#first of some comparison sets PERHAPS

[corposurreal]

LAND OF 1000 DANCES - better man (2024) vs brit awards (1998)

[minglana]

its so good that my dad does not want me going into his field bc then i dont have to tell him that [redacted] me la repanpimfla completely

[rinnstars]

youre my world!

in which they accidentally reveal your relationship to the public (and confirms it)

bllk boys x reader (reo, nagi, rin, sae,): fluff, crack, pro-athletes bllk boys, drabbles, not proofread + likes n reblogs are appreciated!

reo mikage:

sometimes, contrary to what reo believes, he’s simply impulsive and childish in the face of love - excitedly posting a story of you and him at your favourite cafe, beaming at the way your hands merged with him so well - so well that he posted it to his main public account associated with both mikage corporation and his soccer career in manshine city where everyone witnessed it up for 12 hours before he wakes up to his PR calling him freaking out. to be honest, he thinks it shouldn’t be such a big deal right? its not as if the media hasn’t speculated over his relationship status for months now - from every little jewellery that fits perfectly onto his wrist, neck and fingers, from every visits to designer clothes store, to designer jewellery store, to designer shoe stores bringing out huge shopping bags that make his frame look petite in comparison, from every single photo he posts on his feed that they scruntised from the angle, to the place, to the clothes that seem to belong to a matching set somewhere somehow. its expected some thinks - he’s rich, he’s got a decent career, he’s charming both in looks and personality publicised in front of television for many to swoon over, there’s no way he isn’t taken just yet. but now, the focus that he’s so used to shifts to you, who’s only half a face is revealed but has gathered just as much attention a selfies he posts on social media at the request of his managers. and perhaps he now feels it - the jealousy that runs green at his heart as if its always been there tugging at the red muscle, and suddenly all he wants to do is to keep you in his treasure chest of things only he can have, keep you caged in his warm embrace like after practice forever, keep you safe away from the public side of the world that he’s practically born to face. but right at the same time, he wishes nothing more than to parade you in front of the world that he’s sure he loathes secretly in his heart, to share with the world of hte blessing that the world has given him in the bitter and harsh world, to express his love in the way he knows how to.

he thinks it was fate that he accidentally posted it on the wrong account, and who is he to go against the universe that have led you to him in this lifetime. and so, he posts a photo dump of you and him right on his main account - filled with pictures gathered and kept by him in his phone in a folder, whether that be a picture of you eating that sugary-sweet treat that he can still taste from the kiss he shared with you right after that photo, picture of you with him right after his first ever win in his career beaming ear-to-ear hat he looks at like its his lucky charm till this day, picture of you and him wearing that matching chikawa pajama at his apartment studying late into the night together for your finals together. and next time the reporter asks him, he doesn’t hesitate to profess his love of you to the world as though he’s waited his entire life to confess it out to the world.

nagi seishiro:

nagi seishiro is practically on the hunt list by paparazzis - infamously hard to capture on film not because of his bright white hair that seems to avoid flashes but rather that he rarely goes out of his apartment - and when he does, does the paparazzi goes crazy especially when he leaves his house on a blue moon, hands tangling with someone else’s. to him, it was just another day - dragged by you to go to wherever you want for the day that you surely deserve after sleeping over at his place for the past few days cramming for your assignments and whatnot in a quiet environment that just so happens to be his room whilst he lazes around in his bed playing his game with his earphones on glancing at you unbeknownst to you. it was supposed to be just another lunch date just like any others you’ve been with him, wearing whatever to go to your nearby cafe that practically recognises you and nagi and hides you at the corner booth where he first confessed to you out of pure impulse after seeing you chat excitedly about your interest with such passion he can’t help but feel his heart skip multiple beats at once. and yet here you both are giggling at the edits and theories his fans have came up with in defence against a dating rumour as you two lie on his bed, body practically melted together, limbs tangled with his — whether that be deeming you as his little sister that hes strangely close to, to deeming the photo as a breach of privacy, to deeming the photo as straight up edited. he thinks its sort of funny, isnt it clear you two are clearly together romantically? with his hands wrapped around yours that fits just right like a puzzle piece fitting into one another. his eyes glancing at you as though youre his entire world, his smile that rarely appears on his face as he listens to another of your passionate chats.

and he supposes he must be a pretty passive or straight up bad partner when on his next win, a reporter asks about you in such a demeaning and insulting way that ticks his brain the wrong way. he thinks its too much of a bother to get fired up, he thinks its useless to get all upset and red in the face, he thinks its only fools that let their emotion overtake them — yet its against that comment that he suddenly stands up that surprises his members, the reporters around and even the crowd, his mouth leaning onto the microphone that for the first time speaks of something other than mediocre and uninterested responses but the same passionate tone that he thinks you must be rubbing off him, announcing your relationship with him with nothing but love and pride in his voice. and maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t regret it and its no bother to defend you to the world - its you and him against the world anyways.

itoshi rin:

all of this started simply because of rin’s first win in the world cup - pulling at the promise ring attached to his necklace to kiss in celebration that went trending on social media. its not uncommon for football players to celebrate on field or have lucky charms - but for fans to see the logical and detached itoshi rin to indulge in such superstitious habits is unnerving, completely out of character of the cool and calm player that practically overwhelms the field completely. he doesn’t think much of it, youre his lucky charm anyways - every game he makes sure to kiss that polaroid of you that he took of you badly with your new digicam that is slightly blurry and slightly way too bright but he kisses that beam of yours anyways, every game he makes sure to hear that voice message of you wishing him luck in that cheery tone that just makes him replay it over and over until time is up and he practically runs out to the field for the game, and every game he makes sure to dedicate each and every step. kick, turn all to you. he doesn’t get why the reporters keep asking him the same old question - “are you dating someone?” the answer is obviously yes, but that doesn’t mean he can say it - whether it be due to his PR manager, whether that be due to not wanting the media in his personal life, whether that be simply to protect you from the spotlight. its irritating, standing under that spotlight as questions gets thrown at him again and again - all he can think about is you on the stand still waiting for him probably getting cold from the harsh and ruthless wind that your sweater might not be able to keep you warm despite it all, all he can think is the congratulationary kiss you give him after each game that melts both yours and his lips together that makes his entire face go uncharacteristically bright red and his eyes go wide, all he can think about is you so close to running off mid interview again like hes a spoiled child throwing a tantrum as the media described it just to see you a little earlier and spend a little more time with you rather than these irrelevant people. really, not even the harsh critics by the media and fans that compares him to a clone of his brother that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, not even his PR manager’s scoldings and nagging can deter him from running away from all of these to you, and hell hes sure not even if the world ended right in front him right now would he hesitate before running with all hes ever known, even faster than he runs during these matches to get to you, to at least kiss you once last time before you two turn into mash like those zombie movies that perhaps have gotten a little too into his head.

and he ticks his tongue again at that same question. are you dating someone? he sees you from the corner of his eye, walking away from the venue likely going to his car to get some warmth at least, and he cant stand to see you walk alone and so it leaves before he realises. “yes.” one word before he runs as though he’s back right into another life-or-death situation on the field. runs as though that is his only way of salvation, runs as though hes chasing after world - you. and its with you he thinks that he loses that logical and cold persona that everyone forces on him - because with you, hes just itoshi rin, your boyfriend and not any of the names the media and the world wants to throw on him whether positive of negative.

itoshi sae:

every time he goes back to japan, he swears his luck goes all the way down - first time where he goes home and finds out that his middle school had closed down where he went there the morning after, second time where he realises the convenience store he goes to closed down for the very week he was staying, and third time where he finds a photograph of him buying a ring for you going viral online. and he finds out when he sees you giggling hunched over on the other side of the red. his right side feels awfully ice cold without your arms wrapping around his body drooling in your sleep that he’s much more used to. if anything, he’s more surprised that youre awake - he doesn’t know what time it is, a stark contrast to him in spain that’s practically like a robot to the way he automatically wakes up at six on the dot and automatically does his exercise routine on auto pilot - all he knows is that its certainly too early for you to be leaving his side to laugh at god knows what. its only in your apartment that he gets to act all grumpy as though he’s back to been thirteen sleeping over at your house where he spends the night completely awake at your tight embrace on him as though he’s your plushie that’s now on the floor abandoned for his warmth and wakes up completely sleep-deprived that’s remedied by your bright grin. he doesn’t hesitate to turn a little to your side and snake his hands around your waist, his hands fitting right with your body, earning a flinch from you from his ice cold hands that contrasts with your warmth. its only then he realises his surprise has been completely spoiled - its not the only thing the media has pretty much put a dent in his life, constant comparison that drove a wedge deeper into him and his brother relationship, flip-flopping between praise and criticism of each and every of his gameplay on the field that makes him secretly doubt his own self that he doesn’t wish to admit, and now spoiling a surprise he was excited thinking of spending the two of your life together for the rest of eternity. your laugh clears any of the black cloudy joke that hazes over his mind with negative thoughts of self doubt, of insecurities, of irrational fear in your eyes, you don’t hesitate to hold him in your embrace, turning him back to his previous sleeping position - away from your phone, away from any distraction, away from the outside world. and he knows, he knows, even with that surprised spoiled, he’s sure you might just say yes to the diamond ring he still has kept in a dark red box right in his luggage tonight for a home-cooked dinner.

and he supposes he can give the media a glimpse of his life once in a while, playing the disappearance act for a few months as per usual before he posts a photo of you and him - draped in white cloth surrounded by white flowers with you and his friends and family at the side away from the camera, draped in jewelleries that he’s surprising not well-known to in the media that’s picky about the picture-perfect facade of itoshi sae that they have long decided on, draped in each others tugging at each other with nothing but love between both of you. in this world, its you and him whether or not with the media included or not, but he can’t help but to show you off to the world his angel can he?

[kaiwewi]

Their First Villain

Secret Santa gift for @the-modern-typewriter Prompt: "Scary villain x hero in a Christmas setting of your [the writer's] choice. Could go spicy, could go whumpy, could go unexpectedly sweet!" Hope you like this! Merry Christmas!! 🎅🎁

“You recognised me,” the villain observes, his tone unnaturally flat. His face betrays no emotion.

“Kinda hard not to, with your…” – the hero tilts their head at where the villain’s magic continues to spread, coiling around their limbs and securely fixing them in place – “…snake thingies?”

The individual tendrils really do vaguely resemble snakes, although the magic in its entirety reminds them more of some writhing alien monster plant from an old Sci-fi B-movie whose title they cannot remember. It’s not a good comparison anyway. The movie hadn’t been scary at all.

They experimentally try to wrestle one of their arms free, but despite the magic’s apparent fluidity, the moment they push or pull in any direction, whatever give appeared to be there all but disappears and they can’t move a millimetre.

“Oh.” The villain’s eyes widen. “You can see it.”

“See it. Feel it. Didn’t expect it to be this hot.”

An awkward pause follows.

They are decidedly not blushing. It’s just warm. All of them is so warm now that the villain’s powers have moulded themselves around the hero like something liquid but alive. Wherever the tendrils touch bare skin – their ungloved hands and that area just above their ankles where their pants don’t quite meet the rims of their boots – the raw energy buzzes, prickles just short of stinging.

They’d been shivering just minutes ago in their much too thin poncho and the not seasonally appropriate Agency office uniform. Well, they still are shivering, just no longer from the cold.

Where the villain’s magic is fever-hot, his scrutiny runs icy.

“You can see it, but not fight it,” he muses. “How curious. The Agency must be understaffed to send their defenceless little office drones out into the field.”

The hero would be glaring if the villain weren’t underscoring the point by pulling his magic tighter with the mere flick of a finger. That small, anxious sound that escapes them in response brings a self-satisfied grin to the villain’s lips.

“It’s Christmas,” the hero says, once the magic has settled again.

The villain raises a brow.

“Most of the regulars are on holiday, Christmas being a time best spent with family … or so I’m told.”

“Yet you are working.”

“Don’t have anyone.” They aren’t technically without family just … Sometimes, family isn’t a place of refuge and welcome. Not a home to turn to for holiday celebrations or company. Some families fashion themselves exclusive clubs with strict rules that refuse or revoke memberships as they please. The hero forces some levity into their tone. “I have nowhere else to be today, so, I’m helping out here.”

The villain chuckles. “Helping is perhaps not what I would call that.”

“Hey, I did recognise you,” they say, defensively.

“And look where that got you.” His smile is sharper than before, meaner. “Am I your first villain? My heartfelt condolences.”

They don’t dignify that with an answer. But the answer is yes. The villains they watched being interrogated through one-way mirrors at HQ don't count.

“Pity,” the villain says with zero warmth, “that you couldn’t just look the other way. What is it with you people that you're always so eager to cause unnecessary conflict.”

“Reporting suspicious behaviour is kind of my job.” It comes out barely above a whisper and carries the distinct cadence of an apology.

“Ah yes, and my mere existence struck you as suspicious behaviour because …”

Admittedly, once they’d recognised the villain, they hadn’t taken the time to consider his appearance beyond the magic he’d been wearing around his shoulders like a particularly weaponizable scarf. The lack of a combat suit in favour of a sleek, dark coat over a woollen jumper and cargo joggers – either an outfit designed to blend in or just what the villain happens to like to wear when he isn’t working – hadn’t registered any more than the total absence of weaponry other than his powers. And while he could have hidden those better, it’s not like he could have simply left them at home.

There hadn’t been time to ponder. It had all happened so fast. Their eyes had met, and a moment later the hero had already been scrambling away from the crowd, past a stall selling mulled wine and into the nearest alley, where they’d scrolled through their contacts with stiff, unfeeling fingers. The villain had caught up with them before they’d managed to call for backup.

Their gaze darts to the remnants of their smashed phone, sprinkled across the muddy snow, mere metres away but entirely useless even if they could reach it.

What if the villain hadn’t had anything nefarious planned? What if the hero’s brain had naturally jumped to the most prejudiced conclusion all on its own?

Of course, it is unfair to treat his mere presence as if it is a crime. But the things he could do ...

They think about the parents with their cameras, filming their ice-skating children, the squealing toddlers on the merry-go-round, the nice old ladies selling tea out of the back of a car.

“You could be a danger to all those innocent people,” they defend their judgement.

“And you could be a danger to me,” the villain replies coolly. “Would be unwise, letting someone roam free who can pick me out of a crowd with a glance. Perhaps I should thank you for revealing yourself. Very ill-advised. But quite convenient. You were so obvious about it, too.”

He has crossed the distance between them while speaking. Close enough now to reach out and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind their ear with his cold, slender fingers. His other hand settles almost gently on their throat, atop the magic that has slivered around their neck at some point during the conversation.

The tip of a new tendril is in the process of worming its way lower, nestling into the collar of their shirt. It laps against the crook of their neck and they cringe away from the touch as much as the magic allows. It doesn’t hurt. It would be so much easier if it did. The touch is light; it kind of tickles and, given the overall direness of the situation, the hero really isn’t in the mood for that. Or, they shouldn’t be.

Unhelpfully, their traitorous mind supplies them with a thoroughly inappropriate image of what else someone who isn’t the enemy could be doing to them with magic such as this.

“Tell me,” the villain says as the power shifts upwards, tilting their chin back with the movement, so his nails can bite into the newly exposed skin below their jaw, “is there anything else troublesome about you, or is it just the eyes?”

He looks most pleased when their breath hitches despite their best efforts to remain stoic. His grip tightens. He’s studying them intently, staring at their eyes like those are priced gems he considers adding to his collection.

Maybe, underneath the mockery, he actually does consider them somewhat of a threat. If he didn’t, why would he be looking at them like that.

It’s stupid, truly and utterly stupid, to feel flattered. This is not respect, they know, just sharp, calculating consideration. His attention promises imminent danger, might turn lethal at any second. It’s not something they should revel in. Still, it feels good, too – being seen.

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

They struggle to focus their vision but all the twinkling Christmas lights in the trees are starting to smudge into dull, red and golden blurs. Vertigo is clawing at them.

There is absolutely nothing they can do against the villain's grip. They're so pitifully out of their depth.

They think about their bland, only half-furnished two-room apartment; their first day at the Agency HQ; their nth day – no more eventful than the first – sitting at the exact same desk in the exact same office and working on the exact same old computer; their colleagues’ looks of pity when their 14th application for a transfer to field work is being denied and their boss tells them, in stern admonishment, that their skill sets just aren’t suited to solo missions. They think about her condescending smile when she finally does assign them the Christmas market job, clearly convinced the worst thing that could possibly happen here is people getting drunk enough on punch to start throwing punches.

They think of their first split-second impression of the villain as just another guy standing by the ice rink with a cup of something steaming in his hands and a mellow, unguarded smile curving his lips.

They hope this montage doesn’t count as their life flashing before their eyes. It’s way too sad a summary of their depressing lack of accomplishments.

They think, with equal parts age-old bitterness and new-found sarcastic vindication, about their colleagues’ infantile, unofficial, end-of-the-year office rankings where flashier heroes with more impressive abilities always receive titles such as most likely to hook up with a hot reporter or most epic battle or best one-liners.

Meanwhile, all the hero has to show for are three consecutive wins of least likely to die on the job.

Which might have been a reassuring sentiment if it weren’t so clearly code for “you’ll never be a real hero”. Real heroes risk their lives on the job all the time.

Well, look at them now!

Will their colleagues manage to come up with a new title for them in time, they wonder, if the villain kills them now, just a week before this year’s poll results will be released?

