventured out. An unspoken sorrow draped over those families who, instead of welcoming back their loved ones, found themselves gripped by the cold hand of grief. The absence of familiar faces, once vibrant with life, echoed louder than the cheers of triumph.

A hushed solemnity settled over those who faced the harsh reality of loss. Families, with eyes now clouded with tears, stood amidst the celebration, their joy eclipsed by the shadows of grief. The cheers of victory collided with the silent mourning of those who had given more than the spoils of war — a sacrifice written in blood.

The contrast between the jubilation and mourning created an unsettling symphony, a discordant melody that played out in the heart of Skjaldvargr. The warriors continued their unpacking, the clinking of treasures against the somber background of grieving families. It was a poignant reminder of the dual nature of their harsh existence, where triumph and sorrow coexisted like inseparable companions.

Unease nestled within you as you sat at the long table in the Great Hall, eyes fixed on Endeavor occupying the imposing throne. The air felt charged with tension, and the weight of the room bore down on you like an unwelcome burden.

Natsuo poked your side gently as he sat by your side, a playful gesture meant to break the intensity of the moment. "Hey, are you excited to see Touya again? It's been a while."

Your response was a hesitant smile. "Of course, I just... things are different now, aren’t they..."

Natsuo chuckled, "Well, different doesn't always mean bad, right? Touya is still Touya. I bet he's just as eager to see you."

The heavy door to the Great Hall swung open, breaking the tension that hung in the air.

Shoto, the youngest Endeavorson, stepped in with a measured grace, his gaze flickering across the room until it settled on you for a brief moment.

Hawks followed closely behind.

Shoto's eyes met yours briefly, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes. The room hushed as the two newcomers approached the throne, their arrival signaling a significant shift in the atmosphere. The weight of anticipation settled on the shoulders of those present, each heartbeat echoing in the grand hall.

Natsuo, by your side, leaned in and whispered, "Here they are. Let's see how this unfolds. I’m curious where Touya is."

"My earl," Shoto bowed his head to greet his father, a gesture mirrored by Hawks.

Endeavor's stern gaze bore down on his son. "It's good to see you back, Shoto. Rumor has it you brought a lot of goods from the trip."

"I did, indeed," the young prince replied. "We also accumulated some losses, my lord."

A subtle tension gripped the air, and an unspoken dread settled upon your heart and soul.

"What do you mean? Where's your older brother?" the earl asked, his frown deepening.

"He died, my lord," Shoto replied, his expression a stoic mask.

"What!" You exclaimed, jolting up from your place. "Impossible!"

Even Endeavor rose from his throne, descending the two steps to be on his son's level. "What do you mean, Shoto? What happened?" The earl’s voice trembled a little.

Hot tears streamed down your face, and Natsuo wrapped his arm around your shoulders, rubbing them in an attempt to bring you some comfort. The weight of the revelation hung heavy in the air, and the Great Hall seemed to echo with the echoes of disbelief and sorrow.

Shoto's voice cut through the somber air of the Great Hall, recounting the harrowing tale of the wolf attack. He spoke of Touya's courage, how he stood against the onslaught to protect his fellow warriors, including Shoto himself. The youngest Endeavorson described how Touya, driven by the need to eliminate the alpha, faced the final confrontation at the edge of the bluff.

As the story unfolded, you felt an invisible weight pressing down on you. Your hands trembled, and a haunting whine escaped your lips, akin to a wounded animal. The anguish of Shoto's words resonated within you, each detail etching pain into your heart.

"He fought valiantly," Shoto continued, his voice steady. "But in the end, the wolf lunged, and they both fell."

Your knees gave way beneath you, and you sank to the ground, overwhelmed by the reality of Touya's fate. The ache in your chest was unbearable, as if your heart had cracked and broken, the searing pain akin to hot iron being poured over your soul.

Natsuo's eyes flared with a sudden intensity, and he snapped at Shoto, "I'm damn sure it wasn't an accident. He just happened to fall off the bluff?! That’s not what Touya would ever let happen! You little coward! I’m sure you put your hand to that!"

Shoto growled angrily in response, his demeanor darkening as he retorted, "Are you even aware of what you're talking about, Natsuo? Accusing me of…"

"He wouldn't just fall off like that!" Natsuo's voice rose, an undercurrent of anger coursing through his words. "Touya was too skilled for that.”

Shoto's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. "You dare to insinuate…"

"I'm not insinuating anything!" Natsuo interrupted, the tension in the air thickening. "I'm saying it outright. There's more to this, and you damn well know it."

"Tsk," Shoto shook his head, his voice dripping with disdain. "Better shut your mouth, dear brother. You're talking nonsense."

Your entire body trembled, barely registering the words exchanged between the two brothers.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Hawks said with a slight bow to Natsuo and then Endeavor. "Touya was..."

"Don't you dare to talk about my brother!" Natsuo erupted, hurling a cup at the warrior. "Don't you dare to use his name, you filthy, venal bastard."

"Enough!" Endeavor roared, a silent tear tracing a path down his scarred cheek.

"Oh, I couldn't agree more with you, dear father," Shoto sent Endeavor a sly grin, and then bellowed, "Guards!"

Warriors entered the Great Hall, awaiting the young prince's orders.

"Take my father out and put him in that unoccupied hut at the bay. Make sure to tie him up well, even though he's old, the bastard's still strong."

"What!" Natsuo growled.

Endeavor looked down at his son. "What are you trying to do, Shoto? You can't just..."

At that moment, Shoto aimed a hard slap at his father's cheek. "Say one more thing, father, and I'll cut your throat here and now. You're not an earl anymore. You're nothing. You always were nothing. Give me your axe."

Endeavor remained motionless, his gaze shifting briefly between Natsuo and you.

"Your damn axe and crown!" Shoto's voice rose, demanding compliance, his hands reaching toward his father.

Reluctantly, the old earl reached to his belt, extracting the axe from a leather scabbard. He passed the item to Shoto, removing the crown from his head with a heavy sigh.

The young prince took the axe and the crown from his father, wielding the symbol of authority with contempt. With a sudden, violent motion, he smashed the crown against the nearest wall, watching it shatter into irreparable pieces.

"You're making a grave mistake, Shoto," Endeavor warned.

Shoto grinned back at his father, a sinister edge to his smile. "Oh, old man, there's no Touya to stand by your side anymore. Your beloved firstborn, the one you happily discarded and tried to kill when he was an infant, is truly gone now. You have no one to protect you. Your guards are listening to me, they've been for a while already. And Natsuo," Shoto looked at the white-haired man standing near you, "He's nothing, he doesn't even know how to wield a shield."

Hawks chuckled darkly, nodding at his people. A few warriors approached the earl, tying his hands behind his back. One of them delivered a strong blow to the earl's face.

"No!" Natsuo screamed.

You sobbed loudly, watching the horrifying scene unfold. The question lingered in your mind: why didn't Endeavor react at all?

The crisp air carried the call of Hawks and a group of warriors as they traversed through the settlement. The sound of their voices resonated, commanding the attention of all citizens, beckoning them to gather by the bay.

Meanwhile, in the desolate confines of an abandoned hut, Endeavor was bound to a wooden balk, his mind enveloped in bitter reflection. The flickering light filtering through the cracks in the worn walls revealed a man scarred, not only physically but also by the torment delivered upon him by Hawks and his people.

As he strained against his restraints, Endeavor couldn't escape the echoing regrets that reverberated within his thoughts. He cursed himself for the blindness that had shrouded his vision, the inability to see the rot that festered within Shoto. The weight of realization pressed heavily upon him, and he was left to grapple with the consequences of his own choices.

Silently, you sneaked into the dimly lit hut, the chalice of water and a soft rug clutched in your hands. The feeble light revealed the cruel aftermath of the torment inflicted upon Endeavor, and a gasp escaped your lips at the sight of his battered form.

Approaching cautiously, you set the chalice down and carefully unfolded the rug. Kneeling beside him, you dipped a corner of the cloth into the water, your movements gentle as you began to clean the wounds on his face. The atmosphere hung heavy with tension, punctuated only by the distant calls from the bay.

His eyes, filled with a mix of pain and resignation, met yours as you worked.

"What are we supposed to do now?" you asked with a shaking tone, your voice barely above a whisper.

Endeavor's gaze bore into yours, and for a moment, the weight of uncertainty hung in the air. "Shoto won't stop until he has complete control,” he replied, his voice strained. “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you whispered, "I can't believe Touya..." Your hand trembled, and the pain in your voice echoed through the dimly lit hut.

A solitary tear rolled down Endeavor's scarred cheek as he uttered words heavy with resignation. "You should flee from here before I'm executed, Y/N."

Dread seized your body, and you protested, "Don't say that, my lord. I'm sure Shoto is not that crazy to get you killed… And I have nowhere to go.”

Endeavor's gaze met yours, and in that moment, he decided to reveal the truth about what he had noticed in his youngest son's eyes. "I saw it, in Shoto's eyes. The thirst for power, the willingness to do whatever it takes. He's not the boy I raised. He's become something darker, something I failed to see until it was too late."

Your heart sank at Endeavor's revelation, the truth piercing through the air like a chilling wind. The realization that Shoto had transformed into something unrecognizable, something darker, gripped you with a sense of helplessness.

"I should have seen it sooner," Endeavor muttered, his voice filled with regret. "But blinded by my own desires for power, I failed to grasp the truth until it was too late. I won’t forgive myself… I should’ve listened to Touya."

The gravity of the situation pressed upon you, and you wiped away the tears that stained your cheeks. "We can't let him continue down this path," you whispered, your voice laced with determination.

Endeavor nodded solemnly. "You must go. Flee from this place before it's too late. I will face the consequences of my actions, but you have a chance for a different fate."

The distant sound of footsteps approached the hut, signaling the arrival of Shoto's guards.

In that moment, you wrapped your arms around Endeavor's neck, giving him a tight hug, a silent gesture of reassurance and determination. "I promise, my lord, that I'll avenge Touya. I don't believe Shoto didn't have a hand in it anymore," you whispered, the words laden with both sorrow.

"I'm afraid you're right," Endeavor admitted, his own acceptance of the harsh reality permeating the air. “Go now, girl.”

With a heavy heart, you took the chalice and the rug, casting one last glance at Endeavor, who remained bound and alone in the desolate hut. The weight of the situation pressed upon you as you stepped out into the cold air, leaving the confines of the dimly lit space.

The evening air hung heavy with tension as the citizens of the settlement gathered at the bay.

Hawks, with a certain casual indifference, lazily cleaned his dagger, his guards vigilant in ensuring that no one was left behind.

You and Natsuo stood among the gathered crowd, your eyes nervously flitting between the citizens and Natsuo.

The atmosphere thickened as two guards brought the bound form of Endeavor to the jetty, his presence eliciting hushed whispers among the onlookers.

And then, like a harbinger of darkness, Shoto emerged. A grotesque crown made of bird skulls adorned his head, and an opulent fur of a snow leopard draped over his shoulders, a trophy from one of Endeavor's raids. The blood and white paint smeared across his face formed viking symbols, marking him as the harbinger of a new era.

A profound silence fell over the assembly as Shoto made his way to the forefront. The people, recognizing the symbolic weight of his appearance, knew that there was no room left for argument or dissent. The young prince had become an embodiment of authority, clad in the spoils of his conquests, and the settlement braced itself for the changes that his rule would bring.

Shoto made his way to the jetty with deliberate steps, his eyes scanning the gathered crowd. They found yours in the sea of faces, and for a brief moment, his gaze lingered on your tear-stained visage. The weight of his stare bore into your soul before he redirected his focus to the bound figure of his father, kneeling on the jetty.

