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after-witch · 4 years

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Under a Bridge (Yandere Norway x Country Reader)

Title: Under a Bridge (Yandere Norway x Country Reader)

Synopsis: You’ve been under Norway’s thumb, trapped and caged in more ways than one. You seek help from otherworldly beings, but a deal once made, can’t be undone.

(Request: Anonymous asked: Yandere Norway with a country s/o who can use magic and see magical creatures like him? Like how would he deal with them trying to get help/escape through their magical creatures help?)

Word Count: 1600

notes: yandere

“Your temperament is better,” he says quietly, settling down in the chair across from yours. A modest dinner, smoked fish and fresh vegetables from the garden, rests on the table between you. You made it tonight, without fuss, as you have been for many, many nights before. You even hummed while you did so, a song you heard long ago from a creature now turned to dust.

You smile sweetly--softly, still, but sweetly, and that is what matters.

“I know I’ve been… disagreeable,” you say, choosing your words carefully. You’re very careful now--you must be. Or all of your good behavior, your compliant cooking and helpful, listening ear, will have been for naught. “I understand now that you… only want what is best for me.” You say nothing more, gently lifting a piece of cooked vegetable to your lips, watching his reaction.

He doesn’t react much to your words. He never did, even when he was angry with you, in the time that you were a wild, fighting, nasty thing; back when you screamed out curses and begged every creature you knew might hear to help you, to no avail. Cut off from your homeland, cut off from your magic; you could feel it, tingling and stretching, trying to reach you across miles and miles and so many borders. But that feeling dimmed, day by day, week by week, until it was nothing but a soft ache in the back of your mind.

He was patient, you will give him that. He didn’t scream or hurt you, at least not in the way that you supposed captors might normally hurt an non-compliant, unwilling captive. He simply laid out his expectations, laid out his rules, and waited day by day for your resolve to weaken.

And now, his subtle smile over the table tells you all you need to know.

It means that he trusts that you’re behaving. It means that he trusts that you’ve accepted your place, small and cramped and caged in this little house with its little garden, cut off from your homeland and even the once-familiar creatures that helped you or hurt you or kept you company over the long stretch of your life.

It also means that he trusts you not to spike his dinner with a sleeping potion.

His mistake, of course.

You make small conversation, giving him updates about the garden and the animals, about repairs you’re going to make to this and that dress. He’s quiet, which is par the course--but you see over the increasingly mundane conversation that he’s starting to nod out. Slowly, slowly, until he mentions that he may sleep earlier than usual. You rise, so polite and caring now, and help him to bed. He barely makes it onto the freshly laundered bedding before he passes out.

You waste no time. Instinctively, quickly, you grab the bag you’ve prepared for your flight. Tucked underneath a floorboard, it’s enough to keep you safe and energized until you can get far away. You tucked some trinkets, things to barter with, should you find anyone (or anything) trustworthy enough in the forests.

Your dainty house slippers, made for trodding on soft boards and grass in the garden, are replaced with a pair of his sturdy boots. They’ll do you better in the forest. Without a second thought, you’re gone--you don’t even bother shutting the door, instead fleeing on foot; you leave the sounds of crying goats and concerned chickens and the rush of the stream alongside the cabin behind you.

Your time--how long, you wonder, how long--living a quiet, pampered house-life with Norway has left you weaker than you realized. You can no longer run for hours on end, strong and free, wind whipping behind you.

You’re forced to take breaks, resting on logs or on piles of leaves, trying to catch your panicked breath. You nibble on your rations and take the smallest sips from your flask. You yearn to take big gulps, especially when your lungs burn and ache from exertion, but the streams in the forest have always worried you. Back home, they were cheerful, clean; you might find someones and somethings inside, with wings or green skin or even tails, but they were always willing to part with fresh water for a trifle, a song or a compliment. Nothing serious. And they’d never tried to drown you, as far as you knew, which was more than you could say for some other water-logged entities back home.

Norway never let you fetch water from the stream near your cabin, always handling it himself. There may have been a reason for that, you remind yourself, opposing the increasing temptation to greedily drink down the precious water in your flask and refill it from a bubbling brook.

You refuse to sleep that first night, opting instead to keep running. Your potion, if crafted correctly, should keep him asleep for 2 full nights. And you want to get as much distance as possible between you in that time. The forest is unnerving, unfamiliar. You try to reach out for anything familiar--but whatever creatures inhabited Norway either ignored you or brushed you off as something unusual and foreign. Don’t bother with this one, you heard from a tree, though you can’t decide if that notion was offensive or not.

The sun is setting on your second day when you realize you can’t hold off on refilling your flask anymore. It was a silly notion, after all, to think you could ration water while your body was screaming from exhaustion.

You drain the last dribbles of water and follow the sounds of rushing water until you find something you didn’t expect to see: a waterfall, rushing down in great white bubbling, empting into a small river with unusually clear, glass-like water. You glance in the water. It’s clean… too clean, you realize immediately, to be an ordinary forest river. There is not a spec of debris, no sign of a fish, nothing but beautifully, tempting--, really--water that exuded coolness.

You know better. You know better and yet, you find your hands unwillingly gripping your flask as you untwist the cap. You lean down towards the stream, and in the glass-like reflection you can see something--more than one something--watching you from the middle of the river. Women, with long black hair stringing down past their naked waists; grinning, eager, beckoning you with their hands. Something more, too, on the other side of the river. A human figure, blonde and blurry, watching and waiting--but for what?

You want to pull away, to run until your lungs explode, but your hands feel like lead puppets, heavy and obeying someone else pulling the strings. You dip the flask down in the water, which is cold, so cold--and you can see the long strands of thick black hair coming closer, curling under the clear water like snakes. Some of the tendrils begin to loosely wrap around your wrists, like chains, and you’re briefly reminded of the cuffs Norway had once used--

Your unwitting reverie is suddenly broken by the sound of a low, rumbling laugh next to you. Your entire body jerks, the flask flying from your hands and into the water, to the sound of disappointed bubbling groans. You twist to the side and look up--and up, and up--at a massive forest troll. Covered in moss and leaves and even bird nests, some with eggs tucked neatly inside them.

“I--” you start, shaking your head, blowing away whatever enchantments had you. “If it was your intention, thank you for helping me. If it wasn’t your intention, thank you all the same.”

The troll laughs again, gruff and not altogether unpleasant. “I only wanted to see what he would do if I stopped them.” He gestures towards the other side of the river with his rock-like chin, and that’s when you realize--blonde, yes, blurry, no. It was Norway standing there on the grassy edge of the river, looking--for once--quite pissed off. The potion must have been weaker than you thought--damn recipe.

Your body falters. You want to run, but there’s nowhere you can go fast enough at this point. You look up helplessly at the troll and whisper out a plea, something you know you should never say to the unknown: “Please help me.”

The massive troll seems to consider for a moment, then opens his palm and shrugs. You glance at his giant teeth, some green and some sharp, but there don’t (for the moment) appear to be any human-sized bones inside. You climb onto his palm and he lifts you up high, cradling you against his mossy chest, while you try to ignore the sounds of Norway yelling--yelling, for once!--after you.

You feel the troll’s other hand patting the top of your head, shockingly gentle but condescending all the same. “Don’t worry,” he says, “He can’t enter my home to get you, my….” He mumbles now, and you can only hope you misheard the last word: “pet.”

#yandere hetalia #yandere norway #yandere x reader #yandere #apologies for the mishmash of folklore do do do #ahh also I know in norway this particular type of creature tends to be male #compared to other versions which are female #but #creative license

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