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

They should be trembling in terror. Might have, if the villain’s magic weren’t encasing them so – tight but soft and deceptively warm, lulling them in. The sticky heat of it leaves them squirming, stuck in a confusing limbo between gooey not-quite-discomfort and hot-bath sluggishness.

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

It’s impossible to discern how much time has passed or when exactly the villain has released them; but their thoughts are beginning to clear and their brain catches up to the fact that there is air in their lungs again, and that the breathless, hiccuping gasps uncontrollably tumbling out of their mouth aren’t sobs. It’s laughter.

“Are you enjoying this?” The villain sounds incredulous.

They shake their head. “I don’t know,” they manage, between hysterical giggles. “Maybe. Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

“I’ve never” – they pant, still struggling for air – “felt this alive before.”

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

There is a long pause in which the villain silently stares at them while they are more or less regaining control over their breathing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” they say then, perfectly aware they must seem most unhinged. “Bet you don't even know what boredom is. Because your life is fun. Mine is not. I practically live at my stupid job, and my stupid job doesn't even pay well. No one there gives a fuck about me. And nothing exciting ever happens. So can I please just have this one damn moment without being judged?”

The villain hums, low. “And here I thought we were ruining each other’s days.” He presses a hand to their forehead. “Did the heat fry your synapses?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned. His other hand comes up to cup the nape of their neck, as if he can’t help but reach out. Just as they can’t help but lean into the cooling touch. His gaze drops, as if drawn, to their lips. “Or, are you just naturally this unusual?”

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

“Are you going to kiss me?” they ask, because yes their synapses are definitely fried and they do not care about consequences, awkwardness, or sanity anymore.

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“I’d certainly much rather be kissed than killed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, smirking. “But we've established I’m not about to kill you. And that wasn’t a yes.”

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

They scoff. “You didn’t ask for consent first when you strangled me five minutes ago.”

The villain laughs again, in genuine delight judging by how his magic ripples and purrs.

“Okay, fair enough,” he whispers, shifting so his lips almost brush theirs.

The kiss that follows is sweet, surprisingly chaste, and initiated by the hero.

“So, since you mentioned earlier you have nowhere else to be today,” the villain says, afterwards, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Have you ever had the pleasure of being kidnapped?”

Pleasure, as it turns out over the course of the next few hours, is an understatement.

If anyone at the office were to find out what the hero has been up to during their first (and best) and possibly only solo field mission, not only are they guaranteed to get fired, their colleagues will also surely create an entirely new office ranking category in their honour:

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

[sukunahs]

to distant lands - ch.3: denial | ryomen sukuna

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)

summary: ryomen sukuna, your father's favourite knight, has been assigned as your personal guard. You find that your dislike of him slowly develops into something else as he tangles himself in your life in ways you never could've expected.

word count: 9k

fic content: 18+ mdni, smut, princess!reader, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, fluff, angst, protective sukuna, violence, confusing emotions, reader is chaotic, graphic violence, combat, bullying, jaelousy

authors note: I've been listening to the frieren soundtrack while writing this and its sooo good for fantasy inspiration

series masterlist | AO3 | chapter one | previous chapter | next chapter

“He carried you back to the castle?!” 

“Yes - stop laughing.” Yuki was practically howling at this point, finding great joy in your struggles.

It had been a while since the two of you had last spoken, with your last little get together being a few weeks before Sukuna had been assigned as your Knight. Subsequently, you had a lot to fill her in on. 

Yuki was already quite familiar with Sukuna, greeting him warmly when the two of you had shown up at her door that afternoon. That had come as a shock to you - you’d never have expected that Sukuna and Choso were actually relatively close, especially considering how much of a gentle soul Choso seemed to be in comparison to your Knight. 

According to Yuki, the two men had rode into battle side-by-side back when the Kingdom was at war with the Zenins, and just like everyone else, Choso subsequently had great respect for Sukuna. 

In this case it seemed that the respect went both ways, with Sukuna happily going off to spend some time with Choso in his weapons room while they left you and Yuki alone to have afternoon tea and chat. 

You were a little put-out that Sukuna didn’t tell you about his friendship with Choso before you’d shown up at the house - he’d known where you were going after all, and you’d had plenty of time to chat on the walk over. Perhaps he’d just been keen to see that look of surprise on your face when Yuki greeted him with familiarity. 

He’d been looking at you a lot lately.

About a week had passed since that night in the garden, and you’d found yourself feeling a lot better. You’d been a little down for a while, with memories of your mother coming to your head all too often, but ever since that night you’d been feeling a lot lighter. 

You hated to say it, but you knew you had Sukuna to thank for that. 

When he’d arrived at your side that night you’d expected cruelty from him, assumed that he’d openly mock you. But he hadn’t. He’d sat there and he’d listened - he’d even shared his own experiences. 

You still weren’t really sure what to make of it all. But in that moment you knew that you certainly didn’t hate him. 

Since then, things between the two of you had been a little odd. You’d put a pause on your evil schemes for now, having reached at least a certain level of comfort with his presence. He was still on thin ice, but you’d run out of good ideas for now anyway. 

He’d continued to tease you as always, but there was something about his tone that had shifted - as though the act of bothering you was now done out of fondness rather than dislike. 

You weren’t sure if you were reading too much into it. 

Either way, things had been good. It was as though you were seeing each other as people for the first time, beyond just the societal roles that you had been placed in. You might’ve even been enjoying his company, but you weren’t sure you were ready to admit that to yourself. 

“You guys seem okay now though.” Yuki said, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Manhandling you back to the castle aside.” She had a massive grin on her face. 

“Yeah…” 

On reflection, you wondered if you’d even hated that scenario. You were so used to people treating you with unwavering reverence - kneeling at your feet, taking care to choose the right words, acting like you were made of glass. Sukuna was the first person ever to treat you like you weren’t a princess. 

“You’re totally his type.” 

Those four words practically had your brain shutting down. 

“What?” you asked, almost wondering if you’d imagined her saying that. 

“Oh come on, I was in the same room as the two of you for all of three minutes and he spent like over half the time staring at you.” 

“That’s literally his job!” You argued. 

Yuki gave you a disbelieving look. “I doubt that adoring gaze he has when he looks at you is in the job description.” 

“You’re reading into it too much!” 

She was, right? Sukuna had tormented you for years, since long before he was assigned as your Knight. Yes, the evening in the garden had been a little confusing, but surely his feelings for you would be neutral at most at this point. 

“Thin line between love and hate, you know.” Yuki mused, a mischievous grin on her face. “Just like how you can't stand him but he’s also totally your type.” 

“That’s not true.” You denied childishly. 

Even you didn’t really buy your words, because if you were being honest he was your type. You’d always thought that he was attractive, who wouldn’t? He was so tall and muscular, his hair looked so soft, and his eyes were such a pretty shade of red. Not to mention, you liked a strong and protective man. 

However, despite ticking all of those boxes, he was also Sukuna, and Sukuna was not your type. 

Yuki just rolled her eyes, giving you a knowing smile as she sipped on her tea. “I give it a month at best - I bet you’ll be all over him.”

You glared at her, unwilling to dignify that statement with a response. You’d planned to tell her about the dream that you’d had about him, but you certainly weren’t going to now - it would just stoke the flames, and the last thing you needed was her confiding in Choso and all of this getting back to Sukuna. 

That would be the end of the world. 

“How have you been lately, Yuki?” You asked, trying desperately to move the conversation away from the tattooed menace. 

She shrugged. “Same as ever really. Cho has been pretty busy with work so I’ve mostly been entertaining myself. Although we are going away in a couple of days for a romantic stay at the lakeside manor - I really need to get out of this heat.” 

You nodded in agreement, summer was in full swing and the heat was almost unbearable in the town and castle during the day. It wasn’t unusual for nobles to flock to the coast and countryside at this time of year. You wondered if your father would let you go off to your home by the beach this year, it would be nice to have a change in surroundings. Although you supposed that you’d have to bring Sukuna with you. 

He wasn’t the kind of guy that you could imagine on the beach. You’d like to see it. 

“It means that I’m not going to be here for Utahime’s little party though.” Yuki continued, and you let out a deep sigh, dragging your hand down your face in exasperation. 

“You’re kidding right? I don’t want to go there without you.” You whined.

Utahime was another of the town’s noblewomen. She was a nice enough woman, the kind of person who you were happy to meet up with on a one-to-one basis. The problem lay in the parties that she liked to throw at her estate. They were always swarming with nobles, most of whom you either didn’t know or didn’t like. 

Despite you generally having the highest social standing of anyone at the party, you always just found that you didn’t fit in there. The men either treated you like a child, a trophy, or disregarded you entirely, their opinions on you too moulded by Kashimo’s overprotective nature. The women were worse, judging your every action and throwing passive aggressive jabs at you in saccharine voices at every opportunity. 

You hated those parties. You just wanted to keep to yourself, but every few months you’d get one of those beautifully written invitations delivered to you and your father would order you to go along, telling you that it was your job as a princess to socialise with others of your class. It sucked. There was only one time that you’d made a friend at one of those gatherings and that was Yuki herself. Outside of her everyone that you met either wanted something from you or wanted to see you fail. It was terribly lonely. 

Usually you and Yuki would find some quiet corner where you could avoid all of the hustle and bustle, giggling at the sight of all the noblemen and ladies taking themselves entirely too seriously. 

But it looked like this time you were going to have to face it alone. 

“Sorry!” Yuki said. “But I think I’m going to go crazy if me and Cho don’t get some quality alone time soon.” 

“I get it.” You mumbled. You weren’t happy about it, but you weren’t going to force Yuki to come along and share in your misery - if you’d had an opportunity to get out of it yourself you would have. 

“Besides, it's only a garden party this time right? It won’t be as formal as the usual evening ones so you can probably just slip out early.”

You hummed in response, you sure hoped that was the case. You weren’t sure how much attention you could cope with at the moment. Everything that had happened with Sukuna over the last few weeks had put you in a relatively volatile mental state - dealing with the catty comments of certain noblewomen might just push you over the edge. 

“I’ll be back for the Midsummer Banquet in a couple of weeks though! Me and Cho wouldn’t miss that for the world.” 

You let out a heavy sigh. “Don’t remind me of that.” 

The Midsummer Banquet used to be one of your favourite events when you were younger - a day of food and festivities held in the castle. There’d be performers, artists, merchants and other nobles, both from the Cerulean Kingdom and further afield, milling around the castle grounds during the day, and then in the evening a big feast would be held in the great hall for those invited, followed by dancing and other general revelling. 

It sounded great. It was great. But unfortunately for you, your father also liked to use the gathering as an opportunity to get you acquainted with potential suitors. It was no secret to you that he was keen on you getting married in the next few years - that was one of your main responsibilities as a princess, making sure that you strengthened the bond with another nation by offering your hand in marriage. 

You weren’t keen on the idea. You never had been. The many books that you’d read throughout your childhood had focussed heavily on the importance of true love. You didn’t want to marry someone for political gain. 

But it was your duty. So you sat quietly by as your father introduced you to every suitor within two-hundred miles, smiling politely and pretending to be interested in what they had to say while you secretly prayed that your father would let you get away with just a few more years of being single. 

He was running out of patience with you though - you were well aware of that. Not to mention, the shaky relations between nations at the moment meant that this was the best time to secure alliances through marriage. Your father was probably going to be especially pushy at this banquet, and there wasn’t much you could do about it. 

Yuki was well aware of your situation and gave you a sympathetic look before an impish smile crept onto her pretty face. “What’s wrong with meeting suitors? Too busy thinking about Sukuna to consider anyone else?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah right.”

—

It was late by the time you and Sukuna left Yuki’s house. Neither of you had noticed the time passing by, too engaged in your separate conversations to realise that the afternoon had thoroughly gotten away from you. 

The lanterns in the street were lit, and the city was bustling with activity not unusual for a friday night. The Cerulean Nation was known for its love of art and culture, and the weekends were generally filled with plays and operas being put on, with performers lining the streets and playing to the civilians out shopping and drinking their free time away. 

You generally weren’t out at these sorts of times, not since your mother had died. Your father had become too anxious about having you in crowds. Just another overly-excessive rule that he had implemented around your safety. 

He wouldn’t be happy that you and Sukuna had stayed out this late. Although you assumed that for once, the blame would fall onto Sukuna and not you. Funny how the one time you weren’t actively trying to get him into trouble was the time that it happened. What had you been putting all that effort in for? 

“Did you have a good afternoon?” Sukuna asked, looking down at you as you made your way leisurely through the streets. 

“Mmmm, it had been ages since I’d last visited.” You said. “Didn’t know you and Choso were such good friends.” 

“He’s alright, better than most of them anyway.” Sukuna seemed a little distracted from the conversation as you moved through groups of people, his eyes darting about on the lookout for any sort of threat. 

“Most of them?” You asked. 

“Noble knights.” He said gruffly. “Spent time with a lot of them back when we were fighting the Zenins. They’re generally pretty cowardly and stuck-up, but Choso isn’t like the rest - he keeps to himself and works hard, I wouldn’t have even known he was a noble if not for the fancy armor he’s got.” 

“Tell me about it.” You murmured. Cowardly and stuck-up was probably the best descriptor for most nobles, save for the rare few like Yuki and Choso who had their heads screwed on straight. It was why you hated a lot of the social gatherings that you had to attend, why you dreaded meeting any suitors that your father might line up for you. 

“You know you’re a noble, right princess?” Sukuna was looking down at you now, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as you pouted back at him. 

“I’m not annoying like the rest though.” You said decisively. 

“I don’t know about that. I find you plenty annoying.” 

You glared up at him, easily taunted by his words despite the shit-eating grin that currently resided on his face making it clear that he was looking for a reaction. “You’re not allowed to talk to me like that.” 

“Oh? You gonna stop me princess? I’d love to see you try.” His voice was a little too low and seductive for your liking, and you looked away from him quickly, unsettled by the heat that flared in your gut at his tone.

“Shut up.” He chuckled at that, his gaze lingering on the side of your face and no doubt noticing the blush flaring across your cheeks. 

What a nuisance.

Your embarrassment was only heightened as the two of you approached the town square, situated just a few streets away from the castle gate. It was rammed with people drinking and dancing, and with so many people around Sukuna ended up placing a protective hand on your back to guide you through safely. 

It felt like your skin was burning through your dress beneath his touch, the warmth of his hand so gentle and strangely familiar. You hated it, you wanted to rip your skin off for enjoying it this much. 

You were just turning around to complain at him when it happened. 

The glint of a blade in the crowd, a hooded figure beelining towards you. You didn’t even notice it at first, so preoccupied with Sukuna and totally unaware of your surroundings. It was only when the man was practically right at your side that realisation hit you. 

You were in danger. 

And while you could understand that fact, it was as though your brain couldn't process what was happening fast enough to react. You were just standing there, frozen to the ground as the man with ashen skin and one eye brought his blade up to you. 

You couldn’t do anything. 

But Sukuna could. 

One moment the blade was heading straight for your chest, the next moment the man’s hand was on the floor, the blade clattering to the ground with it. Sukuna’s sword had sliced clean through his wrist, ensuring your safety first and foremost. 

Your Knight stood beside you, towering over the man, his longsword dripping with blood. The look in Sukuna’s eyes was serious, an expression that you’d never really seen him wear before. He looked menacing, if you were the assassin before him you’d be terrified. Maybe you should be terrified of him right now. 

The crowd around you scattered, screams and cries sounding out from the townsfolk as they scrambled away from the scene. Maybe you should be running too, but you couldn’t - too transfixed by Sukuna and whatever he was going to do next. The assassin was howling in pain, his remaining hand clasped around his wrist where the fresh wound was spurting blood. 

With his free hand, Sukuna pushed you behind him so that your attacker could no longer see you. Or perhaps he was doing it so that you’d have a chance at not witnessing what he was about to do next. 

But you found yourself peeking past his broad back, watching with equal amounts of awe and horror as Sukuna lifted his longsword and swung it swiftly through the man’s neck, giving him no opportunity to defend himself, not even the chance to utter a few final words before his body was sent to the floor - his head removed cleanly from his shoulders. 

Some of the blood from the blow splattered back onto Sukuna’s face and armor, his sword coated in the red liquid. He didn’t seem disgusted or unnerved by it, and all you could think about as you looked up at him was how natural he seemed to be in this environment - it was like he was made for this. 

Before Sukuna could do anything else, some nearby City Guards came sprinting up to the two of you. You were vaguely aware of Sukuna speaking to them with authority, probably making sure that they cleaned up the body and warning them to be on high alert for any others. But you couldn’t really make out his words. 

Your ears were ringing, eyes fixated on the floor, watching the way that blood was seeping through the cracks in the cobblestones. The lifeless eye of the assassin was staring up at you from where his decapitated head lay on the floor. It felt like you were going to throw up. 

It wasn’t like you were a stranger to the existence of violence in the world, war had been a constant throughout your life. But it had always been in far off places, not something that would ever step foot into your life. But now here you were, that chaos that you had always been so far removed from was staring you in the face. 

Sukuna’s hands were on your shoulders all of a sudden, grounding you. You could see that he was speaking but the words weren’t getting through to you as you stared blankly at his lips. There was blood on his cheek and it occured to you that he was the only reason you were still alive right now. 

Your heart was pounding desperately in your chest and it felt like you couldn’t get enough air to breathe. It felt impossible to focus on Sukuna with the body of the assassin just mere feet away from you. There were a million thoughts rushing into your head all at once and completely overwhelming you. 