The hushed whispers of the crowd ceased as Shoto raised his hand, a signal for silence. His voice cut through the still air, carrying a mix of authority and cold detachment. "Citizens of Skjaldvargr," he began, his tone echoing over the water, "The time of reckoning has come. For too long, we have been shackled by the failures of our past. The time for a new era, a stronger era, has dawned."

His eyes scanned the faces of the assembly, pausing on his father for a moment before addressing the crowd once more. Shoto moved deliberately towards the jetty, each step echoing with a proclamation of his newfound authority. As his gaze scanned the gathered crowd, it found yours among the sea of faces. His eyes locked onto your tear-stained visage, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, a cold acknowledgment of the impact his actions had on you, before he shifted his focus to his father, who knelt there, bound and vulnerable.

The silence that enveloped the bay was broken by Shoto's commanding voice, carrying the weight of his judgment. "Citizens of Skjaldvargr," he began, his tone unwavering. "The time of reckoning has come. For too long, we have been shackled by the failures of our past. The time for a new era, a stronger era, has dawned."

He gestured towards Endeavor, his father, with an air of finality. "Endeavor, once known as the earl, has failed to lead us into greatness. He allowed weakness and sentiment to cloud his judgment. It is time for a new leader, one who will guide us to prosperity."

Shoto's eyes flickered back to yours for a brief moment, a chilling gaze that hinted at the personal nature of his vendetta. "The former earl will face justice for his shortcomings. The verdict is the death penalty. Let this serve as a reminder that only strength will prevail in the harsh realities of our world."

The pronouncement echoed over the bay, sealing the fate of Endeavor and setting in motion the irreversible changes that Shoto, now adorned with the symbols of his triumph, would bring to the settlement.

The verdict hung in the air, heavy and final, as Shoto turned away, leaving the jetty and the kneeling figure of his father behind to take a seat on a throne that was prepared for him nearby.

The weight of Shoto's harsh verdict hung in the air like a shroud, and as the crowd absorbed the reality of the situation, hot tears streamed down your face. Instinctively, you grasped Natsuo's palm, seeking solace and support in the face of the unfolding tragedy.

The bay was cloaked in a heavy silence as the guards began the degrading process of undressing Endeavor's upper body. His once proud and scarred form was exposed to the harsh scrutiny of the onlookers, the symbols of his past glories now overshadowed by the weight of his transgressions.

The guards, expressionless and cold, tied Endeavor's hands spread to two sturdy stanchions positioned in the center of the jetty. The former earl knelt there, vulnerable and exposed, his fate hanging in the balance.

As the unsettling tableau unfolded, Hawks stepped forward, a grim determination etched on his face. Clutching his axe and dagger, he circled Endeavor with predatory precision. The rhythmic sound of his boots on the wooden planks echoed through the bay, creating an eerie cadence that intensified the chilling atmosphere.

Positioning himself behind Endeavor, Hawks loomed like a shadow, a silent harbinger of the impending judgment. The air crackled with tension, and the onlookers, unable to tear their eyes away, awaited the next grim chapter in the unfolding saga of Skjaldvargr.

Hawks nodded at his people, and they made Endeavor lean forward by pulling on the ropes tied to the earl’s wrists.

Hawks, grinning widely like a madman, started by making a deep, vertical incision along the earl's spine. This incision severed the skin, muscle, and connective tissues, exposing the underlying bones and organs.

Endeavor, bound and exposed to the merciless fate of the Blood Eagle, fought vehemently against the primal urge to scream. His muscles tensed, and every fiber of his being rebelled against the excruciating pain inflicted upon him. The raspy growls emanating from his throat served as a testament to his struggle, a warrior's battle cry against the agony that threatened to consume him.

In the midst of this macabre spectacle, Endeavor clung to the ancient belief that only by maintaining composure during such a brutal punishment could a warrior secure passage to Valhalla. His jaw clenched, and his eyes, filled with a mixture of pain and defiance, bore witness to the unfathomable ordeal, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

As the executioner continued the harrowing process, Endeavor's resolve was tested in the crucible of suffering. The groans that escaped him carried not only the weight of agony but also a silent determination to prove his mettle in the face of an unimaginable horror.

Your tears flowed unabated, soaking into the fabric of Natsuo's shirt as you sobbed, the weight of grief and horror pressing heavily on your heart.

Natsuo, too, couldn't contain the surge of emotions that gripped him, and tears welled up in his eyes, silently streaming down his cheeks.

The two of you, connected by shared sorrow, clung to one another in a world suddenly bereft of hope.

Despite the absence of a genuine father-son bond with his own father, Natsuo understood the pain of loss, and his tears mirrored your own. "Father," the man whispered, barely moving his lips. "May Odin guide your spirit to the hallowed halls of Valhalla..."

With the earl's spine exposed, Takami proceeded to cut through the ribs, detaching them from the spine. This macabre act created the framework for what resembled "wings." Hawks then reached into Endeavor's chest cavity, pulling out the man's lungs through the opening created by the removal of the ribs. This grotesque act gave the victim the appearance of wings, completing the horrifying visual metaphor.

Hawks stood amidst the aftermath, his once-vibrant attire now drenched in the deep crimson hue of blood. From his tousled hair down to his boots, every inch of him was painted in the somber shades of scarlet, a testament to the brutal task he had undertaken.

The metallic scent of iron lingered in the air around him, an olfactory testament to the visceral reality of the harrowing act.

Hawks, his visage marred by the grotesque tableau before him, grinned like a man possessed, a maniacal glint in his eyes. His gaze, like a predator reveling in the aftermath of a successful hunt, fixated on Shoto, the new earl, who observed the scene with an unsettling amusement.

In his final moments, Endeavor, the once-mighty earl, summoned the strength to lift his head, a haunting defiance in his gaze. As the life ebbed away from him, he whispered words of reunion to a love lost in the annals of time. "Rei... Love.... I'm coming to you..." With those parting breaths, his head succumbed to the inevitable, lolling to the side.

Amidst the horror, you struggled to contain the surge of emotions, your tears choking your throat as you witnessed the cruel end meted out to the man who was once a father figure.

Shoto, now the legal earl, approached the lifeless form, a twisted rite of passage in the unforgiving realm. Sizing up the head of his father, he coldly declared, "The earl is dead!"

As Hawks chanted, "Long live the earl!" with an eerie enthusiasm, the guards compelled the onlookers to repeat the grim proclamation, the echoes of submission punctuating the air heavy with the scent of iron and death.

The settlement, now under the shadow of a new ruler, braced itself for the changes that were bound to come.

Shoto's subtle gesture summoned Hawks closer, their exchange shrouded in whispered words.

As the blonde-haired man stepped back, he bellowed your name, a chilling summons that cut through the heavy air, freezing the blood in your veins. “Y/N!”

Natsuo, understanding the impending darkness, tightened his grip on your hand, silently pleading for you to resist the ominous call. His subtle head shake conveyed the urgency to stay away, to avoid the perilous path that beckoned. But the relentless echo of your name persisted, a haunting melody drawing you towards an inevitable confrontation.

With tear-streaked cheeks, you met Natsuo's gaze once more, finding solace in his silent plea. Gathering what remained of your resolve, you wiped away the evidence of your anguish and, with a determined stride, pushed through the crowd. The last thing you needed was the cold, unyielding grasp of guards dragging you to Shoto against your will.

As you approached Shoto, the air became charged with an eerie tension. His eyes, adorned with a sinister gleam, followed your every step.

The crowd, still subdued by the recent events, parted to make way for your reluctant journey.

Hawks, positioned next to Shoto, continued to observe with a sinister grin, aware that the unfolding scene held a profound significance in the new earl's machinations.

Shoto, crowned with skulls and adorned in the spoils of victory, waited for you with a calculated calmness.

You stood before Shoto, a pawn caught in the web of a power play.

With a wicked smile, Shoto leaned in, whispering words that clawed at the edges of your sanity. "Y/N, it seems your fate is entwined with ours now. You will play a crucial role in the future of Skjaldvargr."

Your frown deepened as you couldn't comprehend the unsettling thoughts swirling in Shoto's mind. With a hint of trepidation, you dared to voice the question that lingered on your lips, "What do you have in mind?"

Shoto, feigning sweetness, leaned in with a twisted smile. "Now that Touya is no more, it falls upon me to decide your fate, Y/N. A bereft girl, left in the aftermath of such a tragedy. But fear not, for I have plans for you."

Terror gripped your heart as Shoto unveiled his intentions. "From this moment forth, you'll no longer revel in the freedom bestowed upon you by my deceased brother. Instead, you shall become my concubine, and I expect you to bear me an heir."

A quiet but resolute "No" escaped your lips as you resisted the notion, unwilling to surrender your autonomy.

Shoto, undeterred, grasped your chin, pulling you closer. "Don't resist, dollface. Make a scene, and I'll orchestrate another blood eagle tonight. If you refuse, Hawks will have the honor of ending Natsuo's life, the last person standing by your side."

His words echoed with a cruel certainty, leaving you with a chilling realization that your fate was no longer your own. A solitary tear traced a path down your cheek, a silent testament to the anguish that gripped your soul.

Shoto, reveling in the display of vulnerability, leaned forward, capturing the tear with the tip of his tongue. He licked it off, savoring the taste of your despair before whispering into your ear. "If I were you, I'd be obedient. There's no one left to protect you, and you're going to be mine, whether you want it or not."

"Why me?" you dared to question, your voice carrying a defiant edge.

Shoto's grin widened. "I've had my share of Viking women. A Christian girl, even a prudish one, is said to be particularly naughty in the alcove." The lecherous implications of his words hung heavily in the air, accentuating the grim reality that now lay before you.

Your stomach twisted in knots as Shoto's words reverberated in the air.

"Y/N, from now on, is considered my concubine," Shoto declared with a tone that brooked no argument. "Anyone going against me or her will face the doom immediately. And one last thing, all the warriors who supported my father shall be executed by dawn. Consider this night your last with your families. Satisfy yourselves with your women and put your kids to sleep for the final time. Don't even think about running away, as my envoys will find you wherever you hide."

He took your palm in his, a cruel possession that marked the beginning of your tragic fate. Before you left, Shoto's gaze shifted to Hawks. "Make sure Natsuo is locked in his room in the Great Hall. Tomorrow, I'll decide his fate."

"Of course, my lord," Hawks nodded obediently, the cold determination in his eyes betraying the allegiance he now held to Shoto.

As the thralls followed Shoto's orders, you found yourself in a bath, the warm water doing little to comfort your tormented soul. You let your tears fall freely, their silent streams mingling with the water around you. The echoes of your life's upheavals played in your mind like a haunting melody, each note a reminder of the tragedy that seemed to follow you relentlessly. How swiftly your life had changed, once under the control of Touya's unpredictable whims, and now, bound by Shoto's ruthless will.

You longed to scream, to cry out against the unfairness of it all. Shoto, a young man scarcely older than you, had become the architect of your misery. You despised him, and yet, the thought of begging for mercy from this vicious ruler crossed your mind. The temptation to ask him to end your misery with the swift swing of his axe haunted your thoughts.

However, a greater fear gripped your heart — the threat to Natsuo. Shoto's warning echoed in your mind, and you couldn't bear the thought of allowing harm to befall the one person who had consistently shown you kindness and support. You resolved to endure, to strategize, to find a way to protect Natsuo from the impending darkness that Shoto had cast upon your life.

After the bath, you were presented with the finest nightgown, a garment crafted from snow-white silk that draped elegantly around you. The thralls, with delicate hands, brushed and arranged your hair as you sat in front of a mirror, contemplating your reflection. The mirror seemed to reflect not just your physical appearance but also the weight of the burden now resting on your shoulders.

Assisted by the thralls and guided by the guards, you were led to the chamber that once belonged to earl Endeavor. As the thick doors swung open, the opulence of the room overwhelmed your senses. The chamber was vast, with a massive fireplace positioned on the opposite wall, providing warmth and a flickering dance of flames.

To the left of the entrance stood a colossal bed, adorned with a thick mattress and furs, supported by two sturdy columns at its head. The bed itself was a work of art, crafted from field maple. On the opposite side of the room, a table with two chairs and a closet adorned with a mirror completed the ensemble of wealth and luxury. It was a stark contrast to the grim fate that had befallen the former occupant of this room.

As you took in the grandeur, a mix of emotions churned within you. The softness of the silk against your skin felt incongruent with the turmoil within your heart. The room, once a sanctuary for a now-fallen ruler, now served as a gilded cage for you, ensnared by circumstances beyond your control.

It took a moment before you realized that the door had closed behind you, leaving you alone in the opulent chamber — or so you thought.

A smooth voice, belonging to the new earl, reached your ears as Shoto gracefully rose from a chair situated in the dimly lit corner of the room. He appeared to be occupied with polishing his axe. "Finally, I was growing impatient," he remarked, his voice devoid of any warmth or sympathy.

"Forgive me, my lord," the title felt foreign on your tongue as you addressed the man who now held power over your fate. The room, once a symbol of authority and now tainted by the dark events that had transpired, became the stage for a twisted power play that you found yourself unwillingly participating in.

Shoto placed the axe on the table and leisurely approached you, gently lifting your chin to meet his dual-colored eyes. "Don't be afraid, dollface. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You already did," you replied with defiance. "I know it was not an accident."

"You mean Touya? Oh, my little raven," he cooed, "of course it was an accident. Do you really think I'd let my beloved brother die?"

You snorted, and a tear rolled down your cheek.

"Shush, shush, no crying in here. You're too beautiful for sadness," he said, wiping your tear away with his thumb. "You'll have the life you deserved and which my poor older brother couldn't provide you with."

"He wouldn't lock me in a cage," you told him, and Shoto chuckled.

"A cage? Oh no, sweetheart, I'm not going to lock you in a cage. You're my concubine now, and a lot of privileges come with this title." His words dripped with a perverse sense of entitlement, sending a shiver down your spine as you realized the dark reality that awaited you in the clutches of the new earl.

Shoto gently traces his fingertips against your lips and neck, slowly moving them down your décolletage. Shoto circled you slowly, his movements reminiscent of a predator closing in on its prey. "I just expect you to be faithful to me, that's all I'm asking for. I want you to be a representative figure, shining like a gem by my side. And I want you to bear me a child, an outright heir of pure blood," he declared.

"But my blood isn't pure. I'm not a pagan like you. Won't it make your child unworthy?" you growled, attempting to sway his unsettling conviction. However, your efforts seemed in vain as his long, thin fingers slipped under the fabric of your nightgown on your shoulders, slowly sliding the attire off.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. Before you give birth, you're going to be a Viking woman. I'll make sure of that," he said, licking his lips as he watched the thin material falling slowly to the floor.

In your initial instinct, you attempted to cover yourself with your hands. However, Shoto effortlessly seized both your wrists in one hand, securing them behind your back. Resting his chin on your shoulder, he used his spare hand to move a lock of your Y/H/C hair off your shoulder. "Don't. I want to see all of you. You were more willing to undress for my older brother. I still don't know why. Did he force you into his bed? No normal woman ever would, so he was fortunate to experience the mellowness of a woman's body before he died. His life was nothing but a failure."

That was enough. Provoked by Shoto's words laced with sarcasm, you swiftly turned and slapped his scarred cheek with all your might, pulling your hands free from his grasp. "Don't you dare," you warned. "For what you did, you will never reach your beloved Valhalla. Even your gods don't accept vile men into their chambers."

Seemingly anticipating this move, the man firmly grasped you by the throat and effortlessly threw you onto the bed. Before you could react, his weight pinned you down on the mattress. "You're so brisk and valorous; I like that," he grunted, pushing his knee between your legs, parting your thighs enough for him to settle between them. "Haven't you learned yet? You're with me or against me. And trust me, I couldn't care less about your pathetic life. So, it's better to act like a good, obedient girl for your lord."

That night unfolded in a torrent of pain, tears, and degradation. Despite your attempts to resist, to twist and turn, they proved futile. Shoto pursued his desires, stripping away your innocence. His touch, both cruel and frigid, felt akin to a scalding iron on your skin - a stark contrast from what Touya had once offered.

As Shoto slumbered peacefully at your side, content and spent from the unrelenting hours of asserting his dominance over your body, you lay by him, curled into a small, trembling ball. Silent tears traced pathways across your face, and with every slightest movement, you would gag yourself, feeling the haunting presence of his seed seeping out of you. A genuine desire for death welled within your soul.

"Forgive me, Touya... Forgive me," you whispered, your plea hanging in the heavy air before exhaustion enveloped you, guiding you into an uneasy slumber.

heathen wolves: @queenkhepri @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog @haseki-huricihan @violet-forgetmenot @dagger-dragger @smartspot @alientobe @zero-sugar-null @peter-sommer @thedancingparrot @dearsunaa @greaterheart

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belleandre-belle · 6 months

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Gerald Kaufman (1930-2017🙏🏼🌹🕊️), British MP, speaking from the rostrum of Parliament in 2009.

Gerald Kaufman was the son of Polish Jewish immigrants. Born in the UK, Kaufman was one of the country's most famous Jewish politicians. He was also a fervent critic of Israel, calling for sanctions against the Jewish state for its policies towards the Palestinians, and comparing Israeli soldiers to Nazis.

For years, Kaufman has been one of Britain's most outspoken critics of Israel.

In April 2002, at the start of Israel's Operation Rampart to halt the wave of suicide bombings in the country's cities, Kaufman declared Israel an "international pariah" and accused then-Prime Minister Ariel Sharon of ordering "his troops to use barbaric methods against the Palestinians", according to the BBC.

Kaufman, who was Foreign Secretary between 1987 and 1992, told the House of Commons in 2002 that it was "time to remind Sharon that the Star of David belongs to all Jews and not to his repulsive government. His actions sully the Star of David with blood."

In 2004, in an editorial published in the Guardian, he called for economic sanctions against Israel similar to those used against South Africa.

In 2009, during the war between Israel and Hamas, Operation Cast Lead, he accused Israel of exploiting Holocaust guilt to justify its actions in the Gaza Strip.

"The current Israeli government ruthlessly and cynically exploits the guilt of gentiles [non-Jews] after the murder of Jews during the Holocaust as justification for its murders of Palestinians," Kaufman had declared before Parliament.

Speaking of his personal history as the son of Jewish refugees from Poland, he had said that "my grandmother was in bed, sick, when the Nazis came to her town. A German soldier shot her in her bed. My grandmother did not die to provide cover for Israeli soldiers murdering Palestinian grandmothers in Gaza."

Kaufman had compared Hamas fighters to Jewish resistance fighters in the Second World War, claiming that "Israeli army spokesman Major Leibovich was asked about Israeli murders of, at the time, 800 Palestinians. The total is now 1,000. She replied instantly that '500 of them were militants'. That's the response of a Nazi. I suppose the Jews fighting for their lives in the Warsaw ghetto could have been considered militants."

His opposition to Israel has persisted with age. In 2012, he had written an editorial published by the Huffington Post claiming that Israel was a "rogue state", and that the fact that Israel is a democracy "means that the Israeli electorate is complicit in its government's war crimes."

In 2015, he had told the Palestine Return Centre, a Hamas-affiliated association, that "Jewish money" was the reason why British Conservatives were pro-Israel.

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fabricated-misslieness · 3 months

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: prince alhaitham x knight male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: after spending some time with you, the prince finds himself wishing for things

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.65k ~ PT.1 ~ PT.2

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: sword training, classism, mention of war

☾⋆☆⋆☽

This is a horrible place, Alhaitham thinks, but instead he says: "This is, well..." and it's not that much of an improvement.

The Crown Prince has never been to the servants' quarters, nor the kitchen, nor the knights' quarters or the troops' training grounds. He has never seen the thorough use of space, and has not experienced the smell of two dozen worked men sleeping in the same room.

Your old pallet-based bed has already been claimed by another soldier, but you know the position well and the new tenant doesn't have many memorabilia to show for his use of the space.

It is lucky that you have visited in the middle of the day while the knights are training, otherwise the Prince would've been nothing but drowned in the crowd of soldiers and their odor; odor so musky it still lingers.

He is vaguely aware of the wing reserved for war generals in the palace and wonders why you do not have one. "Should you not have had your own room?"

"They told me it was all occupied." You reply, to hide from him the truth. You know, from your sparse time in the castle as a war general and your now abundant time as the Prince's knight, that the castle has so many rooms, many are left unused.

Although of course, as the Prince, he knows this too. "Speak freely."

You answer immediately, "I am of low blood."

The Prince nods his head. This, he had expected. Among the many variables he had not, such as the foul odor of the room, something he was correct about pleases him. But, despite the burn in his nose, the rarity of being wrong and what's to come still excites him.

"I used to make polishing oil for my own armor, as well as my sword, and my own whetstone." You said, your hand gesturing to the small shelf above the head of the pallet. "But now the servants, and I suppose the King or Queen, supply me with those."

"Did you read about how to make one?" The Prince asked. It was as much a theory as a question.

"No." Is all you say. You can't just tell him you've never read a book in its entirety before, being read to not withstanding. "I have simply found walnuts work well, actually."

His eyebrows raise, "With trial and error?"

"Precisely." You smile.

He has tried, ever since the first day he had sat down to listen to you speak, to not let his judge of your character to fall into the stereotypes deeply ingrained in him.

That stereotype being that knights were nothing but brawn and battle prowess. They were not taught the word misslieness, for it was hardly necessary, but were taught the word hubris in order to not fall into it themselves. The same stereotype dictates that knights did not seek to expand their wisdom to tidbits of knowledge they did not require, much like nobles did not need to know what commoners did.

Trial and error for measly armor polish one could buy from the market on even a low blood knight's salary was certainly one of those tidbits of knowledge he thought you wouldn't care for.

He shakes the feeling off and listens to the rest of your words, choosing to focus on your explanations of how life was...and the finer smell of your plain armor polish, as opposed to the other odor he could smell.

The very same odor you either ignore or have grown used to. "The other boys snore," You smile fondly, "it is nothing like the sound of swords striking metal in aspects of harmony, but it is just as loud. The palace has been...respite, but hearing my old mate Rohan snoring is something I miss."

"And the bed?" He asks.

Respectful of the new tenant's space, you place your hand on the thin mattress and press down with minimal force. It creaks. "No."

He nods his head, a smile on his lips, despite the misery of smell. "Yes, I imagine a bed in the palace is a lot better."

Glee crinkles the corners of your eyes when you smile at him, "It is."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Alhaitham is very happy to leave that dastardly room when you're done talking about how it used to be in there. You had talked so fondly about it: about how, even with the lack of space, you treated everyone in that room asa brother. The Prince had heard about it once before, from the less authoritarian, more cocky Knights of Favonius, that they were a brotherhood. He had hardly pictured it from the Sumeru knights who all behaved stiff as twigs around him.

The next stop is the troops' training grounds. On the way there, you explained some things to him. As a war general, you were also in charge of training your men. When your duty became to protect the Prince, the task was awarded to some of the lesser yet competent captains the other war generals often deferred to.