Was your father right? Was the risk to you far greater than you’d ever understood? If Yaga was still your Knight, would you even still be standing here right now? Or would it be you bleeding out on the cobblestone? 

“Princess.” Sukuna’s voice was soft but insistent, seemingly pleading for you to give him your attention, to stop drifting off into some far-off space. His brow was furrowed with worry. “You’re okay.” He murmured gently as he raised his hand up to your face, tenderly brushing away a stray tear that you didn’t even notice had rolled down your cheek. 

“I need to get you back to the castle. It's not safe for you to stay out here.” 

You tried to do as he said, trying to get your body to move, but your legs felt like jelly - as though you’d totally collapse if you even attempted to take a step. It felt pathetic. You looked up at Sukuna desperately and he seemed to understand. 

Without hesitation he swept you off your feet, holding you in his arms. It was different to the last time he’d picked you up - instead of flinging you carelessly over his shoulder he was carrying you carefully, in a manner more befitting of a princess. You were aware that the blood splattered on his armor was rubbing onto your dress, but in that moment you couldn’t bring yourself to care, letting yourself settle into his arms as he brought you back to the castle. 

A few members of the city guard accompanied the two of you back to the castle gate, clearly on high alert for another attack. Thankfully it seemed that this particular assassin was working alone. 

Sukuna carried you back to your quarters. You were grateful for that - he probably should’ve gone straight to find your father with you in tow, to report the incident to him immediately, but you were in no mood for such an encounter. 

Upon arriving in your chambers, Sukuna placed you down on the bed. You remembered the last time he’d carried you up here, he’d dumped you rather unceremoniously onto the bed and laughed when you’d glared at him. This time he was uncharacteristically gentle, setting you down on the sheets as carefully as he could, like you might shatter if he did anything else. 

“Are you okay?” He asked. His eyes were darting around, seemingly examining your body checking to see if the assassin had caused you any damage without him noticing. 

“Physically, yeah.” Your voice came out a little meek and you felt embarrassed. It's not like anything had happened really, the assassin hadn’t touched you, you were fine and yet your body wouldn’t stop shaking. You were terrified. 

Sukuna swallowed hard as he looked at you, his red eyes clouded with concern. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked. 

“No.” You said simply, reaching around on the bed for Sir Bounce-a-lot, fiddling with his fur in your hands as you struggled to stay composed under Sukuna’s intense gaze. You didn’t know what you’d say if you were going to talk about it. You’d barely even processed what had happened, let alone had time to sort through how you were feeling - it was all too much. 

Sukuna sighed softly and you almost felt bad for brushing off his attempts to help you, you hadn’t even thanked him yet for saving your life. But it felt like you were incapable of getting any words out without a whole cascade of tears coming out with them, so you stayed silent as your Knight turned towards the door. 

“I need to report this to the King.” He said, running a frustrated hand through his hair, it was evident that a conversation with your father was the last thing he needed right now. “I’ll come back to check on you later.” 

You stayed put on the bed for a while after he’d left, eyes fixed on the door, almost hoping that he’d come back in, even just to sit in silence with you so that you weren’t alone with your thoughts. 

But you knew that your father was going to be livid, and that Sukuna would likely spend the next few hours getting his ear chewed off by the King and his rage. So you crawled under the covers, too exhausted to remove your bloodied gown, clinging on to your beloved rabbit plushie and waiting for sleep to find you. 

—

As Sukuna had anticipated. Kashimo was not happy about the events that had transpired that evening. 

The King had already retired to his chambers by the time you and Sukuna had made it back to the castle, he was the type of man who liked to sleep early and rise before the sun was up. So, not only was he livid about the situation that Sukuna had to lay out for him, he was also cranky about having been woken up. 

Not ideal. 

“How could you have been so foolish?” Kashimo snapped at him. “Your one job is to keep my daughter safe-” 

“And I did that.” Sukuna snapped. He was more than happy to pay respect to the King, but he also wasn’t going to be pushed around - it just wasn’t in his nature. 

“But she wouldn’t have been in the situation in the first place if you’d brought her back earlier. She shouldn’t be out late at night.” 

Sukuna shrugged. “Noted. But this could have happened in the middle of the day too - we were in the middle of a crowd. And I did my job perfectly, the assassin is dead and she’s untouched. Shaken up, but fine.” 

Kashimo was quiet for a moment as he looked at Sukuna, his eyes narrowed, clearly trying to decide if he was willing to put up with Sukuna talking back at him in the way that he was. Evidently he felt that Sukuna’s worth was too great for him to be chastised, so he let out a sigh. 

“Thank you.” He said, catching Sukuna a little off guard. “I’m grateful that my daughter is safe. Please just don’t let her out so late next time - the risks are much higher.” 

Sukuna nodded. “There’s another thing that you might want to know about.” 

Kashimo regarded him with interest. “Oh?” 

“I believe that the assassin was affiliated with the Zenins. He had their insignia on his belt - he could’ve stolen it from someone of course, maybe he even killed one of them and looted their body, but I doubt it.”

Kashimo sighed, evidently troubled by this development. Sukuna wasn’t surprised by his concern - even though the Cerulean Nation had managed to push them back a few years ago, mostly thanks to Sukuna’s own hand, things were a little different now. Now the Zenins understood what it was that they were up against, there was no element of surprise, and they’d had years to amass forces. If they wanted to go to war again things would get bloody. 

“I’ll have some of my spies look into it.” The King said. It came as no surprise to Sukuna that Kashimo already had some of his own people infiltrating the Zenin court, although getting information back from his spies was proving to be tricky. The Zenins were well aware that there were likely rats in their Kingdom, and were pretty strict on checking any communications that were sent out. 

“Is she okay? My daughter?” Kashimo asked. 

Sukuna thought on the answer that you’d given him earlier. Physically, yes you were fine. Mentally? He wasn’t so sure. The image of you, sitting on your bed with those vacant eyes, filled his chest with a desperate sort of pity. It had felt like you weren’t even really in the room with him. 

“Like I said, she’s shaken up.” He said carefully, not wanting to put words in your mouth. “You should probably go and check on her yourself in the morning.” 

The King let out a thoughtful hum. “I don’t think I’ll have time.” Sukuna felt his heart drop in his chest at those words, so flippantly delivered. He wasn’t expecting such a response from a man who’s number one concern seemed to be his daughter’s safety. “I’m going over to Gojo’s Palace. Between this assassination attempt and the reports I received from him today about Zenin corruption in his nation, it's imperative that I speak with him in person.”

Sukuna’s red eyes were wide. He understood that Kings had responsibilities that they couldn’t put off, but to not even check on his daughter after she was almost killed? 

He thought back to the conversation that he’d had with you in the garden the other night, considering the way that you’d suggested that your father didn’t truly love you, but instead saw you as an extension to your mother, an asset that he needed to protect rather than his daughter. 

His heart clenched in his chest. Your existence seemed more and more lonely the longer he spent at your side. It seemed as though Yuki was your only true friend, and you didn’t even have a father that you could rely on for emotional support. 

You were a lot more like him than he’d ever realised. 

“You’ll make sure she’s doing okay though, won’t you? Yaga used to do a lot of that sort of thing.” Kashimo said. 

Oh. No wonder you were so angry when he was brought in as Yaga’s replacement - you didn’t just lose a Knight, but also a confidant, the sort of person who was giving you attention that you’d usually seek out from a parent. 

“I’ll make sure she’s okay.” Sukuna confirmed, trying not to let bitterness seep into his tone. 

He had no problem checking on you. Ever since the night in the garden he’d felt more and more genuine affection for you creeping into his chest, no matter how hard he tried to push it aside. But he’d lost a certain amount of respect for Kashimo today - knocking on your door and making sure you hadn’t had a total mental breakdown wasn’t that tough of an ask. 

—

The next few days were difficult. As promised, Kashimo was already gone by the time Sukuna woke up the next morning - heading over the mountains with a handful of his advisors to meet Gojo in his home. Sukuna couldn’t really understand the urgency - Gojo would be coming here for the Midsummer Banquet in a few weeks anyway, it probably would’ve been easier to just hold off on the conversation until then. 

But Sukuna wasn’t the King, and it wasn’t his decision to make.

That first morning, he’d waited outside your door as usual. Your normal wake-up time came and went, but he brushed it off as nothing - you were likely exhausted from the previous night, probably still very shaken up, he couldn't really blame you if you were finding it hard to rouse yourself from sleep.  

However, as the hours started to roll by he couldn’t stop anxiety from building in his stomach. He knocked on the door, calling out to you but getting no response. He knocked a few more times before flinging the door open himself, barging into your room. 

His eyes focussed on you immediately, curled up beneath the sheets, only the very top of your head visible from where he was standing. He could see the steady rise and fall of the blankets, signalling that at the very least you were still breathing, but it did little to ease the worry that clawed at him. 

“Princess.” He spoke softly as he approached the bed, considering pulling the blankets away from you but thinking better of it, he had no idea how fragile your mental state might be right now. 

“Go away.” Your voice was muffled, but he could still tell how tearful you sounded. He hesitated for a moment, you’d told him to go away a lot since he’d started this job and he’d never paid any mind, taking great amusement in your frustration at being stuck with him. But this felt different, more genuine. It didn’t feel like your plea for solitude was specific to him, but more of a general request for the world to leave you alone. 

He wasn’t sure what he should do. He really wanted to stay and bother you until you got mad at him, ignite that usual spark in you - but he had a feeling that it wouldn't work this time. 

Sukuna had never been the type of man who was particularly accustomed to dealing with people’s feelings. Jin was relatively emotional, but throughout their childhood he had mostly just left Jin to it when he was upset, growing frustrated when his brother would cry and act all irrational. 

But at least with Jin he always knew where he stood - knew when his sibling wanted attention or wanted to be left alone, understood that even if Sukuna was terrible with people’s feelings, Jin would forgive him for any transgressions because he was family. 

With you he wasn’t so sure. 

He didn’t want to do the wrong thing, misunderstand a signal or make you feel worse somehow. The two of you were already on such rocky ground, and even though things had been pleasant lately, he had no doubt that the balance you’d achieved could be easily shattered. 

Did you really want him to go away? Or were you going to resent him if he did? 

“I’ll be right outside, if you need me.” He said finally, deciding that it was best to leave the choice up to you. If you wanted to come to him you could - he wasn’t going to force the issue. 

He didn’t see you at all for the next few days. Each morning he’d go to his post right outside your door, and wait in the hopes that you might come out, or invite him in. It was boring, he’d gotten so used to your constant antics that he found that he was desperately missing you and the colour that you’d added to his life. 

The most that he got to see of you during that time was when the servants came up to deliver you food. He’d get a glimpse of your figure through the open door and feel relieved to know that at the very least you were still alive in there. 

Unfortunately, all that time spent outside your room meant that he had little else to do but think, and that wasn’t particularly helpful for his mental state - because his brain kept unhelpfully wondering if you were acting the way you were because of him. 

He knew that the assassination attempt was scary, that it was likely the sole cause of your current state, but he’d also seen the look on your face that night when he’d killed the assassin. The sheer look of horror at what you’d just seen.

Maybe it was him that you were scared of, and in that case he wasn’t surprised that you didn’t want him in your room. 

It was a disheartening thought - especially after you’d been so receptive to his words when he’d told you about his past. He didn’t want to lose progress with you.

And that led to him wallowing for days, desperately wanting to know what you were thinking. It had gotten to the point where he was just beginning to lose hope when things finally changed. 

Just under a week had passed since the assassination attempt and Sukuna was sound asleep in his bed, awakening to the sound of a soft knock at his door. He practically shot to his feet at the sound, pacing across the room and pulling the door open. 

He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting. Perhaps the King returning from his journey and needing to talk to him right away, perhaps one of the other Knights or a servant coming to alert him of a problem. What he wasn’t really expecting to see was you, wearing your cute little nightgown, staring up at him with a slightly nervous expression. 

Relief flooded through him at the sight of you, he hadn’t been sure when you were finally going to venture out of your room, if you were ever going to return to normal after what had happened. Taking note of the dark circles beneath your eyes he assumed that you weren’t quite feeling better, but at least you’d come to see him. That was something. 

“Can I come in?” Your voice sounded so small and sleepy as you asked him for something that he never expected. 

“Yeah.” He responded gently, stepping aside so that you could enter his room. You brushed past him, lingering awkwardly in the centre of his quarters as he closed the door, obviously unsure as to whether you should just make yourself at home. Amusing, considering that you’d so brazenly broken into his room not so long ago. 

“You should sit,” he said, gesturing to the bed. “You look tired.” 

He thought that you might glare at him for that, scold him and say that it's impolite to comment on a Princess’s appearance in such a way. But you did nothing, compliantly shuffling over to his bed and perching yourself towards the corner, as though you didn’t want to impose by taking up too much space. 

Even though you looked exhausted, Sukuna couldn’t help but admire how pretty you looked bathed in moonlight from his window as you sat at the end of the bed. He let out a sigh and tried to push the thought aside, he couldn’t allow himself to see you in that way.

“Sorry I woke you up.” You said. 

He shrugged. “It's okay. I’ve been waiting days to see you, I won’t complain that it's the middle of the night.” You seemed to shrink a little at his comment, as though you felt guilty for locking yourself away from him.

“I had a nightmare.” You confessed. “I’m not sure why I knocked on your door, I just- I couldn’t think of who else to go to.” 

He felt his heart flutter a little at your words, walking over to the bed and sitting down beside you, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your back comfortingly. He was glad that you’d chosen to come to him, even if your options were limited in the first place. The last few days he’d been yearning to see you, to hear your voice. 

“I just keep replaying it, although in all of my nightmares you aren’t there to save me and I just-” You let out a shuddering sigh, evidently trying to gain control of your breathing and stop any tears from falling. 

You were concerned about what would have happened if he weren’t there? All this time he’d been spiralling about the idea of you hating him, fearing him for so brutally killing a man in front of you, but instead you were terrified that he wouldn’t be there to do that for you. 

Gods, he was stupid.

“But I was there. I’ll always be there.” He soothed, running his hand gently up and down your spine, waiting for your breathing to even out. He’d happily kill hundreds of men for you if that’s what it took to keep you safe, he’d slaughter this whole kingdom before he let anything bad happen to you. 

“Really?” You were looking up at him, your pretty eyes a little glossy with tears. He wasn’t sure exactly when his chest had started feeling so tight whenever you looked up at him, but he was definitely feeling it now. 

“Promise.” He whispered. You leant into his side a little and he stiffened up. It felt nice, having your weight pressed against him, but it was wrong. If you were someone else, a servant, a knight, a random civilian; he would have no problem entertaining the budding warmth in his chest whenever you were with him. 

But you were a princess. 

Your father was going to marry you off to some rich prince just like you were always destined to be. There was no space for Sukuna to entertain any feelings towards you, if he ever did anything and Kashimo found out he’d probably be beheaded. He’d have defiled a princess. 

He couldn’t do anything. 

But he wasn’t going to push you away either - not when your body felt so warm pressed against his. 

“Can I stay here tonight?” You asked quietly. Your voice sounded vulnerable, as if you were preparing for him to say no and send you back to your own room. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” 

“Of course you can.” He whispered. “You can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

And as he slept on the cold tiles of his chambers that night, listening to your soft breathing as you slept mere feet from him, he couldn’t help but wish that he was right beside you, holding your smaller body against his - keeping you safe. 

—

You’d started to get better since the evening that you went to visit Sukuna, coming out of your chambers much more in the day, starting to get back into your daily routine. 

It had only been that one night that you’d slept in Sukuna’s bed, managing to stay in your own room from then on - somehow the nightmares seemed to have disappeared since Sukuna had affirmed that he’d always been there to protect you. You supposed that was just something else you needed to add to the list of things you had to thank him for. 

Neither of you had mentioned that night since it had happened. 

You’d felt weird when you’d woken up in his room. He was an early riser so he was already gone by the time you’d awoken in the late morning. You were thankful for that, a little anxious at the idea of being so vulnerable with him in the light of day. It was easy to say things to him in the dark, less easy when there was light streaming through the window. 

Besides, you were a little embarrassed about how well you’d slept in his bed. It was the best night of sleep that you’d gotten in days, and you didn’t want to admit to yourself that it was because having his scent wrapped around you made you feel safe and comforted. 

No, that couldn’t be it. His bed was just comfier than yours - that was all. 

Even though you’d been doing well at getting back into your usual routine since that night, you were now faced with the biggest challenge that you’d encountered since the incident - Utahime’s garden party. 

Your father was still over at Gojo’s palace, but he had impressed upon both you and Sukuna the importance of you attending, and as such you were wearing one of your finest white gowns embroidered with colourful flowers, all ready to face what you knew would be a harrowing couple of hours. 

Making your way over to Utahime’s grand manor felt a little unnerving. It was the first time you’d been out and about since the attack, and the mere sight of crowds of people had your chest feeling tight. 

What if it happened again?

But Sukuna was right there with you, practically glued to your side as you moved through the streets. He’d kept you safe before and he’d do it again. As long as he was with you, you could be sure that no harm was going to come to you. 

It was strange, you were really grateful that all of your plans to get rid of him had failed. 

When the two of you arrived at the manor you were greeted by Utahime’s butler who ushered you out into the garden where the party was already in full swing. You’d taken care to arrive late, it just wasn’t fashionable to be early, and you wanted to spend as little time as possible at the function anyway. 

Utahime was quick to approach you, gushing over your dress and expressing worry about your wellbeing after the attempt on your life. You smiled politely and nodded along, glancing around a little to take in your surroundings, already considering where you and Sukuna could go to get out of the way of the dozens of invitees. 