He's beginning to regret asking to follow your old routine, slightly, as one revolting place is replaced with another. He can hardly hear himself think when you step out into the field, beyond the sound of blades parrying other blades and men's shouts and groans.

As you maneuver through the crowd of sparring soldiers, they don't even realize that the Crown Prince is among their ranks.

They notice you first, the captains. "General!"

Their shouts of your name die out in the chaos blasting in his ears, but he stays his ground as he reaches the end of the worst of the men and watches as you continue forward to greet them.

You really are like brothers, bantering, fluffing up their hair and knocking on their speckled armor.

He knows war generals don't speak this way with their subordinates. He knows war generals don't even build bonds with them. He knows that, to them, it is all business: listen to me, plan this strategy with/for me, fight for me.

What is it that's–

"Your highness!" One captain shrieks, and suddenly swords clang and fall to the ground, either on their blunt side or tip first, digging up the Earth. Many men fall to their knees in an instant, more join them in the other.

There is a whole field of men kneeling to him, and Alhaitham turns up his nose with a snarl. "Stand." He says, his voice loud and stern. He cherished the silence leftover in the absence of metal, but he wishes even more for the attention to be off of him. "I thank you for your respect. Return to your duties."

The soldiers eventually stand, and after a reluctance quickly stepped over, they return to their training.

The three devoted generals remain on their knees as Alhaitham strides up to stand by your side, not in front.

"I said stand." Alhaitham repeats, his voice emotionless yet interpreted as angry by the generals.

The first that stands stiffens up like a thin tree in the wind, nervous. "Your highness," His head is bowed, "what do we–"

"Look at me when you speak, Captain."

The captain yelps. He yelps, unbecoming of a man of his stature, build, and rank. "Y-Yes." He says, his voice a pitch higher. When their eyes meet, he knows that the mere act of eye contact makes his pitch even higher when he speaks again, "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence today, my prince?"

He dislikes the way he calls him his. "I only wish to observe. Carry on as usual. Do not work harder on my behalf."

Alhaitham begins to walk further towards the sidelines, somewhere he can spectate without obstacle as well as listen to his mind.

However, when you call out to him, he stops the both of you. "My prince–"

He does not stop you because you call him yours, but because he wishes for the company of his own solitude and a view of the soldiers as seen by a bystander. "Command them as you would have."

"Yes, your highness." You nod your head dutifully and turn back to your former men.

After the quick talk of "yes, I'm back" and ordering them to train their stances, standing in line and slicing the air almost mechanically, you're back to talking with your captains.

The slicing of the air is a lot more quiet than the clanging of swords, an acceptable replacement he will thank you for later, so now he can actually hear himself think; and also accidentally eavesdrop. The way he does not try to shift his focus away from your conversation waves off the "accidental" notion.

You don't notice him anyway; you are much more preoccupied with catching up with your captains. They are busier now, without a war general to guide them, and you have not seen them since you were appointed the Prince's protector.

"How is the life?" One captain asks you, a bright glint to his worn smile.

Boring, is what he expects you to say. "It's interesting."

"Just interesting?" Another gawks, jaw slack, and Alhaitham can't help but mirror the question in his head. "Tell us all about it! It cannot just be interesting."

"It is gilded, and gaudy. Do you recall General Ipsit's golden armor? It is like that, an unnecessary show of wealth; but all the luxury is actually welcome. The floors are carpeted when wood is just fine, and even the tiles have a design. I can see my reflection on them."

All three of them laugh, as if such an idea is absurd. The third captain, which seems to be quite young yet clearly strong, asks the next question, "Well, how's the food?"

"Like heaven." You chuckle, "The puddings are as fluffy as clouds and the breads crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. The meats are spiced; dried or smoked or grilled, all so divine it is like eating wealth."

He's never heard you speak in such a way.

"How about your quarters?"

You sigh, eyes closed as though collapsed over your mattress that very instant. "The head of the bed is colored with gold, and the sheets are even lilac." A diluted purple, but the color of royalty and wealth nonetheless. "The mattress is soft, and it molds to my very body."

And by this way, it was with descriptors for such worthless things. When you speak to him, you are always objective. This marble reminds me of magma, this green is very bright, its whistle is not as sharp. This is all in benefit, of course, to him, and it is always the way servants speak to their masters.

"Man. How come you get this treatment?" The youngest captain speaks up again, clearly jealous.

"Oh, dear Nayak," You laugh. It sounds so lively. "you are not the one who slayed a dragon."

And he has never heard you speak so jokingly before.

Perhaps he is not deserving of this, he thinks as you continue to joke with your fellows. He does not deserve to have your humor nor your emotion, only your solemnity. In fact, it is not that he does not deserve it, but that it is the only way you should address him—the only way a knight should address his prince, with objectivity. It is an irrational...fear? Thought–just a thought, nothing more–and it should not be occupying his mind, much the same way that you are treating him as you should.

And yet...there is a yearning. No one has talked to him like this, not his peers at the Akademiya, not the scholars, not his servants, not the knights, not his lesser brothers.

That is why he wishes for this...inessential way of speech. Because it is new.

That is what he's been prodding for these days, he realizes. Not just your friendship, but the unceremonious exchanges as well. He doesn't want you to report to him, he wants you to speak to him.

Nobody's ever spoken to him. There is his father scolding, his mother doting, the servants reporting, scholars exchanging, guards courteously greeting, peasants showing their respect, and you answering his questions.

How does one fix this?

Fix? What is he thinking? This is exactly the way you should be speaking to him. But, oh, he wishes for casualty. Yes, that's it. Companionship, from the man who saved his life, it is only natural.

Now, how to do it?

☾⋆☆⋆☽

When the both of you are back at Alhaitham's personal library, where he spends his time of leisure, the Prince thinks he should collapse into a heap and hide himself. He had thought about the dilemma, and with increasing effort came increasing thoughts—overthinking. He takes you out for an outing, no, you'd be too guilty and grateful to be honest, same thing if he gave you a gift. Having friends, no, making a friend is hard.

And then the blistering heat of the midday sun ruptured his thoughts, and the clanging of swords took over his senses, and then the heat came to rupture that too.

He does collapse in a heap on the couch, albeit more gracefully than in the hypothetical scenario.

Perhaps still affected by the joy of nostalgia and seeing your old brotherhood again, you spark a conversation yourself, despite him not declaring open discussion. "What did you think?"

Alhaitham is glad he didn't have to declare it. "It was horrible." He admits, wiping his sweaty, warm forehead with his damp handkerchief. He grimaces.

You laugh; it sounds nice, better than swords, at least, "I too would think it a horrible place if I had an upbringing such as yours."

You mean it as sympathy, but it only makes the Prince feel privileged and lucky. "Yes...quite."

You sense it yourself, a moment later, of course you do. You're way better at intimately social matters and empathy than he is.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way." You bow your head, already back to the Knight Protector of the Crown Prince.

"It's quite alright." He places his hand over yours, the joints of the iron glove dig slightly into his skin, but he doesn't care for it.

You turn your hand, letting his hand rest over your smoother palm. It feels like turning a new leaf, physically.

"So, it was horrible," you look down, and he tracks your gaze down to your hands, "and..what else was it?"

He wracks his head, thinks about it. Normally he doesn't have to think for such a thing, but he is considering something else now: your feelings. "...admirable."

You burst out laughing at his timidness, and if it were anyone else, he would be offended.

Alhaitham scrambles for something to say, "I mean it!" His face is red, he's sure, "I can't believe you can live under such conditions–without something as necessary as privacy–and fight for our lands and protect our people."

"The knighthood takes recruits before they even reach the cusp of manhood, my prince." You explain to him, and he is grateful for it, "We grow used to it."

"It is not a good thing to grow accustomed to." He says, his voice quiet, small. He is not the Crown Prince here, he is just Haitham.

You speak up again, to ease his worries, "We bear it for the people, as you do, and will." He is so grateful for you.

He grasps your fingers with his own, and has half the mind to intertwine them. He does not. "Thank you, (y/n)."

"There is nothing to thank me for."

There is a lot to thank you for. He doesn't mention it, because you would only shut him down. So he sings your praises, instead, in his mind; and he speaks his wishes there too.

His mind has never been quiet, but for a moment, there is only you.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: im sorry folks i am a terribly busy man

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x male reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x male reader #🎟 // genshin impact #🎫 // alhaitham #🌸 // success!

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why-animals-do-the-thing · 1 year

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I recently learned of Private Wojtek, a brown bear owned by the polish army during ww2, who entertained civillians and soldiers alike, and (supposedly) helped carry crates of ammunition during warfare. Some of the stuff I've read about the way he was kept sounds almost too good to be true, while other parts sound downright unhealthy (i.e. feeding him cigarettes). I wanted to hear if you think he was handled in accordance with proper animal husbandry

I mean. He rode in artillery trucks and was given cigarettes and beer. So I'm gonna go with probably not, lol.

One one hand, it's nice that the troops weren't willing to abandon the animal they'd purchased and hand-raised when they were deployed, and enlisting him to get rations for him is a pretty funny idea. But also like... yeah, don't take bears into war zones. (Article about him here) He did eventually retire to the Edinburgh Zoo.

Here's some various photos of him from around the internet: they're pretty incredible, even without modern sensibilities of animal welfare coming into play.

The unit he was with even got a special emblem made for them in honor of Wojtek: a bear carrying an artillery shell.

#there's no way this was appropriate by modern husbandry standards #but it's a fascinating story #bear #wojtek #private Wojtek #spelling fixed

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elryuse · 13 days

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Yandere Vampire Princess Giselle Aespa X Human Male Servant,although in the beginning, their relationship was just a princess and a slave but it turned into an obsession after Y/N got attention from another princess and eventually Giselle want Y/N to be faithful to her forever

SLAVE 4 LIFE

Yandere Vampire Princess Giselle X Male Slave Reader

Y/n flinched before the whip even landed. It was a practiced twitch, a reflex honed over years of servitude under Princess Giselle. The leather sang a familiar, cruel song as it cracked across his back, leaving a fiery, blooming welt that joined the tapestry of scars adorning his body. Giselle, a vision of fiery hair and ice-cold eyes, smirked. Her crimson lips, usually stretched into a sneering caricature of a smile, were pursed in concentration.

"Faster, slave!" she shrieked, her voice a honeyed venom that dripped with sadistic pleasure. "Don't you know how precious time is, especially for a mere possession like you?"

Y/n gritted his teeth, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. He polished the silver tea set with shaking hands, each movement a struggle against the searing pain in his muscles and the ever-present fear gnawing at his insides. He was a slave, a broken toy in Princess Giselle's opulent but suffocating playpen. Days bled into each other, a monotonous cycle of cleaning, serving, and enduring Giselle's whims. Nights offered no respite, only stolen moments of fitful sleep punctuated by the terror of being summoned for another round of torment.

The arrival of winter brought a whisper of change. It wasn't the harsh bite in the air or the frosted windows that signaled a shift, but the hushed whispers of a visiting princess – Princess Winter, from a distant, icy land. Y/n caught glimpses of her from afar – an ethereal beauty with skin as pale as snow and eyes like frozen lakes. Her beauty was glacial, devoid of warmth, yet it captivated him in a way Giselle, with her flamboyant cruelty, never could.

Then, the rumor reached him: Princess Winter was interested in acquiring him. Hope, a fragile bud long since buried under layers of despair, unfurled in his chest. Freedom? Could it be a possibility after all these years? He yearned to express his cautious optimism, but years of conditioning kept his face carefully blank.

Giselle's reaction, when she returned from the meeting with Princess Winter, was a spectacle in itself. Gone was her usual theatrical rage, replaced by a cold, calculating fury that made the temperature in the room plummet further. "She wants you," the princess hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Y/n forced his voice steady. "S-she wants to buy me"?

Giselle threw back her head and laughed, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. It wasn't a joyous laugh, but a chilling melody that sent shivers down his spine. "Buy you? No, she wants to marry you."

Y/n's heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Marry him? Escape? A sliver of hope, fragile yet alluring, pierced through the years of despair. He dared not let his happiness show, lest it fuel her already simmering rage.

The princess' reaction was swift and brutal. Orders for a grand celebration were issued, the palace buzzing with frantic activity. Yet, behind the facade of revelry, Giselle spun a web of deceit. Princess Winter was a formidable leader, known for her strategic brilliance on the battlefield. Giselle proposed a deal – Winter could claim Y/n as her husband, but only if she fought alongside Giselle's troops in the upcoming war.

Winter, unaware of the venomous snake she was dealing with, readily agreed. Giselle, however, harbored no intention of glorious victory. Her strategy was a sinister dance of calculated sabotage, designed to cripple Winter's forces and leave her vulnerable.

The days leading up to the battle were a blur for Y/n. He watched with growing unease as Giselle manipulated war maps, a manic smile playing on her lips with every strategic deceit. His silent pleas for Winter's safety were lost in the cacophony of preparations.

Finally, the day arrived. Y/n stood at the highest point of the castle walls, his breath misting in the frigid air. Below him, the two armies clashed in a whirlwind of steel and fury. The air was thick with the smells of smoke, death, and a fear that clawed at his insides. His hope dwindled with every faltering maneuver by Giselle's troops.

He saw her then – Princess Winter, a beacon of pale light amidst the chaos, fighting with a desperate bravery that ignited a flicker of admiration in his chest. But it was a losing battle. Giselle's betrayal had left Winter's forces exposed and vulnerable.

With a sickening thud that echoed through the battlefield, Y/n saw Princess Winter fall. Crimson bloomed on her white armor, painting a gruesome scene against the snowy backdrop. A strangled sob escaped his lips. Beside him, Giselle let out a victory shriek, the sound resonating with a deranged joy that sent a ...cold dread spiraling down his spine. Giselle's laughter died down abruptly, replaced by a smile colder than the winter wind. She turned to Y/n, her eyes gleaming with a manic possessiveness.

"She's gone," she hissed, her voice silky smooth but laced with a chilling finality. "Now, you're mine, forever."

The weight of her words settled on him like a suffocating cloak. Hope, the fragile bud that had dared to bloom, withered and died. He was trapped, a fly caught in the web of a sadistic spider.

The days that followed blurred into a grotesque parody of courtship. One moment, Giselle would be a whirlwind of fury, whipping him mercilessly for defying her every whim. The next, she'd be draped suggestively across his lap, whispering sweet nothings and showering him with unwanted touches.

"You'll forget about that icy bitch soon enough," she'd purr, her voice dripping with a sickening sweetness. "I can give you things she never could – warmth, passion, power."

Y/n recoiled from her touch, but Giselle wouldn't be deterred. She'd lock him in her chambers, a prisoner to her warped affections. She'd weave intricate tales of Princess Winter's cruelty, fabricating stories of Winter mocking him and plotting his demise.

"She only saw you as a prize to be won," Giselle would lie, her eyes searching his face for a flicker of doubt. "I see you, Y/n. I see the strength you hide, the fire within your soul. Together, we will rule this Kingdom..no.. This world in ease."

Sleep offered no solace. Nightmares of Winter's death, orchestrated by Giselle's twisted mind, would jolt him awake, leaving him bathed in cold sweat. Reality and Giselle's lies blurred, leaving him questioning his own memories. Was Princess Winter ever truly kind? Did she ever see him for anything more than a bargaining chip?

Weakened by the constant physical and psychological torment, Y/n found himself succumbing to Giselle's advances. It started with stolen kisses, then caresses that brought no warmth, just a chilling emptiness. He told himself it was a means to an end, a way to survive. But Giselle saw his compliance as a victory, a triumph of her twisted will.

One morning, Y/n awoke to a heavy gold chain adorning his neck, the weight of it a constant reminder of his captivity. Beside him, Giselle lay sleeping, a cruel smile etched on her face. It wasn't a chain of love, but a symbol of his complete and utter subjugation.

The wedding ceremony was a grand spectacle, a mockery of love. Y/n stood at the altar, a hollow shell of the man he once was. Giselle, radiant in her white gown, looked like a vision of beauty, but her eyes held a glint of madness that chilled his blood.

The years that followed were a living nightmare. Giselle forced him to become her husband, a title that mocked any notion of partnership. Their union was one of twisted possession and silent rebellion. Each night, her cruelty deepened, fueled by his defiance and her burning desire to break him.

They had offspring, a grim testament to their warped bond. Y/n watched in horror as Giselle instilled the same warped version of love in their children, turning them into extensions of herself. He became a ghost in his own life, forever bound to a woman who would never let him go, a slave not just to her physical commands, but to the chilling manipulation she had woven around his mind.

The spark of hope Princess Winter had ignited had long been snuffed out. Now, all that remained in his eyes was a deep, abiding despair, a silent scream trapped within the gilded cage that was his life, a constant reminder of the love he had lost and the freedom he could never reclaim. He was Giselle's slave 4 life, and the chilling realization sent a fresh wave of terror crashing against his soul.

The opulent bedchamber echoed with the rhythmic crack of a whip against flesh. Y/n, his back crisscrossed with raw welts, gritted his teeth against the pain. This wasn't a punishment, not entirely. Giselle, her crimson dress shed, stood over him, eyes blazing with a predatory hunger.

"Again," she commanded, her voice a husky rasp. "Until you understand, until you prove you belong to me."

Years of forced affection had eroded Y/n's resistance. He had become a mere vessel, a trophy husband expected to fulfill Giselle's every whim, especially those fueled by her twisted possessiveness. Their children, a growing brood with disturbing echoes of Giselle's icy eyes, were living testaments to her relentless demands.

Tonight, however, was different. A desperate defiance flickered in Y/n's eyes. He refused to move.

"Don't you dare disobey me," Giselle hissed, the whip poised like a venomous snake. "Don't you forget who owns you."

"I'm not a possession," Y/n rasped, his voice thick with a lifetime of suppressed rage. "I'm a man."

A cruel smile played on Giselle's lips. "A man who belongs to me," she corrected, her voice dropping to a seductive purr. "And tonight, you will prove it."

The night stretched into an eternity of pain and degradation. Y/n fought, a pathetic flicker of resistance quickly extinguished by Giselle's unrelenting cruelty. As dawn painted the sky with streaks of pink and orange, Giselle collapsed beside him, a triumphant smirk etched on her porcelain face.

Y/n lay there, broken and empty. He had lost the fight. There would be no grand escape, no heroic rescue. He was trapped, forever branded as Giselle's slave, not just in body, but in spirit.

The cycle continued, relentless and horrifying. Giselle, her beauty fading with each passing year, clung to her twisted possession with increasing desperation. Y/n, his spirit slowly withering, became a human broodstock, forced to create an entire generation under the watchful eye of his capturer.

Their children grew up in a gilded cage, their innocence poisoned by their mother's warped perception of love. They echoed Giselle's coldness, their eyes reflecting a chilling emptiness that mirrored their father's despair.

One day, as Y/n sat in a secluded corner of the vast palace gardens, a young girl with his eyes, but Giselle's calculating gaze, approached him. "Father," she said, her voice devoid of warmth, "Mother says it's time for another… session."

Y/n looked up, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. He saw in her the beginnings of the monster Giselle had created, a grim reflection of their twisted family. And as he rose to obey, another horrifying realization dawned on him. Giselle's cruelty and possessiveness wouldn't just consume him. It would poison their bloodline for generations to come, a chilling legacy etched in pain and despair. The girl, a product of forced procreation, became not just his daughter, but another tool in his oppressor's twisted game.

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zvaigzdelasas · 7 months

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While most Ukrainians battled against Germany during the war, it’s well known that the western region of the country collaborated with the Third Reich — and that thousands of those involved were allowed to resettle in Canada. [...]

When Anthony Rota, [...] introduced Hunka during Zelenskyy’s Sept. 22 visit, he called him a “veteran from the Second World War who fought for Ukrainian independence against the Russians and continues to support the troops today.”

And Hunka made the argument himself after Russia invaded his homeland last year. “In the last war, I joined the Ukrainian underground to fight Russia, so I was fighting the same people they’re fighting now,” he told a reporter covering a peace vigil in North Bay, Ontario, in March 2022. “Nothing has changed there. The same enemy. First Stalin was there and now this idiot,” he said, referring to Russian President Vladimir Putin. [...]

In a post for the SS Galichina veterans’ blog Combatant News, Hunka wrote that 1941 to 1943 — after Germany invaded Ukraine and before Hunka enlisted — were the happiest years of his life. He also recalled eagerly awaiting “the legendary German knights” to come and attack “the hated Poles,” using a slur for Polish people, in 1939.

Captioned photos from the blog show Hunka during SS artillery training in Munich in December 1943 and in Poland around the time of a visit by Nazi mastermind Heinrich Himmler. “I know that if I ordered you to liquidate the Poles … I would be giving you permission to do what you are eager to do anyway,” Himmler said during that visit, according to several historical accounts. Now, the Polish minister of education is looking into whether Hunka can be extradited and prosecuted for what happened during the war.[...]

[After the war,] Hunka made his living in the aircraft industry, working his way up to inspector at DeHavilland Aircraft in Toronto. After retirement, he visited Ukraine nearly every year, according to a profile of him in a University of Alberta newsletter announcing the donation made in his honor by his sons. The profile said he also served as president of the parish council of St. Volodymyr Ukrainian Catholic Church in Thornhill, Ontario.[...]

In his mea culpa, Rota made it sound like Hunka was a constituent from his district [...] whom he did not know much about. “This initiative was entirely my own,“ Rota said[...]

But Rejean Venne, an independent Canadian journalist, wrote in his Substack newsletter this week that Rota and Hunka family members have had numerous chances to cross paths over the years. Among Venne’s examples:

- One of Hunka’s sons, Martin, was chief financial officer of Redpath Mining, a multinational corporation headquartered in Rota’s district. Redpath has contributed to Rota’s campaigns and Rota has provided government funding for recreational facilities operated by Redpath. (The company did not respond to inquiries from the Forward made Thursday.)

- Martin Hunka has also served as chair of the board of trustees for North Bay Hospital, which is located in Rota’s district and which Rota has supported. Hunka’s name can no longer be found on the hospital’s website and social media posts. (The hospital did not respond to a request for comment emailed Thursday.)

- North Bay Pride, an LGBTQ+ organization, gave an award to Rota nine months after Yaroslav’s granddaughter Leshya Lecappelain joined its board of directors. In 2022 and 2023, North Bay Pride received more than $100,000 in funding from Rota. (Asked about this, a spokesperson for North Bay Pride said Lecappelain had not been on its board for several years.)

“Rota’s response that this was a last-minute request doesn’t add up,” Venne said in an email interview. “The Hunka family appears well connected in Rota’s district.”

The Forward could not determine whether Hunka and Rota met before he was honored at Parliament. Rota and others at the House of Commons did not respond to several requests for comment sent Wednesday and Thursday. Efforts to reach Yaroslav, Martin and Peter Hunka, Lecappelain and other members of the family for comment were also unsuccessful.[...]