No expense was spared at these gatherings, it was Utahime’s pride and joy to throw parties and the effort that she put in was evident. The garden was covered in colourful banners and bunting, several round tables were set up with intricately embroidered tablecloths for people to sit at and snack on a beautiful selection of cakes and pastries. 

Towards the corner of the garden were a handful of bards, playing beautiful music in front of a stone patio where couples were encouraged to dance. A few duos were already dancing, completely lost in the elegance of the music. 

You’d never danced at one of these things - you and Yuki would always choose to sit in some dark corner until the event was over. You’d been asked to dance on numerous occasions, usually by men desperate to have your hand in marriage so that they could elevate their own status and be closer to your father, but you always turned them down. Why would you bother dancing with someone you didn’t like? 

“-just let me know if you need anything, okay?” You registered that Utahime had finished talking, and you nodded, giving her a smile and waving her off as she went to greet other guests. 

You let out a deep sigh as you glanced around. What were even meant to do without Yuki? Raid the snack table and eat until it was appropriate to leave? You didn’t want to be around any of these people at the best of times, and you certainly didn’t want to deal with them feeling like you were one bad day away from a major panic attack. 

Sukuna seemed to sense your anxiety, because he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and ushered you over to an empty table. He’d been taking the initiative a lot lately, his hands often finding their way onto your body. It wasn’t like you were complaining, on the contrary his touch always seemed to ignite something in you, but you couldn’t help but wonder what his intent was behind it - if it was just him doing his duty, or if he was touching you because he liked it too. 

“I’ll go get us some food from the buffet.” He said as he sat you down on one of the pretty garden chairs. You smiled up at him gratefully, at least you weren’t totally alone without Yuki here. 

As Sukuna walked away you tried your best to focus on your breathing. Even though you knew you were safe, that you were in a well-guarded place surrounded only by other nobles, you couldn’t help but feel panicked by the number of people surrounding you. There was a part of you that desperately wanted to crawl under the table and hide away from everyone.

But many of the noble ladies already didn’t like you, and you weren’t about to make yourself look weirder by hiding under a table. 

Your thoughts were interrupted as a few people joined you at your table, a bitter taste rising in your mouth as you looked at the trio of women who were now sitting across from you. All three of them were wearing extravagant gowns, their make-up done perfectly. They were all very pretty, you’d always thought so - but their beauty was greatly undermined by the unpleasant look of disdain that seemed to permanently mar their faces.

Yorozu, Mei Mei and Manami, or the three witches as Yuki would so affectionately call them, were the primary reason that you hated going to these events. For whatever reason, the three of them had always gone out of their way to make your life difficult. Perhaps it was because of the extra attention that you got as a princess, or because you were so uninterested in playing along with their social game. 

Either way, there had been several times in which they’d made you feel like total shit. Snarky comments which were said in a kind tone but had cruel meanings, spreading rumors about you with other nobles to try and boost their own value, even going as far as to accidentally spill wine on your outfit. They were deeply unpleasant. 

Yuki was so feisty that generally you wouldn’t have to deal with the three of them, with your best friend always thoroughly putting them back in their box. But you on your own was a different story. With everyone’s eyes on you there wasn’t much you could do or say to them in retaliation, they were always good at making sure their bullying was subtle, so any reaction that you gave would just make you look bad. 

“Hey princess. Didn’t think you’d have the courage to show your face today after your little scare. Good on you for dragging yourself out of bed, I think I probably would’ve forced myself to put on makeup too, but that’s just me!” Yorozu’s shrill voice was unpleasant on the ears, and you did your best to ignore her. 

“No Yuki today?” Mei Mei asked. “You’re looking a bit lonely. Still haven't found yourself a husband?” Mei Mei had recently gotten married and she loved to brag about it - you weren’t really sure why, considering her husband was an oaf. 

“There's a lot of tables, you know.” You said firmly. “You can go and sit somewhere else.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that.” Manami cut in, and you looked at her with annoyance. Yorozu and Mei had always been unpleasant, but Manami had been pretty friendly with you back when you were younger, it frustrated you that she’d fallen in with this crowd. “We’re just trying to catch up.” 

“Exactly!�� Yorozu said. You didn’t bother looking at her, your gaze drifting over to the buffet to see where Sukuna had gotten to, praying that he’d come back soon and scare off your new tablemates. “What’s with your new Knight anyway? Isn’t that Sukuna?” Yorozu’s voice was filled with interest as she followed your gaze over to where Sukuna was standing, caught up in conversation with one of the noblemen. 

“Obviously.” You mumbled. Sukuna was well-known as a hero in your nation and it wasn’t like his appearance was a subtle one. You could only think of one man who had pink hair and was covered from head to toe in tattoos. 

“He’s so hot, I wonder if he’s single.” You weren’t sure why Yorozu’s words really pissed you off, but you tried not to linger on it. You wondered for a moment if Sukuna would be interested in her and for some reason it made your skin crawl. 

“Ooooh yeah Yoro, you should totally go for it.” Mei urged her on, “I heard from someone who’d spent the night with him once that he has a massive-” You stood up swiftly, the garden chair scraping loudly against the floor. You weren’t sure what had overcome you, but you certainly didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence, or any more of this conversation for that matter. 

You didn’t say anything as you walked away, as far as you were concerned you didn’t owe them any explanation, but it did feel like you’d lost out in a battle of wills somehow by reacting to what they were saying. 

You approached Sukuna almost shyly, tugging a little on the red cloak that he’d chosen to wear with his armor for the party. He turned to face you, politely excusing himself from the conversation that he was having with Nanami: a well-known noble and one of your father’s advisors. 

“Something wrong?” He asked as he studied you, seemingly noticing some distress on your face. He’d become creepily good at reading you recently - you weren’t sure if you liked it or not, it made you feel like he had way too much power because you weren’t half as good at reading him. 

His eyes scanned behind you, narrowing as they landed on the table where he’d sat you down just five minutes ago. You watched as he sneered at the women, it was clear that he was piecing the situation together in his head. As you took a quick glance back at the table you noticed that the three of them were giggling and whispering to each other.

Gods, you hated these parties.

“Will you dance with me?” You asked Sukuna, a little bashfully. He seemed completely caught off guard by the request, and frankly so were you. You’d been intending to ask him if you could leave, too mentally exhausted to deal with any socialising right now. But seeing the three witches laugh at you had stoked a fire to some extent, you at least wanted a little bit of payback - see how Yorozu felt seeing you dance with Sukuna. Fuck her. 

“If that’s what you want, princess.” Sukuna’s voice sounded much more unsure than usual, as if he wasn’t clear on what the right answer was to your request. 

Without thinking too much about it, you grabbed Sukuna’s hand and brought him over to the area where others were dancing. You’d had plenty of training in dancing when you were young - it was expected of a princess to be a good dancer, to avoid any embarrassment at balls, but as you stood in front of Sukuna, gazing up at his handsome face, your mind drew a total blank. 

Sukuna smirked down at you, evidently having refound his footing since being caught off guard by your request. “You look a little lost, princess.” He teased. 

You were just about to rebuke as he reached out his hand to you, urging you to take it as he settled his other hand snugly on your waist. Gripping his hand tight, your other hand reached up to his shoulder as the two of you began to waltz along with the music. 

Eyes were on you instantly, and as you moved across the floor you found your gaze flicking over to Yorozu, Mei and Manami, taking at least a little bit of satisfaction in the surprise that was showing on Mei and Manami’s faces, and in the pure rage that was written across Yorozu’s. You could play their stupid little game too after all. 

As you continued to dance, you found that Sukuna was surprisingly smooth in the way that he moved, comfortably taking the lead and spinning you around like he’d done this a million times before. And even though you were doing this out of spite for Yorozu, you found yourself giggling and smiling up at Sukuna as you danced with him, genuinely enjoying yourself, even with all these eyes on you. 

You felt a shiver run through you at the way that his red eyes were fixed on you so intensely, making your heart race with exhilaration. Your skin felt warm where he was touching you and there was a big part of you that never wanted this to stop, that never wanted him to let you go. 

But that couldn’t be right, could it?

There was no way that you really wanted to be his, right?

next chapter | series masterlist

a/n: hope you enjoyed! I've got some stuff I'm super excited to write in the next chapter!

Just let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! reblogs and comments are appreciated as always <3

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© sukunahs

[halfadiamond]

You Think It’s Love- Part 1

Poly TF141 x Reader

Based off this <- *edit: the angst scenario*

Masterlist

You think it’s a simple acquaintance when you meet him at the grocery store. He was kind enough to grab something off the top shelf for you. You thank him and he introduces himself as Kyle.

You couldn’t deny that Kyle wasn’t a good looking man. He looked handsome even when he was just wearing casual clothing, but you choose not to acknowledge this to him and you both go on your way.

It becomes a simple friendship when you meet Kyle again at the grocery store even at the same aisle that you guys first met, you notice that his cart seems quite full in comparison to your cart that only has some food and other items that you needed to grab. You want to be nosy and ask why buy so much but you choose not to and give him a simple greeting. You notice how Kyle looks at his groceries with a slight annoyance, perhaps he’s calculating how much this is going to cost him, you can’t help but feel bad for him. Groceries aren’t cheap especially if they fill up a cart, so you offer a suggestion.

“There’s another store not far from here that sells produce cheaper.”

Kyle looks at you, and gives you a friendly smile as he admits that he’s new to town here so he’s not quite familiar with the places. You’re not sure how but you two end up conversing instead of shopping, you learn more about Kyle such as he’s in the military and that he chose to move here because the town seems small and quaint. You agree with him and before you know it, you guys exchange phone numbers and promise to keep in touch.

It becomes a simple crush when you and Kyle begin meeting up regularly. You show him around town and he seems to make a mental note of everything. You guys go to eat at a restaurant and you realize how it looks to be like a date, but you quickly brush those ideas away. You were still right that he’s incredibly good looking and he has a great personality to go along with it. He’s funny but kind. He definitely knows how to talk with people as you find yourself becoming increasingly comfortable with him.

It’s when you guys are about to go your separate ways that you decide to ask him a question.

“If you’re not seeing anyone… maybe we can go out on a date?”

You expect him to either accept or reject you. But you’re left standing there in confusion and hurt as he laughs, it’s time like this where you wish you were a witch so that you could turn him into a frog. You feel tears coming to eyes and as you turn away to leave, you feel Kyle grab your arm as he wipes the tears from his face.

“I’m sorry love. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that I am taken.”

He takes a few seconds to think about what to say.

“I got a boyfriend well the correct term is… I got boyfriends.”

Excuse me? You stare at him confusion. Boyfriends? You could barely get one boyfriend but he’s got multiple. You want to say something but you don’t know what but Kyle continues on.

“Why don’t you come over to my place? You could meet them, they’ve been curious about you.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

You admit meekly but Kyle chuckles and shakes his head.

“You won’t. Trust me. They don’t bite.”

So you agree and set up a time and date.

—

You think it’s different but sometimes different is good as you meet the men.

John is who you meet first, he seems to be the oldest of the men and to be the one who the men listen to the most. But John is a perfect gentlemen, he gives you water and offers snacks, he gives you a friendly smile as he asks questions about you and lets you ask him questions.

You meet Johnny next and he’s definitely the extrovert of the group. He’s chatty but knows how to listen. He manages to shake the nerves out of you by making you laugh as he talks about his days when he was younger.

Lastly, you meet Simon and you were, admittedly, intimidated by his size and how he seems to be more of an observer rather a talker. But he has his own way of worming himself into your heart as he’s the first one to offer to walk you back to your place.

They have their rhythm that works you notice. They each have their own way of showing affection to each other:

You see how Simon grazes his fingers softly on his lovers hands.

You see how John lovingly calls them, love, and looks at each of them as if they hung the moon.

You see how Johnny is always checking out his lovers, you’ve heard that they’ve been dating for a while, so you consider it sweet that Johnny still finds them attractive.

You see how Kyle is always giving his lovers affection. He holds hands with Simon, he gives Johnny a kiss on the forehead, and he stays close to John.

It’s awfully sweet and you find yourself returning often at their wishes and yours where you guys begin to form your own friendship.

—

You’re not sure what to think the day that they ask you if you’d like to be theirs.

You think it’s a joke but the men all seem serious. Kyle is quick to tell you that they’ll respect your decision and that if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with then that’s fine.

You see how hopeful Soap looks as if he’ll melt to the ground if you say no.

You see how John tries to seem confident but his eyes look nervous as he awaits your response.

You see how Simon tries to remain as neutral as possible as to not sway your decision.

You couldn’t deny that you definitely grew to like the men. Even if they never acted inappropriately towards you; they still showed you how much they grew to care for you. Through offerings of cooking your favorite foods, always walking you home, and making sure you’re as comfortable as can be you grew to like them romantically and now you were learning that they felt the same.

As much as you wanted to say yes, you were scared that you would be the outsider to their dynamic. All of you would have to learn what works for them and you and what doesn’t. You’re worried that these men have grown to be so comfortable with each other that they won’t know what to do with a new person joining their relationship.

The men can tell that you’re nervous and as much as they want to try and offer physical reassurance, they don’t want to intrude so Johnny takes the first step.

“What’s on your mind Bonnie?”

You think about lying, saying that you’re just caught off guard but lying does no good so you decide to be honest.

“I’m just worried that you guys are so comfortable with your relationship that you might not be able to fully accept me into your circle.”

You see the little breaths of relief come from them as they take in mind your worries. It’s a common worry amongst those in a poly relationship, so they want to reassure you.

“Love. It might seem awkward at first but we’ll find something that works for all of us. You can speak up whenever you want to and we’ll listen.”

John reassures you and he even offers you a comforting smile as he continues.

“It’s all up to you. We’ll respect your decision. We can give you some privacy to think, just come into the living room when you’ve made your choice.”

And with that, all of the men, except for Simon, leave for the living room. Simon stays for a bit, thinking, before patting your head in his own way to comfort you before he follows after his lovers.

You think for awhile. You’re not sure if this is the right thing to do. You’ve never dated multiple people at once, but you can’t deny that you’ve grew to become close to them. You enjoy their company and they enjoy yours. And if they’re adamant that they’ll listen to you, and work with you to make this work then what’s stopping you from trying it out?

You head into the living after a while and give them a small nod as you agree to be theirs.

Deleted scene: Graves standing there in annoyance because you and Gaz are talking in front of the item that he needs.

Edit: Changed the dividers so it’ll match with masterlist for this series.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

These Tender Hearts Beat as One

Aemond x widowed!female character

Summary: Aemond reunites with his childhood friend, a former ward of his mother || Word Count: 7k || Warnings: too much fucking backstory lol, p in v sex, breeding kink

Aemond could always tell when his mother was stressed. Out of all her silver-haired children, her second son had seemed the most adept at knowing before she even knew herself. All that remained was for him to discover the root of her worries, and calm her ever-heightening nerves if he could.

When Aemond was stressed, angered or oftentimes merely bored, nothing truly compared to the feeling of riding Vhagar, splitting through the air above King’s Landing to stretch her large, tattered wings. His beloved dragon appreciated the exercise in any case, restless from her days fought in wars, it was some consolation for him that flying was just as therapeutic for her as it was for him.

But when his dear mother was stressed, it was rooted in self-destruction, picking ceaselessly at her fingernails ‘til they were bloody and sore. And though he bit his tongue, not wishing to replicate the behaviour of his grandfather, sometimes it felt near impossible not to say anything, not to ask what was on her mind. So that whatever was swirling around her head with panic, could instead be shared out, and therefore less weight for her to carry.

Had Aegon done something perhaps?

Was there more trouble with Rhaenyra?

Or perhaps his father had said something to upset her, which seemed the most likely. Even in his sickly state, he was still capable of unknowing cruelty.

Even at five and ten, Aemond understood this.

His mother remained quiet, and it was not ‘til he sought out the company of his dear friend, that the truth became clear.

She had been his mother’s ward for little more than three years, and already Aemond had witnessed her enter the Keep as a clumsy, loud child and blossom into what many would consider a young woman already grown, though she was little older than Helaena. 

Her age in comparison to him had never once strained their friendship. In fact, at first, when Aemond was still freshly scarred emotionally by the trauma of losing his eye, he had remembered clapping his lone eye on her and scowling, thinking of her little more than a quarrelsome child. 

And, as Aegon had put it, ‘aggressively annoying’.

Which, at the time, was true enough. And yet it did not deter her from trying, Aemond would allow her the compliment of that.

She was much like him, a child created and born as a sort of secondary plan in case the first did not come to pass. A mere second daughter, and not only that, but bumped even further down the chain by her three older brothers, the eldest already wed with several children of his own. It was made abundantly clear by her own parents that she was merely another nuisance and therefore when placed into the care of the Targaryen royal family, the look of relief on their faces somewhat angered him, coupled by the manner in which they left with a goodbye that rivalled his own father’s attitude towards his children.

His empathy for her situation had drawn him to her, despite his stubbornness in wanting to pretend he did not crave friendship, especially from a girl. And her own stubbornness surprised him when he discovered she did not blindly seek the acceptance of any similar-aged child, she set her sights on Aemond alone and did not relent until eventually, he came to her instead.

He found a camaraderie with her that he had yet to find with his other siblings, feeling very much like friendship with her was more natural and spontaneous, where the ones with his family were calculated, planned and rooted in a cold necessity to keep up appearances. 

Not that she cared much for appearances. 

Her Septa berated her for what seemed like every other day for turning up to her needlepoint lessons with dirtied skirts and stray petals in her tangled hair, all from chasing one another through the bushes of the Keep to find some entertainment. Yet, even in the face of punishment, her smile never faltered, and insisted that it was all a bit of fun.

She somehow managed to inject her bright personality into his otherwise darkened life.

Because of her, there was beauty in everything. There was serenity in sitting in the Godswood and watching the petals settle in the breeze that ran past his neck and made him shiver. There was a startling allure when he introduced her to Vhagar for the first time and her hand ran across her darkened scales, seeing her expression lift in sheer wonder, experiencing her bewilderment as if it were the first time. And there was virtue in the innocence of their relationship, and how his heart began to swell with a childlike sense of belonging in her.

The unconditional power of her friendship he was sure was all he ever needed. In the way she always uttered, dragged away for her lessons in etiquette, but beaming at him.

‘My friendship is always yours,’ she would say, like a mantra.

‘Just as mine shall always be.’

He thought for a long while that he was the most hideous person in this world, not least since Aegon had dragged him to the brothels only a few years before. And yet when he shared a chaste kiss with her under the Weirwood tree. Clumsy and impractical and yet all magical all at once, he thought that when he was older, stronger, he would ask her to be his wife.

Aemond could feel the anxiety seeping off her as soon as he stepped into her chambers. Like she had a lot on her mind but not the courage to open her mouth and say it.

“What is it?”

His heart lurched into his chest when she lifted her head, swallowing her feelings and taking a deep, shaky breath.

“My sister has succumbed to a fever. She is dead.”

Aemond sighed, as if absorbing her grief. But when he took one step forward to comfort his friend, she shook her head, “there is more.”

Her tone of voice alone was enough to set every nerve on edge. Aemond stood as if stuck to the flagstone floor, and realised that the once clumsy, small girl he had once known was acting very much like a young woman now. Worlds apart, despite being stood before her.

“I am to honour the planned betrothal with Lord Lefford, under my father’s orders.”

It was the only moment Aemond remembered wanting to vomit with nausea, he had not felt such churning in his gut even on the day he lost his eye.

She sat, looking at him as if to gauge his reaction to the news, knowing perhaps in her own heart the feelings that were shared between them. And Aemond felt his churning nausea turn to anger, at how easily she had allowed her will to be broken by a command from her father, which in his opinion, she need not obey. She was, after all, a near half a decade younger than her sister, and the man in question older than her own father.

How could she have given up like this so easily.

“You will go through with this?”

He did not mean for his tone of voice to appear accusatory, but when he saw that wide-eyed helpless expression, he knew immediately it had.

“I can hardly argue with my father, Aemond.”

He felt his fists clench hard in his hand, fingernails creating crescent shaped indents in his flesh that reddened, his reply is stiff, “you simply act as if you have no choice in the matter.”

“Not all of us get one.”

“You cannot leave.”

“I must,” she insists, her voice breaking somewhat at the look of disappointment and betrayal on his face, “please do not make this more difficult than it already is, Aemond.”

“I am not the one making this difficult,” he replies flatly, his head throbbing with an incoming migraine, “If you are as much my friend as I am yours, you will not leave me.”

She could feel herself stepping towards him, drawn by some invisible force for comfort that he was not yet providing. She knew he could be capable of being cruel, but to be on the receiving end after all they had gone through was heart-breaking.

And though she was a year his senior, standing so small before him, she felt so much a child.

“Aemond, please-” she begged, reaching out for him and wincing when he pulled away, his brows drawn together in disgust.

“Marry him and I shall never speak to you again.”

Her hand dropped to her side as if limp, as if all life had drained from her body as well as the colour from her face. Her lip quivered, “you can't mean that.”

He looked in her eyes, the raw grief of watching her slip away filling him with an unmistakable bitterness, though for what? Her? Himself? Their friendship? He could not put it into words.

“I mean every word.”

That is the last memory he has of her, looking every bit as broken as he'd intended her to feel. In the days that followed, as her family arrived once more to steal her away, Aemond felt the gnawing grip of regret when he chose not to see her off at the courtyard, watching from his window as she scanned the space around for her good friend's presence and didn't find it.

It was then Aemond began to hate himself for every bit of cruelty enacted against her from him. Her carriage disappeared into the distance until it was nothing, leaving a pit of pain in his heart.

Not a day passed that Aemond did not at least think of her and wait for any correspondence to arrive, with his name etched into the paper in her curved, feminine handwriting.

But as he'd feared, she had taken his words to heart, and no letter ever arrived, and eventually, it felt no use counting the days and moons since he'd last seen her.

The guilt would eat away at him for years, the memory of her pained expression etched into his vision. Even as he grew into a man, it would never fully fade, though he was quick to tell himself that he shouldn’t care, that she was no longer the same girl he had loved so much, not since she chose her own fate.

In an attempt to fill the hole she'd left behind, he busied himself with the sword, intent with some level of obsession at becoming the most skilled swordsman in Westeros. 

Aemond would train for hours at a time, the dull ache deep within him pushed away by the strain of sparring drills and intense workouts with the sword. Though even in the midst of training, his thoughts would always be in the back of his mind, taunting him with the guilt that he felt, the shame of how he had treated her at the end.

By itself, it was not enough, but even burying his nose in books did not blur that heavy ache. But it did not mean he could not at least try.

Which is why he sighed in annoyance as he sat by the fireplace in his chambers, a large tome opened in his lap and two knocks rapped at the door.

“Enter.”

He did not tear his attention away as the maidservant entered with a short and quick curtsy, hands clasped, “Your grace, Queen Alicent has requested your presence.”

That alone was enough to draw his attention away from his reading. His mother did not request him for a small matter.

He had wondered if perhaps Aegon had managed to slip out of the Keep again, for yet another one of his excursions into Flea Bottom, and send him to retrieve his brother.

Perhaps his mother finally thought enough time had passed and he was much of a man to suggest a marriage proposal. For some reason, the thought made him ill.

“Thank you, Ser Criston,” he heard his mother say in a muffled tone once he was announced.

Aemond raised his gaze to his mother, relieved to see her calm, and dare he say, happy.

“Aemond,” she greeted softly, her smile gentle and her touch on his arms comforting, “do not look so forlorn.”

“You wished to see me.”

“I did,” Alicent beamed, clasping her hands at her front, “Come.”

He could not help but give a puzzled expression as he walked beside his mother through the winding halls of the Keep, wondering perhaps why her behaviour was so different than usual. A sort of anxiety fed through her, but not the self-destructive kind. 

“We are to receive some guests today. I would like you to greet them.”

Aemond quirked a brow, confused and somewhat annoyed in equal measure, “I am not accustomed to greeting-”

“They have travelled a long way, so remember to be courteous,” Alicent added, flashing one of her tight-lipped smiles, which only served to confuse Aemond further. His mother led him to the top of the staircase of the empty, echoing foyer and instructed quickly, “do be a gracious host, Aemond.”

He did not have a mere moment to question her, before he was watching the back of his mother disappear down the very same hallway they had just walked together. All he managed was a baffled shake of his head, as if by some miracle this was all some mad dream he had conjured. He questioned why on earth his mother would allow him to greet these esteemed guests alone, out of all her antisocial children.

But ever dutiful, he descended the stairs, hearing the low voice of Ser Westerling greeting whomever was arriving in a warm, formal tone, with their silhouettes casting blurred shadows onto the flagstone floor. Aemond’s feet were planted firmly on the step without even realising it.

This esteemed guest was no stranger to him.

Though the years had matured her gracefully, Aemond is sure he would recognise her anywhere, as she looked every bit the same as that day he regretted seeing her carriage leave King’s Landing. She stood tall, her cape fastened at her front with her house crest nestled in the middle, her dark skirts framing her womanly figure as her eyes trailed the details of the Keep that had changed since she had last been there.

Aemond stared wordlessly, the emotions so long buried resurfacing as if they had never left. His breath felt hot, his mind struggling to accept what his lone eye beheld before him. That she was here after so many years separated, in the very flesh, and yet he was unable to utter a single word.

She wandered about the space, commenting to the young woman beside her, who carried a child no older than three in her arms, how it had all looked so much larger in her youth. So he took this moment where she had not yet noticed him to look upon her with wonder, frozen entirely in place with the unexpectedness of her return. His mind raced with the thoughts of what this meeting could mean, for him, for her, and for their future; and he could not deny the strong tug of guilt in his chest for how he had treated her all those years ago, and how her renewed presence only made them more real.

Clearing his throat as he approached, the lady beside her noticed him first, “Prince Aemond,” she greeted with a curtsy, prompting her also to lay her eyes on him once more.

“Your grace,” she smiled warmly with a quick curtsy, with such a formality that made his heart ache.

He craned his head to bow lightly at her, “My Lady,” he replied with some stiffness, before gazing once more into her friendly, soft eyes and allowing his shoulders to relax, “I wondered perhaps if you would recognise me.”

Her laugh made his stomach flip, “I do not think I could ever forget you. Though I must confess, I wondered the same for myself.”

Her smile could not be described as anything less than perfect and a feeling that he harboured for her so long ago began to creep back in before he could stop it, “my Lady, I must apologise right away.”

But she shook her head, looking down at her hands, “it was a long time ago.”

He did not wish to upset her further by mentioning such an incident that had harmed his pride since, but knew that her memories of it were just as vivid as his own, “And I have not forgotten. You did what was expected for a lady in your position, and yet I was too selfish to understand that at the time. Please forgive me.”

He could not take the desperation out his tone, no matter how hard he tried. And still, she smiled sadly at his words.

“You must know that I did not wish to leave you.”

“I do,” he replied quickly, the memories of his guilt burning a hole in his throat, trying to hide the bitterness he felt towards himself, “I must confess - I have missed you greatly.”

Her hands clasped at her front, she blinked slowly and swallowed thickly, “I have missed you too.”

The silence stretched between them. Years of separation and longing had left them both yearning, but lacking the courage of knowing what to say. Aemond cleared his throat, his hands behind his back with anxiety, seeing that her ‘favoured’ husband was still not yet present.

“Are we to receive your husband as well?” he asked with some stiffness, or perhaps bitterness.

She cocked her head ever so slightly, eyebrows pulled together in confusion, until a small smile of realisation graced her features, “I regret to inform you I am recently widowed.”

In any other situation, Aemond would have been mortified at her reply. But with her smile came a rush of realisation himself, and hope swelled in his heart, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, hoping to all the gods that she could not see the way his thought ran wild in his head, and made his breeches tighten, “Widowed-” 

“Indeed. I am sorry to disappoint you, my Prince. In truth, I have just come out of mourning,” she nodded, biting back another coy smile, showing in her mannerisms that it was no great loss to her.

“I am sorry for your loss, my Lady.”

She shook her head softly, “my husband left a suitable will, so that my child and I live comfortably and so there is no need for me to pursue future marriages should I not wish to.”

Her careful wording was not lost on him, and Aemond could not help the sense of glee at this new and recent change in her life, the bitter anger at having lost her to some decrepit old man years previous seemingly dissipating. And yet despite this, he attempted to keep it hidden, not wishing to seem disrespectful to her late husband.

“Might I present you my daughter,” she added, taking the child from the woman beside her into her own and resting the shy young girl on her hip. The child’s wide-eyed innocent expression unapologetically took all of Aemond in, as children often do, and he was reminded very much of his dear friend when she was small.

She was the image of her mother, save for the slightly lighter hair, with every feature of her etched into her daughter’s youthful face. And the reality of such similarities made him feel both joy and sorrow all at once.

“She is beautiful.” His voice was quiet, seeing the child in her arms was shy and reserved, unlike her mother, but thankful somewhat that her little one was not in the slightest alike to the man she had been forced to marry. Looking into the eyes of her child felt much like staring at the girl he once knew, and with that, a rush of affection.

Aemond thought, that in different circumstances, this child could have been theirs, a shared expression of their affections for one another. That all those years ago, had her father not coerced her into honouring her late sister’s betrothal, that she and Aemond would have their own children by now.

Before he could think too long, the small girl whined in her arms and she put her down immediately, the little patter of childish feet nearly had Aemond break into a grin, watching her run off with the nursemaid chasing behind.

“I am afraid she is a curious little thing. Like mother like daughter I suppose”, she smiled brightly.

Aemond nodded, the rush of memories bringing a wistful smile to his face, “Like mother like daughter,” was all he managed to reply, watching the mischievousness unfold. Yet, once the child and the nursemaid had left them alone, she chuckled softly, feeling his heartbeat slow in pace with hers.

“May I confess something to you, without fear of judgement?” Aemond asked, his heart thudding as she nodded in return, “You may think me foolish, but I must confess that my mind still lingers on the memories of our time together, and I have found no way to erase the feelings they carry with them - your return to King’s Landing has only reinforced them,” he confessed, looking into her warm gaze, “for now, when I look at you, I cannot help but feel just as I did then.”

He watched her swallow thickly, and take a deep, meaningful breath, like what she was going to say would be heavy, “and, what feelings are those, might I ask?”

His heart felt as it was beating so fast it was cracking his ribs, throat closing with anxiety. The feelings he had tried so hard to hide with a mask of bitterness now overflowing with terrifying intensity. Yet, to say such feelings out loud to her, someone he had trusted so much in his youth, made it feel all the more real. And as he stared into her eyes, he wanted nothing more than for her to share them, despite their years of absence from one another.

“That I love you - and have from the moment I met you.”

The words came out quickly, and as soon as he uttered them he felt his cheeks grow hot, knowing her response was either one way or the other and that he, a man so long disconnected from his own feelings, hiding them with his pride for so many years, was now opening up his vulnerability. 

He wanted her to love him. So desperately.

She sighed quietly in relief, “I have loved you as well. And I was saddened to have left you - and will forever be vehemently sorry for that.”

Though his relief was palpable, but he shook his head first, “You were right then, and always have been, that you had no choice or opinion in the matter. Therefore, I will accept no apologies.”

Her eyes glistened with emotion at his words, and when Aemond stepped forward and took her cheek in his palm, her breath hitched in such a way he was sure they would spill forth in tears. But the strong person she had always been, she held them back.

“I feared - you would not desire me,” she confessed quietly. 

Aemond smirked, “It may take more than a few years of separation to extinguish what was once there. I have loved you since that day beneath the Weirwood Tree, and I will love you until this life ends and the next one begins.”

She gave a watery smile at his sweet words, “though I have been wed once already with a child?”

He was silent for a moment as he considered her question, and not a bit of him even wondered whether it were possible, “my love is no fickle thing,” he smiled, “in time I hope I may become as close as a father to her as I may become a husband to you.”

He watched as her unshed tears formed a constellation on her eyelashes, but a relieved smile graced her delicate features. Aemond could not remember the last time he had been this close to her, able to detect the delicate scents brushed through her hair and the way her cheeks warmed at the close proximity between them, and undeniable tension.

The thought of kissing her, having her to himself, made something arousing tighten in his breeches, to his embarrassment.

He drew in a breath, leaning forward to capture her lips, but both drew back a pace suddenly.

“My Lady! Would you care to join us for supper this evening,” Alicent smiled brightly, as if knowing some great secret seeing them both stood straight and blushing. And she had to take a moment to think and stammer out her reply,

“Oh - yes, I would be delighted-”

“Wonderful! I shall see you to your chambers,” the Queen beamed, giving Aemond a sideways glance as the two women he most respected in life walked alongside one another.

He felt as if the entire evening was a true test of his will and determination. Aemond is certain Alicent meant no ill will by inviting the woman he unequivocally loved to supper with his family; but as he sat beside her, remembering how close he had been just a few hours before, it was almost as if everyone around him was aware and simply dangling the situation in front of his face.

And he cursed any god that existed that Aegon was not drowned in his cups that night, as he usually was. On this night, he was frustratingly lucid and hyper-aware.

Helaena, at first, was impartial to the sudden get-together, but as soon as she and Helaena saw one another, it was as if no time at all had passed. They were, of course, the same age when she had been his mother's ward, and as well as with Aemond, had formed a close friendship.

The princess was of course eager to catch up, and even invited her up to dance, to which she happily obliged as Aemond watched from his spot at the table. It was nice to see Helaena happy for a change.

A sorrowful thought had occurred to Aemond that both his friend and Helaena were pressured into marriages and motherhood far too young. And seeing them very much acting like young girls with one another, only exacerbated this feeling.

They talked quickly with excitement, planning to have their children meet up with one another and play in the gardens. And while they were engrossed in conversation, Aegon slid next to his brother, with a knowing smirk on his face.

“She is just as animated as I remember,” the young prince smirked, raising his eyebrows at Aemond over the rim of his cup.

“I will hear none of your depravity about her.”

Aegon threw him a faux-offended expression, “I had not even got there yet. Do you have such a low opinion of me?”

Aemond ignored him and sipped his own Dornish Red.

“You wish to marry her.”

“And you are perceptive.”

“Gods, I love it when you compliment me.”

“And insufferable.”

“What makes you think grandfather will allow you to marry her anyway? He's a dry old cunt, he will not care if you love her or not. He would have you wed to some plain-faced twat from who-knows-where.”

For one infuriatingly brief moment, Aemond had to concede that Aegon was probably right. And with one restless finger tapping against the table, he glanced over at his mother and grandfather suspiciously squished together on one end of the table, leaning towards each other and whispering in low voices, with Otto Hightower looking at his beloved friend from beneath his brow.