On Wednesday, the University of Alberta said it would return the CA$30,000 endowment that Hunka’s sons donated in 2019 in their father’s honor. The money was intended to fund research at the school’s Canadian Institute for Ukrainian Studies. But Per Anders Rudling, a university alumnus and expert on Ukrainian nationalism who teaches at Sweden’s Lund University, said the Hunka fund is just “the top of an iceberg.” In an email to the Forward, Rudling said the University of Alberta has “much larger endowments” honoring other figures connected to the Waffen SS unit. The “most problematic,” he said, is the Volodymyr and Daria Kubijovych Memorial Endowment Fund [Editors note: archive link - also "matched two-to-one by the Government of Alberta"] At CA$450,000 — about $334,000 — it’s 15 times larger than the Hunka fund the university is returning.[...] In a Facebook post Thursday, Rudling also questioned university endowments named for other Galichina Division veterans, including Roman Kolisnyk, Levko Babij and Edward Brodacky. Pointing to research he published in The Journal of Slavic Military Studies [Editors note: 1, 2], Rudling said, “I have tried to raise this issue in the past, to no avail.”

Asked about Rudling’s concerns, Michael Brown, a spokesperson for the University of Alberta, reiterated a statement in which interim provost Verna Yiu said the school is “reviewing its general naming policies and procedures, including those for endowments, to ensure alignment with our values.” Yiu also expressed the school’s “commitment to address anti-Semitism in any of its manifestations, including the ways in which the Holocaust continues to resonate in the present.” The honors given to SS Galichina fighters extend beyond academia. One of the University of Alberta’s endowments is for its former chancellor Peter Savaryn, another SS Galichina member. In 1987, Savaryn was awarded the Order of Canada, among the nation’s highest honors, bestowed by Canada’s governor general, the representative of the British Crown. Mary Simon, the current governor general, has condemned the Hunka scandal as “a shock and an embarrassment.”[...]

When the Hunka endowment was announced in 2020, the university said it would fund research on two “leaders of the underground Ukrainian Catholic Church,” Cardinal Josyf Slipyj and Metropolitan Andrei Sheptytsky. (A metropolitan is akin to a bishop.) Slipyi was a deputy in Ukraine’s 1941 self-proclaimed government, which pledged to work closely with Germany under Hitler’s leadership. Slipyi also assigned chaplains to SS Galichina and celebrated the unit’s inaugural Mass. After the war, the Soviets sent him to gulag prison camps. But Sheptytsky’s legacy is layered [sic]. He helped “dozens of Jews find refuge in his monasteries and even in his own home,” according to Yad Vashem, while also supporting “the German army as the savior of the Ukrainians from the Soviets.”

Harvard University also houses a Ukrainian Research Institute. Asked, after Alberta’s announcement, whether that institute’s funding would be scrutinized for Nazi ties, the university said in a statement that the institute had never received money from the Hunkas, nor had it received donations designated for research related to SS Galichina. Harvard did, however, in 1974 establish a fellowship and faculty position in European studies with money from a foundation named for Alfred Krupp, who was convicted of war crimes for using slave laborers from Auschwitz to build and work in a factory.[...]

In Canada, questions about the Ukrainian immigrants’ past dogged them for decades, and in 1985, the country launched a Commission of Inquiry on War Criminals, known as the Deschênes Commission. Investigators were mostly limited to considering evidence gathered in Canada, and ultimately they came to the controversial conclusion that the Galichina Division “should not be indicted as a group” and that “mere membership” in the division was insufficient to justify prosecution or revoke citizenship.

This week, as Trudeau apologized for the Hunka salute, B’nai Brith Canada called for the full release of the commission’s report, which had been heavily redacted, along with other Holocaust-era records, in order to “restore public trust in our institutions.” “Canadians deserve to know the full extent to which Nazi war criminals were permitted to settle in this country after the war,” the group said Tuesday[...]

Why would Hunka’s family risk his humiliation, at age 98, by putting him under a spotlight? Did they not realize how his military record would be perceived and portrayed? “It’s arrogance. It’s not naiveté,” said Jack Porter, a research associate at Harvard’s Davis Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies and himself a Jewish child survivor of the Holocaust, born in Ukraine. “They know what their father did,” he said. “It’s hubris, it’s chutzpah. They rationalize that these men were fighting communism. If a few Jews were killed, they also were communists.”[...]

More than 2.5 million Ukrainians died fighting against Germany. “There were many good Ukrainians; they should not all be stigmatized,” he said.

But he said veterans who fought under the Nazis like Hunka and his compatriots have been emboldened by the whitewashing of their history, especially since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine last year. “They’ve been hiding in plain sight,” he said. “They’ve been there for 60 years and nobody has touched them, so of course they feel OK.”

29 Sep 23

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fanfic-obsessed · 7 months

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We thought you knew

So this idea is both undeniably crack, and an AU of the Rako Hardeen arc.

The first thing to be aware of is that not a single member of the Jedi council is taking the threat against the Chancellor seriously. The analysts of the Jedi Shadows, the intelligence portion of the Jedi, all agree. The only way that this attack against the Chancellor is actually a viable threat is if the Chancellor is a Sith, and the mastermind behind the attempt. And nobody believes that the Chancellor is a Sith.

The council does decide to fake Obi Wan’s death to send him under cover, but it is only because the Chancellor seemed so proud to be contributing a plan. However they do not change Obi Wan’s face, they do not change his voice, they do not even make him give up the Jedi robes. The only attempt to change his appearance is that his hair and his beard were shaved.

They do not tell anyone that they are faking his death because they all thought it would be exceedingly obvious. Like the entire council thought that there was no way that Cad Bane or anyone else would fall for this, so they figured Obi Wan would be brought to the jail and then have to beat up a room full of criminals when he failed to convince them he was Rako Hardeen. Then they could all go back to figuring out how to win a war and try to get Obi Wan to take an actual vacation.

Note: To be fair, it was exceedingly obvious to 99% of the people who knew Obi Wan. Unfortunately Anakin fell into the 1%. So did the mercenaries Obi Wan needed to break out of prison with, and seemingly Count Dooku (Dooku knew who was there the whole time, but was under orders from Palpatine that this plan had to work). Ahsoka and the clones on the other hand, realized even before the funeral-due in part to the extended death scene that happened after Obi Wan was shot that had been written and directed by Mace Windu.

So Anakin is hunting down Obi Wan, in the guise of Hardeen, full of rage and grief. He is being followed at a distance by a troop of clones and Ahsoka. No one realizes until his first earnest attempt at murdering Hardeen that he is not acting. Every attempt to tell him what is going on is rebuffed in the most hilarious way possible. At one point he is fighting ‘Hardeen’ and first Ahsoka, then Cody, then Rex, then an odd assortment of other clones, then Padme (and inexplicably Yoda, who was not even on that planet at the time), each scream at him that ‘Hardeen’ is really Obi Wan, with Obi Wan agreeing each time, getting progressively more out of breath. Anakin cries dramatically to the heavens that Hardeen is not Obi Wan, he killed Obi Wan and everyone else is in denial.

Obi Wan is following through the rough plan of the Chancellors, which was never polished into an ACTUAL plan, because no one thought it would get this far. There is also no good way to tell the enemy that you are undercover, but never thought it would get this far. Also the surreal suspicion that occurs because ‘this should not have worked and this should not be happening’. Both Dooku and Obi Wan spend a fair amount of time pretending this undercover thing worked and the Dooku has not called him Obi Wan the times while not around the mercenaries.

In the end Obi Wan was there to save the Chancellor, though that this attack happened at all is what clued the Jedi in to the Chancellor being the Sith. At some point Anakin pouts/is angry that Obi Wan didn’t tell Anakin that Obi Wan was Hardeen. Padme takes a moment to slap Anakin upside the head, because literally everyone told him that Obi Wan was Hardeen.

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #fanfiction prompt #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #star wars au #bamf obi wan #crack fic #rako hardeen arc

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catominor · 14 days

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polishing his bald head to such a shine the sun reflected off it immediately lights caesars troops ablaze

#this is what the pompeians shoulde used him for

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poorlittlegreenie13 · 5 months

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Part 1/2 of a fic I wrote for @oblivionsdream based on their enchanting Jester x Knight pairing that I'm obsessed with. Can't think of a title... maybe for part two.

(The idea for this spawned from @oblivionsdream posting "Jester has also been present for a few of the injuries and in one case where they were both away from the castle he did his best to tend to the knights injuries himself" and I was like 'oooo I want to write that!' but then I needed to write the backstory of it and then somehow it was 1.5k words and I needed to sleep, so part two will incorporate the above quote ^)

Fic below the cut! Very vaguely suggestive language & flirting but nothing explicit or sexual.

There is not, strictly speaking, a good reason for the Jester to be tagging along on the King’s Guard’s latest mission out of the city. He basically invited himself, pleading with the King for a week and a half—following him down the corridors or pestering him while he oversaw the knights sparring in the courtyard—before he agreed.

“I could boost morale!” the Jester insisted one sunny afternoon, eyes flicking quickly over to the knight closest to him, definitely within earshot. Even with all the identical sets of armor in the courtyard, the knight with the white feather in his helmet (the knight the Jester had subconsciously begun to think of as his), was easily recognizable. “You know,” the Jester continued, eyeing the Knight as he spoke, “I could… entertain the troops.”

The Jester swore the visor of the Knight’s helmet tilted ever-so-slightly towards him at that. He grinned, and the King rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t you ask your knights if you’re not convinced?” the Jester suggested innocently, darting between his Knight and the squire he was sparring with. “He wants me to come,” he added, attempting to keep up with the Knight’s quick movements. “Don’t you?”

“Get out of the way before you get knocked out,” the Knight said ruefully. The Jester laughed, flitting around to the Knight’s opposite side—closer to the hand not holding a massive sword.

“Tell the King you want me on your quest,” the Jester urged, smiling wickedly as the Knight’s guard dropped ever-so-slightly, his visor-covered-eyes fixing on the Jester. The squire he was sparring with got dangerously close to getting a blow in before the Knight blocked. “Come on, I know you do,” the Jester taunted.

The Knight swapped his sword to his left hand, seamlessly blocking an attempted blow by the squire while not breaking eye contact (or, well, visor contact, really) with the Jester. The Jester made a mental note of the Knight’s apparent ambidexterity, which was ridiculously, unfairly attractive. As if the Knight wasn’t attractive enough already.

“You really have no business anywhere near a battlefield,” the Knight said.

The Jester rolled his eyes, darting back to the Knight’s non-sword side. “I won’t be near the battlefield,” he insisted, “I’ll just stay in your chambers and patiently wait for you to get back. Polish your armor. Help you relax after your long day.” He gave a small smile, letting his voice trail off suggestively and looking up at the Knight through his lashes.

The Knight stared at the Jester for a moment too long, and the squire’s practice-sword connected with his breastplate with a loud ding.

The Knight swore under his breath, retaliating against the squire with perhaps slightly more aggression than was strictly necessary for a practice duel.

The Jester looked back at the King, who was watching the events with a bemused smile.

“I’m not convinced,” the King said. “Seems like you’re distracting him.”

“I’m motivating him!” the Jester insisted. “Look how well he’s doing!”

He gestured to the Knight, who was beating the squire back with renewed annoyance.

“Hm,” the King said, watching the Knight for a moment. “I’ll consider.”

*****

Two days later, the Jester was packed and ready, sidling up to the departing group of Knights with his multi-colored carpetbag in one hand, and a snack for the road in the other.

The Knight, his knight, was tacking up his horse, a huge chestnut colored stallion with a feather that matched the Knight’s decorating its bridal.

“Go on,” the King said, nodding bemusedly towards the party of knights. “You can ride with Sir Augustine, he has the biggest horse.”

“Among other things, I’m sure,” the Jester said lowly.