They were talking about her. Discussing her. And by the expression on his grandfather, analysing her.

Aemond felt his heart beat faster at the prospect that they were speaking so secretively about her without her knowledge. It seemed a stark contrast to the way the two women on the other side of the table were laughing and smiling brightly, something so rarely seen on Helaena’s face nowadays.

“She is no maiden, that is for certain. Though if you are lucky, perhaps only the first three inches of her have been tainted by Lefford’s withered old cock.”

Aemond wrinkled his nose at Aegon’s depraved quip, despite his somewhat polite request for him not too. Perhaps he’d expected too much courtesy from his elder brother. Or perhaps, more likely, with the exciting renewed presence of Lord Lefford’s widow, Aegon felt the need to perform, and exaggerate his usual unfortunate traits of his personality.

“‘Tis almost as worse as our dear sister being wed to me.”

“I am certain there is nothing worse than that,” Aemond replied quickly, behind the rim of his cup, failing to keep his gaze from forever drifting to the figure of her from across the candles and ornaments.

Aemond found himself captivated by the way she moved, the subtle grace in her gestures that spoke volumes of the woman she had become. Gone was the innocence of youth, replaced by a quiet strength and resilience that only seemed to enhance her beauty. He couldn't help but notice the way her laughter rang out like music, filling the room with warmth and light. It was a sound he had missed more than he cared to admit, a reminder of simpler times when they were just children with the world at their feet.

But now, as he watched her twirl across the dance floor with Helaena, there was something undeniably magnetic about her presence. It was as if she had blossomed into a flower, her petals unfurling to reveal a depth and complexity that left him breathless.

He attempted not to move too quickly once the festivities were over, afraid of showing her in his actions his desperation to be close to her as he offered his arm, “might I see you to your chambers, my Lady?”

She gave a shy smile that morphed into one of amusement, and Aemond is sure he felt something akin to that stomach-flipping sensation when he was flying out on Vhagar when her hand rested on the inside of his forearm, “Very well.”

Aemond chose to ignore the low snicker of his elder brother, showing him his back instead, with the woman he loved on his arm.

“You are aware I know this Keep better than I do my own home, and am perfectly capable of finding my chambers myself?” she said with a teasing lilt.

Aemond couldn't help but chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. "Forgive me, my Lady. It seems my chivalry gets the better of me in your presence."

Her laughter rang out, filling the silence with warmth. "Chivalry or a desire to prolong our conversation, Prince Aemond?"

He felt a surge of joy at the playful banter, grateful for the opportunity to spend even a few moments alone with her. "Perhaps a bit of both, my Lady. Though I must admit, the thought of your company is a temptation I find hard to resist."

She looked at her feet, as if to hide the rising warmth to her face, “I must confess, it is nice to once again be somewhere familiar, with the company I admire most. When my husband was alive it could often get rather lonely.”

Aemond fell quiet for a moment, swallowing thickly, trying to navigate his feelings in the midst of a difficult situation, “I hope that he was kind to you.”

She glanced up at him, her eyes revealing a depth of gratitude that stirred something within him. "He had his moments," she admitted with a small smile, "but kindness was not his strongest suit. Still, I suppose I cannot fault him entirely. He provided for me in his own way."

Aemond could sense the underlying weight in her words, the unspoken struggles she had endured beneath the facade of mere cordiality. He didn't need to ask to know that her late husband had been less than supportive.

"You deserve far more than just provision, my Lady," he said earnestly, his gaze unwavering as he spoke.

Aemond could almost feel his heart sink as he had realised they were stood before her chamber doors, her hand slipping from his arm, and yet a fire stoking fierce then at the thought of an invitation inside.

She clasped her hands delicately, her warm eyes meeting his with a gentle intensity. "I couldn't help but notice Queen Alicent and the Lord Hand engaged in such ceaseless conversation," she remarked, her voice soft and thoughtful. "I do not wish to presume—"

Aemond, catching the subtle implication in her words, swiftly interjected, "I cannot claim to know their exact sentiments." His gaze met hers, offering reassurance without a hint of desperation. "But I refuse to allow something as trivial as their approval to deter me. I've already endured the pain of losing you once."

There was a quiet determination in his voice, a resolve that mirrored the fire in her own eyes. In that moment, they shared an unspoken understanding, a mutual agreement to pursue their feelings despite the potential obstacles that lay ahead.

She nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Your courage is admirable, Prince Aemond. But we must proceed cautiously. The court is a web of intricate politics, and our actions could have far-reaching consequences."

Her words were crafted in such a way that reminded him of her personality in their youth, understanding of the repercussions and yet boldly standing tall in the face of them. And with her small, mischievous smile, he knew all the same that whatever she uttered was only done so to extend her cordiality.

"I understand," he replied, his tone tinged with determination. "But I cannot ignore what my heart tells me."

"Nor can I," she admitted softly, her gaze meeting his with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve.

Silence settled between them for a moment, the weight of their unspoken desires hanging in the air. Then, with a subtle shift in her demeanour, she turned towards her chamber door. Without a word, she reached out and gently pushed it open, leaving it ajar. A silent invitation hung in the air, enticing Aemond to step inside.

Aemond's heart skipped a beat as he watched her gesture, his pulse quickening with anticipation. Without hesitation, he took a step forward, drawn irresistibly towards the open door and the promise of privacy within.

With a shared glance filled with unspoken understanding, Aemond turned towards her chamber doors, crossing the threshold into the privacy of her chambers, where their hearts could speak freely without the constraints of the outside world.

She spoke quietly, her face illuminated warmly by the soft flicker of candlelight. "I hope you do not think less of me for this," she murmured, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "You can imagine, for me there is no great ceremony in it."

Aemond's heart swelled with tenderness at her words, his gaze filled with an understanding that transcended mere words. "I could never think less of you," he replied softly, his voice brimming with sincerity.

Aemond slowly closed the distance between them, their expressions never wavering, his steps deliberate yet gentle. He reached out, his hand cupping her face tenderly, as he gazed into her eyes with an intensity that spoke of his deep affection. In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a timeless embrace. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across their intertwined figures, bearing witness to the union of two souls bound together by love and longing.

Her lips parted to whisper, “I do not wish for you to do all of this out of guilt-”

She caught herself when his thumb traced her cheek, waiting for him to answer, “I do not make this bid out of remorse. I wish to be with you, and I wish to make you mine.”

Aside from the crackling heat of the fire within the hearth, her breath was all that was audible between them, coming heavier from between her lips as his thumb feathered down her cheek and to her bottom lip, caressing the skin there. After that, he felt her eyelashes against his cheek flutter when he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers with a tenderness usually unbecoming of his personality.

Years of longing had each of them pressing closer to each other, lost in the sound of their soft kisses, and Aemond felt his clothing below his waist become tight with need once he caressed her tongue with his and pried her lips apart like the petal of a flower and tasting the sweet nectar within.

Her hands that had found his shoulders slid over the sleek leather to his front, tenderly and gingerly pulling the buckles apart to loosen his doublet. Her actions, instead of spurring embarrassment, renewed a deep-rooted vigour beneath, and Aemond’s new task was to pull at the laces of her dress behind her, and pull the fabric that had hidden her body from him.

He felt her shiver, pulling the heavy dress from her shoulder to pool at her waist, pushing them as fervently off her as he was able, “was he at least good to you,” Aemond asked in a whisper, his breath hot at her neck while she pulled at the laces of his breeches. 

“I do not wish to speak of him,” she answered with determination and confidence, but a breathless, wanton whisper herself, wanting nothing more than to consummate years of harboured affections masked by friendship, “I only want you.”

Her words had his heart stutter in his chest, pulling her now almost bare form atop him as he sat back onto the bed, with her hair loosened like this and her shoulders blossoming with gooseflesh, he found that he was incapable of keeping his hands at his sides and explored the shape of her feminine body beneath the shift she wore. 

Even the sheer motion of her brushing against his hardened member and her breasts filling his palms could have been enough for Aemond, but there was no returning at this point. She sighed against his lips as his fingers dipped beneath the hem of her shift to ruck the thin fabric up around her hips, squeezing the flesh of her thighs to pull her closer onto his lap.

Warmth bloomed at her cheeks, but it did not deter her as she reached between them and smiled at Aemond’s loud moan, stroking his rapidly hardening length in her palm, focussing her attention towards the velvety tip. 

She lifted herself in his lap, fingers threaded at the hair at his nape as if to anchor herself to him, and both sighed with the utmost relief of their union once he pressed himself into her, and she sank her warmth onto him, enveloping him with her body. Her lips parted at the stretch, somewhat prepared and yet the intrusion still stealing the air from her lungs.

Foreheads pressed together, Aemond's hands gripped her at her waist, pushing his hips up into her as hard as he could to sink deeper inside her, “I have dreamt of this - for so long - being with you like this -” 

A faint sheen glimmered on her collarbones as she slowly moved her hips on him, Aemond's legs parted somewhat, widening hers and opening her up more so he could rock up into her with her rhythm. The closeness of their position had the blunt head of his cock massage that sensitive patch within, her eyebrows knitted together in sweet pleasure.

“That's it -” he cooed quietly, almost watching the way she moved with admiration and curiosity, her tight, silky walls squeezing his length with every thrust of herself down. He felt her arousal coat the base of him, and the sound of their ever-quickening coupling filled the otherwise quiet chambers.

She held onto his shoulders, the amber glow of the fireplace picturing her expression in the most arousing way Aemond had ever imagined. Pulling her shift down her chest, he groaned lowly at the sight of her breasts and took one in his palm and mouthed at the other, taking her stiffened nipple between his lips in a way that made a shuddering moan slip past her lips.

“Gods - I would adore to watch you swell with my child - would you like that -”

All she could do was nod feebly, words unable to occupy her mouth where soft, sweet sounds of pleasure were pouring out. Aemond smirked, grazing his teeth over her bud.

“yes, you would like to serve your husband - give him children, wouldn't you - fuck-” his voice strained at the effort it took to hold himself back, his hands sliding down the column of her back to her plump backside, palms gripping tight and guiding her rhythm onto him, over and over.

She moaned loudly, the motion of being pulled back and forth and yet still impaling herself on him driving the fat head of his cock into the deepest and most forbidden parts of her.

“Aemond -”

“And once you have one - I'll fuck yet another one into you - keep you fat with child” his breathing grew ragged and shaky, “- take it - like a good little wife should-”

“Yes - yes-” she breathed quickly, the words slipping out without realising what they were for, her blind acceptance of being his wife, or the rising waves of pleasure coursing white, hot through her body.

He felt her squeezing him and hastened both of her rhythms, dragging her back into his lap and pushing up into her wet heat ceaselessly. Both the numbing ache of her peak and her bud rolling against his body in quick succession had her hands gripping around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck as her limbs flooded with warmth.

“That's it, ābrazyrys -”

“Gods, Aemond-” she squeaked, completely overcome and possessed by the heights of pleasure rolling through her, the endless rhythm of him fucking up into her only prolonging it.

Her tight walls squeezed him so deliciously that Aemond's heart leapt into his throat, completely surprised as he pulsed thickly and spilled within her, his lone eye tightly shut. His own fulfilment had his hips twitching, shallowly pushing his seed into her, and hoping that it took.

Even once he was completely spent and exhausted, softening inside her, neither moved, and he simply felt her tender fingertips at his shoulders in light soft circles, massaging him. And thought, that this is how it always should have been, had he fought for her.

Her breath fluttered against his skin, herself tired in exertion from their shared pleasure.

“I was a fool - for allowing you to slip from my grasp.”

She sat up, to look down at him, her face flushed, hair in messy waves, looking every bit as beautiful as the day he'd lost her.

But she smiled, her finger tracing the pattern impressed on the leather of his eye patch, “you may have been a fool,” she started.

Her finger hooked beneath it, and lifted it away, her expression unchanged as her thumb stroked the indent of the scar at his cheek. Aemond felt his heart soar in a way that almost felt terrifying.

“I never slipped from your grasp,” she uttered gently, “my heart was always yours.”

Aemond brushed her hair from her features, her words sending waves of ecstasy thrumming in his veins.

“Just as mine shall always be.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy @emmaisafictionwhore @minholy223

[ichorai]

chiropterology — family report.

drabble synopsis ; damian tells his class he has two mothers. warnings ; mentions of damian's violent past, use of a derogatory lesbian term.

series masterlist.

Damian Wayne was a weapon. A killer. A machine built for inflicting pain. Perhaps that was one of the many reasons you seemed to like him so much—you always had an affinity for machines. Deep down, Damian often wondered when you would realize he was not as interesting as you thought, and discard him like one of your failed inventions.

Despite this, it was not hard to write up his school report on you. It was supposed to be a minimum of one page, front and back, on his family. It ended up being nearly three entire pages. He started with his father, of course—the owner of Wayne Enterprises, determined, a problem-solver, and… considerate. Bruce Wayne was a considerate father.

Then he wrote about his birth mother. He found that his pencil wouldn’t move much when it came to her. What was appropriate to say in a school setting without getting in trouble and landing in detention? Damian never knew where these people drew the line. Nevertheless, he eventually wrote that Talia al Ghul was skilled. A fighter. He added, in a smaller scrawl, that he no longer lived with her. 

And then he wrote about you. It was only after he moved on from Talia’s section did he realize that his muscles were involuntarily tensed. Thinking about you relaxed him. You and your chemical-stained lab coat, your chunky goggles that were almost always dangling over your forehead or hanging on your neckline, and your eyes. Damian always thought you had a certain light in your eyes—flickering with curiosity, brimming with a need to know more. That’s why he thought—no, he knew—that that was why you were so interested in him. He was like one of your little machines to solve and fix. It angered him at first. Who were you to regard him in such a way? You were nothing. Nothing in comparison to him, who had the blood of the Bat and the Demon. But something changed within the many months of getting to know you. You and your wide smiles, your open nature, your eagerness to help him at every turn. 

It was infuriating, but Damian… he had to admit that he liked you very much. His weak spot. 

The first time he called you “Mother”, it came out as an accident, but in very casual passing—like asking to pass the salt during dinner. Every part of him seized up as he stared at you, wondering if you caught onto the slip of his tongue. You were under the batmobile at the time, fixing up some damage acquired from the last mission. Slowly, you pulled out from beneath the car and sat up. Then you smiled at him, and Damian felt like he wanted to vomit; because it wasn’t in a teasing nature, but a soft, gentle, motherly one. 

“I like that,” you had told him. Then you went back to work as if it had never happened. From then on, Damian took to calling you that just because… because…

Hm.

And here he was. Writing about you. Rather easily, too. He liked your intelligence—your seemingly never-ending bounty of scientific facts. He respected your patience with not only him, but his siblings, which he knew better than anyone that they were hard to be patient with. He liked how you would ask for his help on sketching new designs. He liked how you hung up every single one of his drawings he made for you. He liked how openly affectionate you were, and despised himself for folding so easily every time. 

And… he liked how you pretended that he was your favorite child. And Damian knew that. It was all pretend. He was waiting with baited breath until you would drop the act, lose your interest in trying to solve an unsolveable puzzle of a boy, and move on. He kept that part out of his report.

His siblings’ sections had him scoffing with laughter under his breath. Grayson was the trustworthy oldest brother, but had an irritating habit of ruffling his hair when it had just been combed. Todd was the tough brother with a dark history that Damian could relate to—and he enjoyed reading books for girls that Damian most certainly was also not currently enjoying. Drake was the genius, able to piece clues together like it was nothing, always finding solutions for every problem. He was also Damian’s greatest rival once. And now? Damian wasn’t sure.

Brown was the light of the family. Obnoxiously cheerful, argumentative, and kind. Brown praised his art the most in the family. He still used the colored pencils Brown had bought for him on his ninth birthday. 

Cain was sturdy. Cain was not only a shoulder to lean on, but also always willing to lend an ear. She was likely the most skilled of them all in combat. 

The newest addition to the family was Duke Thomas, of course. Damian thought him naive and still wet behind the ears, despite being younger than him. However, Thomas was strong, and admirable in his ability to get up no matter how many times he fell down. And he was also a formidable chess opponent.

This report was so ridiculous. The teacher was practically asking him to list out all his weaknesses in front of the class. How embarrassing.

The school day started out as ordinary as ever. Halfway through second period, however, Damian could sense it. A prickle along the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. And not any of his unremarkable civilian classmates. 

Damian had promised his father that he would maintain his own civilian identity by trying not to draw too much attention to himself. So—it wouldn’t do to abandon his times-tables lessons and dash out with no excuse. Both his teacher and his classmates would find it strange, and perhaps even go looking for him. It would be best if he left to meet with her during the recess break. Which was… after he presented his report. Great. Just great.

After math class, the teacher started calling on his peers’ names to come up to the board and tell everyone about their family. It was mostly a bore. Mom, dad, dog named Spot, fish named Goldie—they all sounded the same.

When it was his turn to present, Damian went up to the front of the class and puffed out his chest, rising to his full height. He, of course, started with his father, and then talked about his birth mother. There it was again—the prickle on the back of his neck. She was watching and, he could feel it, she was growing impatient.

Then, he moved on to you. Out of the corner of his eye, Damian could see his classmates exchange glances, giggling to themselves and whispering things. What? What was it? Did he mispronounce something? 

“Two moms?”

“Damian’s got lesbo moms!” one of the brutes snickered. Damian didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound any good. His lips curled into a snarl, ready to jump to your defense. To his relief, the teacher barked at them to be quiet, and gestured for him to go on. Reluctant, Damian moved on to talk about his siblings, and the gossipping noise eventually died away.

Humiliated, Damian slunk back to his seat once he was done. And when the bell rang, he hurried out without a second glance back, ignoring the teacher’s call for him to stay back.

After checking nobody was following him, Damian made his way to the school’s mossy rooftop, where he knew his mother would be waiting. She stood with her back to him, wind blowing her hair to the side. He could feel his heart hiccup within his chest, despite all his years of training to keep it steady, keep it still.

“Mother,” he said.

“You’ve kept me waiting for hours,” she said, voice quiet and dangerous, but not at all angry. “I expect better from you, Damian.”

“I knew you were here. I had prior engagements.”

She made a clicking noise with her tongue, a habit that he inherited from her. “Your priorities need some rearranging.”

“What is it?” he asked, arms crossed. 

Talia regarded her son with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze. “I’m testing your abilities.”

“I remember our tests,” Damian said. He could feel the phantom pains of the practice swords beating upon him whilst training at the League. “This is not one of them.”

Finally, Talia’s features softened. Only slightly, but still enough for Damian to notice. His brows rose. 

“You have your father’s deductive skills, at the very least,” she commented. “That’s good.”

She was stalling. Damian frowned at her. “Ask what you came here to ask. I do not have time for anything else.”

His mother mirrored his expression. After more seconds of silence, she finally said, “Are you… happy?”

It took a moment for Damian to register the question. “What?”

“This life you have… this life you’ve chosen with your father and the rest… does it make you happy?” Talia had her hands behind her back now, hidden from Damian’s view, but from the slight rotation of her forearms, Damian could tell she was fidgeting with her fingers.

“It is far from perfect,” Damian said. “We all fight, and we all make mistakes. I… I make mistakes. And sometimes Father forgets he doesn’t have to work alone.” Damian found himself smiling faintly at the thought of his imbecile siblings. “But, yes. I am happy here.”

Talia bowed her head. “Good. That is good to hear. I have made many difficult decisions in my life.” She paused to look off towards the city, away from her son. Later, Damian would try to commit this sight to memory by sketching her in this position, sun in her skin, wind in her hair. “Letting you go was the hardest decision I have ever made. But if you are happier in this life than your previous one with me… I am glad I gave you up.”

She turned to make her escape from his school. Before she could go, she asked one last question. “Your father’s wife… is she—does she treat you well? Like a—” The word caught in her throat. “A son?”

Damian hesitated. “She does.”

This seemed to satisfy Talia. She nodded again. 

“Will I see you again?” Damian asked. He knew it was a weak question. Never grow attached, he remembered her snapping at him. Never.

“Keep your guard up and your senses sharp, and I’m sure you will,” she said. With that, she leapt off the school’s roof. Damian rushed forward to look over the edge, but there was no trace of her. His chest felt strangely… fuzzy.

The rest of the school day went by uneventfully, though with the occasional snigger directed his way. But no prickling of his neck. Talia was no longer watching.

When you came to pick him up, you rolled down the car window and waved over at him, greeting him with a cheery exclamation of how excited you were to take him to the theater later that evening.

“Mother,” he said, once he climbed into the passenger seat, ever so seriously. Your talk of the theater died on your tongue, waiting for him to say something. “What is a lesbo?”

You blinked down at the boy in shock. “Ooh, hon—let’s not say that word. That’s just a term for lesbian, but it’s not very nice for non-lesbians to say. Lesbians are women who feel attraction to just other women, broadly construed. But it’s a pretty flexible label.”

“Oh.” Damian tapped a finger against the dashboard. “Are you—?”

“Hah! I had a phase in college when I thought I was, for sure. But no, sadly. I like ‘em in all shapes and sizes.”

“I see.” He supposed that made sense, considering you were married to his father, and he was often a very large bat-like man. 

With a warm smile directed at him, you reached over to pat his knee. “I’m glad you feel safe asking me these questions. I’m always here to help you out.”

Damian didn’t say anything to that, but he let out a small breath, feeling a soft smile creep at the corner of his mouth. When he got home, he handed you his family report. During the drive, he considered not showing you, but… he wanted to. He wanted you to be proud of him.

As you read, your eyes began to cloud with tears. Damian feared he had written something unintentionally offensive and now you would be disappointed with him. He tried to tug it back from you, expression twisted with panic. 

“It’s not done yet—” he tried to defend, but you shook your head. 

“Oh, Dami, honey, it’s perfect. It really is. Oh, god. Do you really think this?” You swiped at the tears that had so quickly began to slip down from your eyes. Immediately, you enveloped him into an embrace. One that Damian did not resist nor return. He just let you hold him. “You made me sound so cool,” you murmured, choking up on your tears again.

“I was being truthful,” Damian admitted. And he was, he really was.

“This is the sweetest thing you’ve ever done, you know that? I’m going to photocopy this and have it framed next to all your drawings.”

“If you wish.” Damian could feel his face burn with embarrassment, but it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. And even if you were pretending to love him, and if you only saw him as the killing machine he was, and if you were going to discard him later… Damian thought it was worth it. He tightened his arms around you, returning your hug with equal warmth.

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Girl Who Cheated Death

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - There was no one in any universe who would dare to approach you without fear, that is until you meet a certain Shadowsinger. Once stone cold and vicious in your own right, you soon come to realise that perhaps all it takes is a pretty male with hazel eyes to set you free.

Warnings - kinda dark reader, stone cold, lots of sass, swearing, drinking, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of trauma, some subtle sexual tension, everyone being afraid of the reader because she's giving death vibes x

Word Count - 8.9k

Physical descriptions are present in this fic.

Based on this ask! Thank you @cleverzonkwombatsludge for the request 🫶🏻

"Can I offer some criticism?"

"If it's constructive..."

"You're an idiot," the unwinding braid at your side loosened more with each twist of your fingers, and to your right, through the reflection of the recently polished vanity mirror stood Amren, your closest friend that you had gained when you had first moved to the Night Court one hundred years ago.

It had been no accident that you and Amren had met, in fact, she had been the one to seek you out after a rather intriguing show you had directed at Rita's. Amren watched man after man almost break their necks to look at you, the most beautiful resident of the Night Court, and in all of Prythian. Hair that reminded Amren of a black widow swayed behind you in perfectly loose curls, it was sinfully dark and shone in the faelight, shimmering so brilliantly that Amren had thought that threads of silken web were weaved between each glossy black strand.

Amren also remembered the dress you had worn, it was short and tight, the fabric hugged every curve of your body and kissed the thighs that were connected to those incredible taut calves. If looks could kill then the Night Court would certainly fall to its knees.

It wasn't what you looked like that caught Amren's attention, however. It was the way that every single person in that room shrunk away from your stare, a stone iced glare that was void of any life, all that lay in them was ire and boredom, which quite perfectly summed up what you felt about life in general.

The firedrake sought you out, coming by the gallery you had opened in the city which held an array of carefully collected artworks and mysteriously rare antiques, just to get a glimpse of you, to see the one who had been the first to pique her eye in centuries. Amren had not been disappointed by you. There was something about the way you carried yourself that attracted her to your aura, the perfect posture and slightly hooded eyelids that encased walnut orbs that glimmered gold in the sun. That wasn't all, no, it was also the way you spoke, so sultry and dark, but there was a certain elegance your words. A siren luring souls to the darkest depths of the ocean floor.

Rhys had once suggested that you'd never truly age considering you never smiled. That had earned him a rare small quirk of your lip, and he considered it to be his greatest achievement of his life to date.

It had made sense that the Night Court had been the place where you had chosen to settle, it had moulded very well with you, to the point where Day had become an infantile dream that was floating away in your subconscious. Forgotten.

Despite being a collector of sorts, Amren had soon found out just how far your talented talons stretched, you were incredibly well versed in old dialects, ancient symbols and traditions, a talent that Rhys had soon asked Amren to take advantage of since he was too afraid of you to ask you for aid himself.

Seemed as though the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court was actually scared of something.

"How exactly am I an idiot?" Amren enquired with darkened orbs that kept on glancing downward to the scars that littered the bare spine from the licks of Illyrian whips. They were slightly raised and pallid in comparison to the rest of your healthy glowing hue.

Untethering the last of your braid, you ran your nails over your scalp and pulled slightly, shivering at the relief that surged through you as your hair fell unbound down your spine. All the taut tension in your body quickly evaporated. Silently, you turned on your seat to face your friend, "You're asking me to revamp my evil lair to make it more welcoming for your odd little family," you said incredulously and unblinking, "You're an idiot."

Amren wasn't exactly asking you to make your own home more appeasing to the Inner Circle, she simply meant the private office that Rhys had bestowed to you for whenever he needed your help with something, and it had become a place that you frequented often. It was located in the library of the House of Wind so that your nimble fingers had access to all of the books and ancient texts they needed.

The only settling thing about that office was the view of the golden valley of Velaris, of the snow-capped mountains that loomed to the north. Everything else filled any resident with dread. Tall well-loved candles were scattered about the space, cloths stained with millennia old text hung from the ceilings, tomes lay splayed open on the desk and centre table, each depicting some form of terror. To you, your work was fascinating, studying the origins of evil and all of its forms, to others it was petrifying.

It wasn't odd to find the firedrake confined in your apartment, whether you be with her or not, glass of red in hand and reading some sort of research text. Amren often didn't even glace up at you when you entered your own home, all she noticed was your shadow gliding across the room, drowning out the golden candlelight.

"Rhys would spend more time with you if you did. He's actually really insightful, he could help you with your study."

"Why would I want to spend time with him?"

A poor attempt from Amren to try and push you into a monotone civilian life yet again.

"Fine," Amren rolled her coiling silver eyes and tutted, "Are you ready? Rhys doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Irritation was rife in her voice, you clasped a dainty blood diamond around your neck and allowed your shoulders to drop, "I don't particularly care for your High Lord's time." Rhys was not your High Lord and he knew it, he knew that you couldn't be ruled over and would never answer to anyone but yourself. A queen of her own kingdom. But one he very much wanted to keep on his side.

"Y/N," Amren bit, and you too tugged back the smirk that was quaking in the corners of your mouth.

Meeting her fiery gaze in the mirror, you rolled your head to the side in one swooped graceful motion, "I'm teasing, Amren." Rising from the bench before the vanity, you felt the silken hem of your dress brush against your feet. It was a simple garment, black buttoned up fabric, a deep v-neckline that showed the beginnings of your cleavage, short and soft floating sleeves that cuffed above your elbows.

Smirking with approval, Amren moved to the front door of your ornately beautiful apartment, a personal haven of yours that was vastly different to the office at the House of Wind. Brunette carpets thick enough to sleep upon covered the space, the walls were a shade of milked coffee, warm and inviting, and the ceilings were a soft cream and coved with intricate carvings. A large fire bundled into the far wall at the centre of a wall of windows, before it was a onyx seating area of plush deep seated sofas and armchairs.

It was charming. One of the best views of Velaris was from your living room window.

Leaving your home with the click of the lock, you followed after Amren, falling into place beside her as you walked up the winding paths to the House of Wind. The feeling of people's eyes trailing you had become something you'd become rather accustomed to, they were astounded by your beauty, amazed by how someone could look so breath-taking yet so horrifying.

The House of Wind was as it always was, incredibly luxurious in its own right and shivering at your entrance. It wasn't like the house didn't like you, it just struggled to adjust to your energy, it was starkly different to the usual joy it mostly held.

The echoing voices halted when you rounded the corner, your scent of jasmine and sandalwood soaring through the air, infecting their oxygen. Violet eyes appeared before you within a couple of moments, always wary, always laced with the tiniest bit of fear, "Thank you for meeting with us."

"Well," your eyes sliced across the room, absorbing every face and feature and feeling somewhat intrigued by a face you had never seen before. Tall and tan, shadows swirling at his shoulders, large wings that he had mindfully tucked behind his back, and shiny black hair that fell over his forehead. Rhys stood before you waiting for you to speak, your eyes found his and you hummed, tapping your finger against your clothed thigh, "Anything for the firedrake."

A chortled scoff flew from Cassian and Rhys stepped aside slightly to expose you to the general who soon choked on the air, "Something funny, Cass?" Rhys asked with a smirk, he motioned for you to find a seat and make yourself comfortable.

A deep rooted velvet armchair called to you and you moved to it, paying little attention to the hazel eyes fixated upon you. "No, not at all," Cassian sent you a tight-lipped smile which made Nesta grin, enjoying his discomfort nearly as much as you.

Flames danced in your eyes, the fire burning brightly in the fireplace that welcomed your gaze as though it was a mirror. Turning your head, you folded your hands over your thighs, feeling the exposed skin that lay there from the seamless slit in the fabric.

"How about you skip whatever small talk you were going to offer and get to the point, Rhysand?"

Widened pupils possessed Nesta's gaze, she leaned back into her seat and smirked, a wickedly feline feature, and spoke, "I like you."

No words left your lips, you held her gaze and felt your darkness bubble at her determination to withstand your stare, but she soon stood down; though, she continued to watch you, noting your posture and the way you held yourself. Nesta was in awe.

And she wasn't the only one.

"Straight to the point as always, y/n."

"Am I supposed to be anything but?" Rhys sighed, a headache already forming at his temples from your dry sassing. Perhaps he needed some of that powder that Elain had gifted to Azriel last solstice.

The High Lord pinched the bridge of his nose and slid his hand to rest on Feyre's knee, a sweet gesture, "We need your help with some particular text that none of us can translate. If anyone is going to be able to decipher it then it would be you."

"What text?"

Boredom coiled in your gut, "It's the story of Koschei, we believe that there may be a key hidden within the text that could help us to defeat him." The coil loosened and your eyebrow twitched, and a dark spot to your left caught that millisecond-long expression, sliding back to its master and humming in his ear.

Koschei was a death-god, a personification of evil. To have your hands on such a text would more than aid your research. It would make you infamous in the underworld of Prythian.

"Is it in my office?" Rhys straightened and nodded stiffly; rising to your feet, you brushed down the pleats of your skirt, "I'll take a look."

Before you could move from the room, a gentle clearing of a throat sounded from behind you, beckoning and hesitant. Slowly, you turned around, noticing how Rhys was now standing, "I would like Azriel to help you with this. I believe that your collective talents will be able to decipher the message faster."

Of course. The illustrious Shadowsinger that you had never had the displeasure of meeting. Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court.

"Studies have shown that I didn't ask for your opinion, High Lord," if anyone else had used the mocking tone toward his title they would have been misted on the spot. But not you, never you. Rhys was too afraid that Hell would rise from your ashes and devour the continent if he even tried it.

A cool kiss slithered around your ankle, and when you peered down you found a shadow curling there, caressing your skin and shivering in delight. Your eyes followed the tendril back to its owner who was clearly mentally scrambling to pull his shadow back to the others. Hazel collided with molten gold and you found yourself yearning for the shadow to return.

"I have to insist," his voice wavered and it didn't go unnoticed by you.

Amren sucked in a breath, shrinking further into her spot wedged between Mor and Elain, knowing that she told had told Rhys multiple times to never order you to do anything.

"What do you fear, Rhysand?"

"I think that you'll find that the word fear is not in my vocabulary," he doubled down and you couldn't blame him, he was an alpha protecting his territory.

Ticking your head to the side, your eyes dragged up his body, and you smirked, a real one that made his blood chill, "Perhaps. But it's in your eyes," not giving him a chance to respond, you turned to Azriel, finding him looking up at you with an almost bewitched possession in his eyes, "Stay out of my way."

Not another word was spoken as you stalked from the room, the only sound being the footsteps of Azriel who had speedily followed after you. Neither of you spoke on the descent down to the library, even that vast space of aged excellence watched you enter; you almost floated across the room, a grace in your steps that Azriel had never seen before, and it had him needing to know more.

How Azriel had never met you astounded him, he would certainly remember a face like yours. It was one that held the power to haunt his dreams.

As promised, the texts had been left on your desk, and you moved to them instantly, tracing your fingers down the bound leather spine and examining the golden embossment, picking apart the symbols in your mind. Rounding the large oaken desk, you pulled the text with you, opening the cover and not even flinching when it thudded against the desktop.

Thick waves fell over your shoulder and you mindlessly tucked them back from where they had originated, not caring about the effect it had on the Shadowsinger who noted how your fingers grazed against your collarbone on its return to the ancient pages before your insightful eye.

"I've never been in here before," a weak attempt to strike up conversation with you. Azriel had heard much about you from Cassian and Rhys, of how awful terrifying you were, how you intimidated every single person that crossed your path and seemingly enjoyed the terror of it.

Azriel understood it, there was something about you that was unnerving, that he could understand why people were uncomfortable in your presence, but he only found himself in wonderment of it.

Without looking up, you turned the page gently and muttered, "Why would you? It's my office."

Displeasure was prominent on your tongue, the taste of it swelled in the muscle but you didn't allow it to be vile, you pulled the bile back and silently choked on it.

Azriel drank in the room, the begging to be lit candles and the large arched windows, the aged tapestries of history that were clearly too valuable to display in your gallery, "The creation of the cauldron," the words pulled you from the text and your gaze narrowed in on the Shadowsinger rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands folded neatly at his back.

"How do you know that?"

The Shadowsinger circled to face you and took a tentative step to the edge of the desk, "I've seen a couple of the same markings in a cave. This is the original?"

"Yes," there were many deplorable things you had taken part in to secure your collection as the most impressive in the entire universe, some things you weren't proud of, others, you were very much so.