The Knight turned sharply to look at him. The Jester’s breath caught. The Knight’s visor was up, dark brown eyes locking on the Jester’s.

The Jester might’ve actually said fuck out loud. He’s not sure.

The Knight snapped his visor down, familiar metal obscuring the warmth of his gaze.

“Jester is with you,” the King said, stepping between the Knight and the Jester, looking between them with an amused smile.

“Surely we can spare a fifth horse,” the Knight said, sounding slightly choked.

“I don’t know how to ride,” the Jester said innocently, having recovered quickly enough from his momentary loss of composure. “Horses, that is.”

The Knight inhaled audibly. The Jester smiled.

“Godspeed,” the King said, his smile turning resigned as he started back towards the castle.

The Knight just kept staring at the Jester, even as he looked around, scanning the other knights and squires on the journey with them.

“You really don’t know how to ride a horse?” the Knight said finally, his voice sounding ridiculously soft considering the battle armor it was coming out of.

“Never learned,” the Jester said truthfully. “My carriage rides are always paid for.”

“Of course,” the Knight said, a familiar note of bitter professionalism sliding back into his voice. “Well, right foot in the stirrup.”

“Er, right,” the Jester said, hesitating. “Which one is the stirrup?”

“Gods’ sakes,” the Knight muttered, and with absolutely no warning or preamble, brought his hands to either side of the Jester’s waist and lifted him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.

It would’ve been infuriating if it wasn’t so enchanting.

“Excuse me—” the Jester began, but the Knight set him onto the horse before he could finish his sentence.

“No time to teach you,” the Knight said, stepping into what the Jester now, belatedly, recognized as a stirrup and mounting the horse behind where the Jester was sitting. He reached around the Jester on either side, taking up the reins and silently nudging the horse into motion.

“We ride North until dawn,” the Knight said to the other riders behind them. “Then we break for the night and bear south in the morning.”

The Jester smiled to himself slightly as he realized the Knight was sitting up pin straight, leaning slightly back, avoiding all physical contact with him. A challenge.

“You can’t sit like that all day,” he whispered, turning his head to lean closer to the Knight’s helmet-covered ear.

“This is how I always sit,” the Knight said.

“Is it really?” the Jester asked, leaning back ever-so-slightly. Enough to brush against the Knight’s chest.

The Knight inhaled again, that soft, sharp sound that the Jester was beginning to strive for. He arched his back slightly, wiggling his hips.

“Stop that,” the Knight said.

“Stop what?” the Jester asked.

“You’re— you know what,” the Knight hissed.

“Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Jester said innocently, pushing his hips back once more.

In a singular, fluid movement, the Knight took one hand off the reins and brought it to the Jester’s waist, squeezing slightly, though not hard enough to be anywhere near uncomfortable. Warmth bloomed beneath the touch, and the Jester grinned.

“Stop moving,” the Knight said, lowly, close to his ear.

“Just relax,” the Jester said. “Stop sitting like you’re scared you’ll catch something if you touch me.”

“I’m not scared,” the Knight said crossly. His hand was still on the Jester’s waist, squeezing slightly as he spoke.

“If you’d rather I ride with someone else,” the Jester said, “I’d be happy to take my chances finding another knight.”

“No,” the Knight said immediately, too quickly, hand tightening on the Jester’s waist.

The Jester felt himself blush, and bit back a smile. “Fine,” he said, “if you insist.”

The Knight sighed in what sounded like annoyance, then shifted in the saddle slightly, pressing his chest to the Jester’s back and winding one arm fully around his waist.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Yes, actually,” the Jester said, definitely blushing now at the feeling of the Knight’s arm around him, and the faint smell of saddle leather and sweat in the air around them.

“Good,” the Knight said contentedly, settling into the saddle slightly more.

As they rode through the day, he would occasionally tighten his arm around the Jester’s waist, pulling him into his chest protectively in what the Jester was almost certain was a subconscious move. Not that he was complaining. The Knight’s chest was ridiculously comfortable, despite the armor separating them. Comfortable enough to lull the Jester into a trace, nearer and nearer to sleep the more miles they covered.

As the sky darkened, the Jester felt his eyes drifting shut, head falling backwards onto the Knight’s shoulder. He snapped back awake, stopping himself before he could truly fall asleep.

“Go ahead,” the Knight said.

“What, so I can fall off the horse and you can laugh at me?” the Jester asked, raising an eyebrow. “I think I’ll stay awake.”

“You won’t fall,” the Knight said. And then quickly, into the silence, “I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

It was the Jester’s turn to exhale in surprise. He leaned back hesitantly, exhaustion pulling at him. Since when was riding horses so tiring?

“That’s it,” the Knight murmured, a self-satisfied smile evident in his voice, the thumb of the hand resting on the curve of the Jester’s waist rubbing absently over the thin fabric of his traveling shirt.

The Jester’s stomach swooped. He was blushing, he knew, again.

“So chivalric,” he murmured, and then fell asleep in the Knight’s arms.

#jingley menace #foolknight #jester x knight

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brotherblaze · 6 months

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JAILBAIT (redux) —simon 'ghost' riley

▹ simon 'ghost' riley/gn!reader

▹ part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

▹ synopsis: The patrons of the bar they frequent are usually familiar, but you're a new face. You step in, ask for Ghost and - there's something almost intimate between you, in the way you move around each other.

▹ cw: n/a

▹ wc: 3,8k

▹ note: This is an edited & polished version of what I wrote last year. Also on ao3

There's a bar at the edge of the town the base is situated by.

The faces in the bar are somewhat familiar; if not soldiers from the base that greet them with a nod every time they pass in the hallways, then just the same old faces day in and day out. There are a few locals, too, like the nice lady that runs a small pizza kiosk not far from the base — it offers a discount to the troops stationed in the area and their in-house ice cream is to die for. In the far corner of the room, a young woman who Soap recognizes — she’d asked for help moving her shitty ex-boyfriend’s things out of her house a few weeks back, and a handful of men had happily agreed.

They're regulars; their presence is predictable and familiar.

Yours isn't.

Soap catches sight of you just as you step inside and pause at the door, angling your small suitcase out of the way of the other patrons. He follows the direction of your gaze as it jumps from person to person. A group of college-aged women at the pool table are being entertained by a few men and their shoddy excuse for teaching pool. You’re about their age, if he makes an estimated guess. You look away and Soap does, too, at the middle-aged man sitting on one of the barstools, the bartender pouring from a bottle of amber liquid. Your gaze shifts again.

Ah, you’re looking for someone, Soap realizes. He extinguishes the idea of introducing himself with an offer to buy you a drink.

He sees you turn and approach the small group of young men closest to you, all sitting at the table next to Soap’s. You’re all sultry eyes and curled, glittering lips when you stop in front of them and you have their attention instantly.

“Do y’all know the one who religiously wears the black balaclava?”

A groupie? Soap thinks. Ghost with a groupie; now that’s an image.

There are a few nods from the group and your smile widens impossibly, eyes shining. (Soap finds himself calling you pretty in his head.) “Is he comin’ tonight?”

Groupie, Soap decides in his head.

One of the men, baby fat still clinging to his face, speaks up, “I can show you a much better time.” He winks, flashing what Soap thinks is supposed to be an attractive smile. It comes off looking more like a grimace. The man’s friends holler and whistle — one of them even pats him on the back.

A long moment passes where you simply stare at them, the smile slowly fading from your face. Finally, you settle on an expression like you’d bit into a lemon.

“I like my seats blond and shaven; rugburn’s a bitch.”

Soap nearly chokes on his own spit and he takes a swig of his beer to wash down the cough that wants to escape. He places his fist in front of his mouth and swallows a few times to not give himself away. He doesn’t need anyone thinking he spends his evenings spying on people at the bar because he has no life of his own.

When he looks back, the group of men are laughing at their friend’s expense, throwing barbed jabs at him and his pick-up skills. Soap rolls his eyes and begins to consider leaving when he spots new motion at the door. He raises his hand to wave Price and Ghost over and points you out at the bar when they’ve sat down.

You’ve found a free seat right at the bar counter, idly tapping your fingers against the smooth wooden countertop.

“Bonnie at the bar was asking for ya.”

Ghost’s eyes snap to the bar just as you turn around in the swiveling chair and your eyes meet and your grin grows wide. You pat the bar countertop and turn towards the bartender and hold up two fingers.

Ghost doesn’t even seem to take time to consider joining you, but stands immediately, doesn’t even grace Soap and Price with a bye, and strides up to where you’re sitting.

“Go get ‘em, Romeo,” Soap mutters under his breath.

Ghost stops next to you just as the bartender places two shot glasses on the counter and tips a bottle of clear liquid into them.

He leans against the bar, right next to you, so close your elbows might be brushing and you turn your head to greet him with a bright smile. You offer the empty barstool next to you and Ghost accepts. He settles into the creaky chair and you slide one glass over to him.

You're bold, Soap will give you that; he watches you place a hand on the Lieutenant's thigh, leaning in close to whisper something into his ear, glittering lips curled into a grin. When you draw back after a few moments, Ghost is looking at you intently, razor-sharp focus on you.

There are a few moments of silence and then Ghost’s shoulders sag, slight tremors rocking his frame and oh, Soap realizes, he’s laughing. It’s not a foreign sight, but it is rare. You’re grinning, as if you’re asking if whatever you said — a joke, probably — was any good. Ghost nods.

You down the shot in front of you all at once and lightning fast — like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow prey whole. Then, you point to Ghost's glass, which he pushes towards you. It's gone as quickly as its companion. Ghost's hand strays to your face, to the corner of your mouth, thumb sliding along the width of your lower lip to bring the drop of vodka that escaped into your mouth. You place a kiss against the pad of his thumb.

Soap feels like he's looking at something intimate. He looks away.

Sometimes they bring girls to a motel for a good time, that's just how it is. It’s not the best kind of conduct but hey, everybody gets lonely.

And yet, annoyance seeps into his tone when he speaks. "People really dig the balaclava, huh?"

Price breathes a chuckle under his breath and mutters something about not wanting to know.

Soap nearly does a double take when he sees you slip into Ghost’s quarters in the morning. Which is uncanny, if not dangerous — they usually keep their hookups strictly off base. One, because their cots are possibly the biggest companion and/or sex deterrents, and two, because it’s prohibited.

He’s frozen in his steps for a moment, and then the door opens again and you emerge with a mug — Ghost’s mug — in one hand, a colorful lanyard around your neck. A black t-shirt hangs off your frame, too large to be your own, tucked into the waistband of your shorts. Small bruises litter your thighs.

Your eyes meet his and you smile and approach.

“Could you tell me where John Price is?”

Soap snaps to attention, pushes the obvious implications of your appearance to the back of his mind, and nods.

“I can take you to where he’s supposed to be,” he offers and you break out into a smile.

“Please. And thank you.”

He motions for you to follow and you fall into step with him, neither of you feeling particularly chatty. That’s fine; Soap doesn’t have to be in the know, but he supposes he’d thought he and Simon have made it to being friends. Then again, Ghost is a private person.

A few short minutes of walking at a reasonably slow pace, Soap points to the door of a room where Price should be meeting with someone in a few minutes. You thank him with a smile and Soap pulls the door open for good measure — if you are someone Ghost knows he should at least be nice.

You pause in the doorway, tired eyes raking over the room as you hold the mug to your lips. There’s a small crowd in the room, all standing, killing time by doing absolutely nothing, if you had to guess. All eyes are suddenly on you and your smile falls into a frown. The lights are too bright. Price isn’t here yet.

One of the rookies from yesterday, now with a clean-shaven face, whistles loudly to get your attention. He's wearing a toothy grin and makes a show out of rubbing his palm against his chin. "Saved you a seat right here. Should be fine,” his eyes flicker to Soap and his grin broadens, “y’know, barracks bunny and all."

More whistles, probably from the same group as last night. Someone howls a laugh like a hyena. Someone else leers at you and Soap minutely adjusts his stance to shield you with his body.

"No, I like my men lookin' tired, borderline deceased from not sleeping. Those dark circles really do it for me, y’know? Also,” you grimace and click your tongue, “better not tell the big guy about the barracks bunny thing.”

“Who’s a barracks bunny?”

The room falls silent all at once.

He's told you he's a different man on the field, you know this, but there's a strange chill sinking into your bones when you hear Simon's voice and the hair on the back of your neck rises on its ends. This is Ghost, no doubt about it, this is the thing he keeps out of your home, your life, your time spent with him. You don't turn to look at him, just step to the side to fully fall into Soap’s shadow and allow Ghost entrance into the room.

He stops and turns to look at you and you take a breath in, hold it for a few short moments, and release.

“Me, apparently. If a barracks bunny is the same thing as a volleyball bunny.”

“It is.” He jerks his head to the side. “Which one?”

You purse your lips and let your eyes slide from him, unfocusing. “They all look the same,” you admit. There’s a hot flush of shame when you look at him again because shit, you could’ve at least glanced at the nametag on the man’s chest. Your ears begin ringing and you feel compelled to look away from him again.

Soap speaks up, says something you can’t quite catch over the aggressive ringing in your ears, and Ghost turns away. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches the group huddled together, now falling apart at the seams as they inch away from each other. The one in the very back of the group gets left out in the open and Ghost stops in front of him, posture stiff, arms at his sides.

His voice is clear and sharp, and it cuts straight through the ringing in your ears, right into you, and bounces around in your brain like a pinball hitting the obstacles in the machine.

"Repeat yourself."

"Sir, I—"

"If you said it to Jailbait, you'll say it to my face."

The man stammers. He’s pressing his palms against his cargo pants, hands trembling. Maybe his whole body is, too. You drop your gaze into the mug of cocoa in your hand and deliberate whether you should finish it. It looks cold.

"Speak up, soldier!"

You almost jump at the volume of his voice, the tone has you on high alert, like prey in front of a predator, staring into the eyes of certain death. Your spine straightens; your throat feels tight. You think you see the man’s eyes shining with tears. There is movement behind you and a hand rests between your shoulder blades — you nearly shoot out of your skin and another hand deftly snatches the mug before you can spill it or drop it, or both.

"I see you've met Jailbait."

Price steps past you, the mug still in hand, calm as can be. Your eyes jump from Ghost to Price, back to Ghost, and to the rookie for good measure. He's definitely going to cry about this later tonight. Maybe you should, too; for the morale.

"Jailbait," Price nods towards the door, “wait outside with Ghost, I’ll walk you to where you need to be in a minute.” You nod, slowly, like you’re trapped in a pit of molasses and maybe it’s just because it’s too early and you haven’t taken your medication yet or maybe you’re actively beginning to dissociate. Soap shuffles around you, careful to keep some semblance of personal space between your bodies as he angles himself out of your way to give you a clear shot for the door.

“Uh, yeah,” you mutter and turn, frigid like a wooden puppet on a string, to take the chance at escape.

“Did you need something, Soap?” Price asks. Soap shakes his head.

“Just…” he jerks his head towards you, “Jailbait,” he tries the name out and Price’s eyebrows jump and Soap is acutely aware of Ghost hovering in the corner of his eye, “asked if I knew where to find you.”

Price studies him for a moment, one that feels like it stretches on and on, then nods. “Thank you,” he says finally. Soap nods once and backs out of the room.

You and Ghost are hovering by the door and now Soap really is curious. He stops a few feet from you and turns to glance at the room but the door is slammed in his face.

You hear a “Didn’t you muppets see the fucking lanyard?” before the door closes. There’s a small window on said door to allow you a peek into the room. Price seems exhausted and you wince when you think of the bumpy cot you slept on; if it has your neck in seventeen different knots that probably require a professional masseuse, you wonder how he’s even surviving on it at his age.

Even if he is as tired as the dark circles under his eyes make him out to be, he doesn’t show it.

“Hey,” you begin, to neither Ghost nor Soap in particular, “what’s he telling ‘em?” On the other side of the glass, Price notices you staring and when you raise a hand to wave, he draws the blinds. You click your tongue in annoyance and turn away.

"Rule one: don't touch Jailbait, rule two: don't say stupid shit to Jailbait." Ghost's voice is rough, broad arms crossed over his chest, fingers digging into his own flesh. There’s many a small, crescent-shaped scars on his body. His shoulders are tense — his jaw, too, if experience is anything to go on — and you want to reach out, run your fingers down the long, jagged scar on his jawline, and remind him not to grit his teeth so hard.

Too many eyes.

Simon, hidden under the layer of skull-printed balaclava.

So, you settle for a smartass remark.

"This is your fault, by the way,” you say, jabbing a manicured finger into his chest, “you not only told me I couldn’t use my own name, but you also wouldn’t let me call myself Ghost Rider, which, arguably, would've been so much funnier. And clear…er."

Some of the tension eases from his body, shoulders hunching forward slightly and then back again as if he’s rolling out a kink. Even then, he’s wound tight, like a toy whose spring is about to give. You flex your fingers, fighting the urge to just reach out and touch him, to run your fingers through his hair and tug at the strands.

More settling, then.

“Hey, Si, can I paint your nails? Pretty please?”

He’s silent for a long moment, eyeing you. Simon Riley, you’ve learned, is not particularly emotive — but then again, being outwardly emotive isn’t very high up on your priority list, either. He can be emotive, between the few moments it takes him to take in his surroundings first thing in the morning, and when he slows down to enjoy the food on his plate or the hot shower you drag him under. Other than that, he can be blank, expression smoothed over into a guarded neutral.

Finally, Ghost sinks into a nearby office chair with a low sigh. He leans back, legs parted, and pats his thigh. Dark eyes bore into yours and oh, there’s that chill again. It strikes up your spine like lightning and buries itself in your shoulders, in your collarbones. There’s a hollowness in your throat.

You roll your shoulders to shake it off and close the distance between you to sit so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder, legs thrown across his other thigh. His hand rests on your bare leg, fingers digging into the flesh, slotting over old bruises and bites.

"Should I file this under jealousy or possessiveness? Because neither one is a particularly… attractive look. What’s next: telling me I can’t wear a nice dress because it’s ‘too revealing’?”

“Wear whatever the fuck you want; I can fight,” he says and his prize is your smile, bright and wide as you rummage in his hoodie pocket for the black nail polish you’d slipped in there earlier. You give it a good shake once you find it, the metal ball clinking against the glass around it.

"Language," you gently reprimand as you take the hand he offers.

"I’m sorry, darling." He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. You crack the nail polish open, hand the bottle to him, and begin your pampering on the down-low activity.

Silence settles over you, the chatter in the background a pleasant filler noise.

You don’t notice Soap staring at you, slack-jawed.

Ghost does.

“Yes, Soap?”

His voice is rough and you glance up for a moment, then back to your project.

“You two… know each other.” He motions between you and Ghost as if he’s having trouble processing what’s right in front of him. You hum an affirmative, careful not to get any of the black polish on his fingers as you coat Ghost’s nails.

“He’s my sugar daddy.”

Ghost exhales a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and you feel the corners of your lips curl up. A quick glance at him from the corner of your eye confirms it; the way the corners of his eyes crinkle means he’s smiling. One of his more rare, full smiles you have the privilege to see.

“Yeah, I pay for your expensive-ass fancy university degree." He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze.

"My second Bachelor's degree," you emphasize, holding up two fingers. "Oh, I got an offer, by the way — private firm. Pay’s a bit…” you shake your hand in a so-so motion, “iffy, considering the workload they’re trying to dump on me.”

“You’re greedy.”

“Hey, living is expensive. And maybe I want to pay for my own expensive-ass fancy university degree, ever think about that, hm? Anyway, I said I’d take a few days to think about it.” You turn to Soap again. “Yeah, he pays for my school. For now.” Back to Ghost, and you grin. “How’d you feel about being a sugar baby?”

Ghost huffs. His fingers begin massaging lazy circles against the bare flesh of your thigh.

“And what would I be doing all day long, then?”

“You can dig holes in the backyard or whatever it is men do.”

It’s not a no, you think.

Ghost sighs.

It’s not a no.

“Yes, MacTavish, we know each other,” Ghost finally says.

"Yeah, MacTavish, we're friends, that's all—he talks about you a lot, by the way, says you're like… besties."

Ghost gives your thigh a harsh squeeze and you almost yelp from the sudden force of his grip. "You're a pain in my ass, you know that?"

Friends don’t act like that. Friends don’t pay for an entire Bachelor’s degree worth of university fees. Friends don’t imply a relationship wherein the receiver of said Bachelor’s degree performs sexual favors.

At least not any friends he’s ever had.

But the other thing…

"You… ‘besties’?" Soap asks, a finger pointed at himself.

"Man, for military men, y'all are gullible as hell." You chuckle to yourself and continue your quest of hopefully making black nail polish a permanent staple in Simon's life. It’s simply one more of those things you think look good on him and he’s willing to accept your little dress-up games. (No, he doesn’t wear rings when he’s not on a job solely because you can’t keep your eyes off his hands when he does; absolutely not.) "But I do have a Bachelor's in comp-sci, and now I'm working on a Bachelor's in English 'cause maybe I want to go into the translating field one day. And Si is, for now, paying for roughly half of my tuition. Price called me over for a favor. And he does, sometimes, talk about you."

"You look really young for a second degree,” Soap blurts.

A chill settles deep into his bones when he meets Ghost’s dark gaze. He finds himself wishing for a time machine to spontaneously appear right here and now. With or without a future version of himself to shake some sense into him.

If a look could kill, Ghost would be shoveling Soap’s body towards the Earth's core right now.

Your sharp guffaw cuts into him and shakes the metal image of Ghost repeatedly stabbing him with a tactical shovel. When he tears his eyes away from his Lieutenant’s, he sees you hiding your smile behind the hand that had been holding Ghost’s.

“Simon didn’t believe — for, what, a year? — that I was 21 when we met.” You raise a brow at Ghost. “Literally it took some American asshole working at a bar and cutting my ID into pieces for him to believe me; asshole said it was ‘obviously fake’ — fuck you, dude, do you know how expensive it is to order that thing to an embassy? Very. Point is, Simon said my high school graduation photo looked like it was from middle school; believe me, I’m used to people saying I look like a really tall 12-year-old”

Ghost grumbles something under his breath and looks away. You'd pry more if you were in a cruel mood. Maybe you will pry more later.

“Jailbait!”

You lean to the side until you catch sight of Price in Soap’s shadow. He jerks his head in the opposite direction and you hastily cap the nail polish and slide it back into Ghost’s hoodie pocket. Before you slide off his lap, you pause, place your hands onto his balaclava-covered cheeks, and press a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Got your pocket knife?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Call me when you’re done; I’ll come pick you up.”

“Okay.”

A second kiss, this one to where the corner of his mouth should be, and then you stand, spare Soap a little goodbye wave, and bound over to Price.

There’s a pep in your step as Price leads you wherever it is you’re supposed to be. They fall into silence once you’re out of sight and Soap abruptly feels like a fish out of water. What does one even say about this? He doesn’t know but it would feel a lot more awkward to not say anything.

“They’re nice,” he says because he doesn’t know what else to say. Ghost grunts. “Congrats, Lt., you deserve someone who makes you happy.”

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