"How did you get it?" Azriel admired the piece, a depiction of Prythian's creation that no one would ever guess was as important as it was, all because they couldn't read the first language of the fae.

Sitting back in your seat, you placed your magniscope on the surface, an ornate tool used by curators and researchers alike to read between the lines of existence, and watched him, "There are some things in this world that would make even your blood burn, Shadowsinger."

The way you said his name had a shudder flickering down his spine, your tone was sultry and low, like you knew of his darkness and had decided that it was a star in comparison to whatever lived within you.

A golden glow shrouded the room from the setting sun kissing the mountain peak, it washed over you, its light glittering your skin with shimmer, turning your eyes into burnished gold. The blood diamond around your neck cascaded speckles of its hue across the ceiling, and your chest rise an fell with even, calm breaths.

Forgetting the reason why he stood before you, Azriel allowed himself a moment to examine you, the beautifully loose hair that swam down that perfectly curved spine, the eyes and cheekbones, the full lips and the indents of your collarbone. You were by far the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

The stolen moment wasn't one that escaped your eye, a gentle heat pooled at your cheeks and you had no option but to look away, clearing your throat and pouring your attention back into the text in front of you.

Coiling the magniscope in your fingers, you hovered it over the written symbols on the page, moving it in line with every line and swirl you could see. It was a heavy object, and you hadn't been surprised when Amren had mistook the glass orb as a bookend.

"What do you know of Koschei?" Azriel found a place in the seat opposite you, his shadows danced from his shoulders and began to inch toward you, and he made no move or command to stop them.

"There are many legends," you began, craning your neck to peer at the top of the adjacent page, "Attacking his physical body won't harm him, he has split his soul into parts and placed them in other living creatures or sentient objects. Destroy the objects and you have a better chance of ending him."

Azriel angled himself forward, propping his elbows on his knees, "How do you know that?"

Again, without looking up, you spoke, "When you spend a lot of time in the Underworld of this continent you pick up a few things. You also learn how to decipher the truth from the lies."

Another gentle turn of the page.

The taupe scribing possessed the faintest words written in a pale gold ink, so miniscule that any other magniscope wouldn't be able to see it. Though yours wasn't just any ordinary magniscope, it was forged with the stardust of a fallen star, a star that used to burn the brightest in the northern skies.

"You know of the Underworld?"

For a moment, your gaze flickered upward, golden pools peering through your long thick lashes, "Very well."

It wasn't surprising that you had dabbled in the darkest reality of the continent, your knowledge was not cheap, and it wasn't knowledge that you could gain from books alone. Azriel wondered how many souls you had stripped from the earth on your quest for knowledge, perhaps it would cause his count to pale in comparison.

"I could only imagine what someone would do for this level of knowledge," his voice lingered, questioning, requiring to know every corner of the mind locked within the female in front of him.

"Are you trying to compare body counts, Spymaster? If so, I assume I would be disappointed with your lacklustre attempts."

Then you were back on the text, scribbling words down in the notepad to your left without even glancing to it, focused to the point where no letter strayed from the lines. But you still felt his eyes on you, waiting, scouring your face and trying to figure out why exactly he had never crossed paths with you before considering your occupation.

"Don't you have some doe-eyed damsel to go and rescue?"

Even with the fleeting few minutes spent with the Inner Circle, you saw how Elain Archeron looked at him, all love-sick and hopeful. Elain was a perfectly mundane being, content with all things bright and pretty. It was sickening.

Biting back the urge to roll his eyes at the thought, Azriel shuffled into his seat, seemingly getting more comfortable, "No."

"Shame," you mused, impressing Azriel with how you scribed, analysed and spoke all at the same time. A very powerful mind was dwelling within you, and it had his attention.

Azriel was finding your dry words quite amusing, though he was spending his time sat before you in silence, sketching every inch of your face and body to his memory.

A soft tug pulled at your brows, and if Azriel wasn't fixated upon you then he surely would have missed it. He let a minute pass, a minute where the pace of your analysation quickened alongside the rate of your writing. Again, your hair fell over your shoulder, clearly bothering you but you couldn't move it, not when you were so entranced, and it took all of his will to not do it for you.

Questioning you on your findings, your eyes held a certain twinkle to them as you explained your theory. That Koschei had in fact fractured his soul and implanted the pieces of it within other living creatures and objects, and that to hunt those objects down was the only way to be able to banish him from the world.

"Run and tell your master," you told him after you were done explaining how to find the first host of Koschei's soul, "I'm sure he will be thrilled with your input."

Which was very little, Azriel hadn't done anything other than invade your space and make himself far too comfortable, but he didn't argue, he simply stood from his seat and bowed, taking your hand in his marred digits and raising it to his lips, brushing them against your knuckles and thanking you before leaving you to your silence.

The ghost of his touch lingered on you skin, as did the licks at your calves from the shadows he hadn't cared to reign in upon his exit.

It was then that a small yet foreign warmth pooled in your chest, you rubbed the spot gingerly and sighed, returning to reality and shaking your head back to sense. Finding peace in the confined corners of your mind.

The next instance where you found yourself in Azriel's presence had been one warm afternoon in the library.

Velaris had been scorched by the sun, the summer breezes swept across the city, and you had decided to wear a simple grey dress that afternoon, it was lightweight enough to flow in the gentle caress of the wind but still managed to keep to your usual elegant yet sharp style.

Since that insisted couple of hours in your office a couple of weeks ago, you were ashamed to admit just how much your thoughts drifted to the Shadowsinger you had seen lurking in the corners of your consciousness. The darkness was lingering in the farthest reaches, as if it didn't wish to be discovered by you but couldn't steer itself away.

The ladder beneath your feet creaked as you reached across the shelf, tongue stuck out of the side of your mouth as you strained slightly, your fingers barely brushing against the spine of the book you needed. A familiar cool presence washed over you, trailing up your skirt and arms and extending from your fingers to remove the book from the shelf and place it in your awaiting grasp.

Peering back to the ground, you saw Azriel stood at the foot of the ladder with his hands resting at his sides; balling the skirt up in your fingers, you used the railing the lower yourself back to the earth and paused in front of Azriel who had a brow quirked in curiosity, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," his voice matched your own but he found himself faltering when you went to walk by him. His voice called out to you, "I just wanted to let you know that we found the first host."

You paused your steps and turned, "And?"

"It's destroyed," and clearly the gravity of it weighed on him, he had to have known that Koschei wasn't exactly going to make the objects easy to destroy, but it still didn't mean that it wasn't traumatising.

Understanding what he meant, at the life he had just taken to protect to continent, you took a step toward him, an olive branch of sorts, "Are you alright?"

Itching with confusion, Azriel nodded slowly, "I didn't think you cared."

You shrugged, nonchalant, and scuffed the heel of your sandal against the floor with your gentle kick, "I don't."

Azriel hummed, a serene grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "I think that you do," Azriel took a step forward and noticed how your back straightened and shoulders rolled back.

The book became plastered to your chest, "Whatever you think is of little concern to me."

Two weeks had passed, two weeks of not only searching for the first host of Koschei thanks to your wildly impressive knowledge, but two weeks of Azriel doing all he could to gain your attention. It had been difficult to see you at Rita's, swaying to the music without a care in the world beside Amren, and not be able to touch the skin that seemed as smooth as honey.

His shadows had been following you, reporting back to him of how you spent your days cooped up in your apartment reading or in your office analysing another ancient text. They reported no men, nothing untoward or damning, they simply whispering to him how pretty you were. They had been bewitched by you, utterly obsessed with everything that you were, and he couldn't blame them.

Turning on the balls of your feet again, you entered your office, leaving the door open in silent permission that Azriel basked in as he followed you inside, "I'm trying to talk to you, y/n."

A soft hum vibrated against your lips. Placing the book once glued to your chest on the centre table of the room, you faced Azriel once more. The office was cold, as was every chamber built below the main infrastructure of the house, and Azriel wondered how you could be so at home within it.

It was entrancing how a room so dark and full of evil texts and passages could make you look so ethereal. The glossed black hair he had often dreamt of running his fingers through was tied back in a loose thick braid, whisps of hair fell from the vines of it and settled over your eyes. Ornate jewellery twinkled in the pale sunlight, swirls of gold encased your fingers and wrists, and a coiled necklace that resembled a scaled serpent glided around the base of your neck.

"What would you like me to say? I did tell you how to find the first host so that you could destroy it. I don't require updates, Azriel," the movement of your tongue as you said his name for the first time had his resolve withering.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to warm ourselves by the glow of your I told you so."

Then, as though the sun was blessing the earth after eons of slumber, your lips widened into a grin, one big enough to expose your perfectly white teeth and Azriel felt the dark storm clouds in his soul splinter. A golden threat soared through him, reaching out to you and entwining itself with the thread bristling at your centre.

Sculpted fingers drifted over that spot in your chest that had become increasingly hard to ignore and you inhaled sharply. Azriel's pupils had dilated, they were wide and frenzied, and his hand was outstretched to you.

The smile on your face dropped.

"You're my mate," Azriel nodded at the words you had managed to utter, the same ones that had become lodged in his throat.

Heat prickled at his skin, nerves seeped into his bones. You were so unreadable, and Azriel was scrambling his thoughts to clear so that he may be able to figure out how you felt about it. About being fated to be his.

Azriel had learnt from Amren how unaffectionate you were, how much you hated anyone touching you. It was because of the Illyrian camps you had visited in your younger years where they had thought you a witch, and had punished you for it in a barbaric way; the evidence still lingered on your skin in long angry streaks, and Amren had admitted that night is what spurred on your need to understand the roots of evil.

It was understandable, to spend a lifetime studying the one thing that had ever truly hurt you. For what reason, Azriel didn't know, but he liked to think that it was to cause evil to cower in your presence.

Silence shrouded the room like a disease, infecting and poisoning everything in its path, and Azriel way becoming increasingly worried about how your smile had dropped. Was he truly that repulsive to you? He could only ever dream to be mated with someone like you, someone who welcomed death like an old friend and would entertain it in an eons long waltz, someone who was poised and elegant but so brilliantly lethal that it made even him shudder.

Taking an unsettling step toward you, Azriel loosened a breath when he saw that you hadn't retreated, his eyes were trained on you as he took another step, and then another, until his shadow danced with you own, "I'm your mate."

Rhys and Cassian would be mortified of the news, Azriel was sure that Rhys found you terrifying in the same way that Cassian found Bryaxis. No of that mattered though. Not to him. Not when he now belonged to a female as striking and dangerous as the blood in his veins.

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at the proximity, the tendrils connected to his essence peered over his shoulders seemingly apprehensively thrilled that it was you stood before them, "Yes, you are."

Azriel's gaze drifted down to your lips and left dragged back upward to your eyes, "Can I touch you?"

A part of you froze at the desperate question. You hadn't let anyone touch you in years, you couldn't remember the last time you laid with a male or female, you couldn't remember what a simple even felt like. Amren had never even tried to get too close to you let alone anyone else.

In the first vulnerable emotion you had ever let anyone see, you sheepishly nodded, eyes boring into his own and he didn't break his stare as his fingers twitched toward you, ghosting along your skin and melting at the heat they found there. Mindlessly, you shifted when his palm lingered a whisker away from the slope of your neck and his eyes became stitched with concern but softened when you had won the fight against your fear to stand still once more.

Azriel's hand lowered, resting against your skin that was softer than his imagination could ever fathom. His thumb drifted down the column of your throat and you swallowed, hard.

"You don't have to accept this or me," he told you, his voice tantalisingly cooing to you in a hush above a whisper, "But gods, y/n. I really hope that you do."

Azriel saw through you then, through that façade you wore like a medal. And he found what saw to be quite heart-breaking. Stood before him was a woman, one that possessed a brilliant mind and equally captivating beauty, but beneath it all was the girl who was brutalised so badly that she vowed to never allow another person close again.

"You're my mate," you spoke with a certain conviction that hadn't graced your words the last time, Azriel watched your lashes flutter, and he felt his soul singing when those eyes found him again, "I'm not letting you go."

Gracefully, your fingers curled around his wrist, your index finger sleeping just over the faint beat of his pulse, just where his marred flesh faded to memory, "You accept it?"

"I- yes, I do."

Jasmine and sandalwood drowned his lungs, and he would have died happy just to be able to say that he knew what your shampoo smelt like. Papaya and coconuts. He gingerly ran his fingers through your hair, noting how much you loved the feeling of it as you shivered in his arms. Azriel pressed a dainty but tender kiss to your brow, and it had you realising that maybe you were allowed to give yourself this one thing that the younger version of you had always dreamt of.

Azriel hadn't tried to push you further, he knew that the moment of allowing someone to touch you, to hold you, was far more momentous than finding your mate.

Instead he asked you a simple question, it was more of an offering than anything. To spend time together away from the prying eyes of his family, so that you may become comfortable with one another before allowing anyone else into it. You had agreed. Eagerly.

So the next few weeks drifted by, afternoon walks along the Sidra, morning breakfast drop-offs at your office, after hours visits to the gallery where you would tell him of your adventures and how on some occasions you barely survived. Azriel was in complete awe of you, he sat beside you on your love seat completely captivated by you, his fingers tracing small circles into your thighs and his shadows curling through your hair. And that smile, gods, that smile could make even the most poised male lose all sense. It was bright and gleaming, and your skin glowed with the happiness of it.

Then you had decided to break the news to the Inner Circle, and as you stood before those doors oozing with grandeur, you felt nerves pinch at your skin, "Are you ready?" Azriel's fingers were tangled with yours and he bowed his head to place his lips on your bare shoulder.

"Yes." Azriel gave your hand a gentle tug, willing you to move from your spot located just behind him.

The aura of the house had shifted, now, it was inquisitive, glancing to the mirrors and then back to your hands to see if what it was seeing was real. Laughter echoed at the end of the hall, your scent had usually silenced them by now, but not this time. Now that your scent was mixed with Azriel’s it seemed much less threatening. Pity.

Turning the corner, you became startled by the smash of a glass, shards of it glided along the floor and fell at your feet. Looking up, you found Mor frozen in place, wide eyes and bewildered. The rest of the room craned to attention, collectively moving their eyes from Mor, to you, and then to Azriel, and then to your entwined fingers.

It took a minute, but you could have sworn you heard the bell ding in Cassian’s empty brain, “Oh shit,” he rose to his feet, wings flaring slightly as a wide grin gripped his mouth.

Rhys appeared before you both, gaze lowered in surprise, clearly trying to picture a timeline in his mind. The High Lord looked to his Spymaster, “Are you-“

“Mates?” Azriel finished incredulously, knowing that your moulded scents had already infected the room, and turned his head to you, orbs gleaming and adoration speckled on his cheeks, “Yes.”

Elain Archeron had sank into her seat, doing her best to not pay attention to you in particular whilst her stomach churned with the scent seeping into her bones. Subconsciously, you moved closer to Azriel, a slightly territorial action that made him smirk.

It had been a brief conversation that you had suffered through, the one where Azriel had made it very clear that the situation with Elain was brutally one-sided. Azriel had only sought to be nice to her, to help her to adjust to her new body and life because she was Feyre's sister and Feyre was his High Lady, and she had taken his kindness for something much more than what it truly was.

Leading you to the velvet armchair that you would usually slither into, Azriel sat and motioned for you, turning you in his hands so that his touch never left your thighs, and pulled you to his lap. A bashful smile formed on your face and you could feel the eyes of the room on you, equally as confused as shocked.

"Since when?" Nesta had asked after sipping from the goblet of red wine between her fingers, the liquid staining her plump pale lips, and she used her thumb to wipe a singular droplet before it ran down her chin. Her eyes held an emotion you couldn't quite make out, Azriel had admitted that Nesta was just as unreadable as you at times, but the way his digits dug into your flesh told you that what the eldest sister was feeling was an assortment of jealousy. Not toward you, toward him.

"The bond snapped just over a month ago," Nesta hummed and burrowed herself into the cushions, pouting slightly, like she was an infant who had her favourite toy taken from her grasp. "We wanted to explore it before we properly accepted it or told anyone."

That made Elain's doe-like stare move from the floor to your mate who was sat with you on his thighs rubbing small circles into your shoulders, "So you haven't accepted it?"

Your jaw clenched at the question, the question that was perfumed with the last splatters of hope, "If you're asking if we've fucked yet, Elain, then no, we haven't. Does that answer your question?"

Azriel's fingers moved to play with the ends of your hair, knowing that the sensation of slight tugging over your scalp relaxed you infinitely, "I only ask because I know how physical Azriel can be. Surely you've heard the stories?" Elain feigned innocence, Feyre sighed from her seat and glanced to you apologetically, silently begging you to not tear her sister apart.

In fact, you had heard the stories. Trying to ignore the gossip of the city was difficult considering how used you were to eavesdropping into certain conversations in the underworld. So, unfortunately, you had heard about Azriel's many lovers, and you'd be silly to not feel insecure of it, but you wouldn't let her see that. Ever.

Craning your neck to the side, you smiled, your iced gaze slicing into her and making Elain shrink under the weight of it, "With all due respect, which is none," you leaned to the side, accepting the goblet of wine that the house had presented to you in premature thanks for the forthcoming words you were about to utter, "Your existence gives me a headache, so please go and find somewhere else to be."

Rhys' eyes widened but he suppressed the smirk forming on his face, hiding his lips behind his fist and closing his eyes. Not even Feyre or Nesta spoke up over it, they clearly knew better than to challenge you. Cassian however didn't really care if Elain saw his joy at your words, he had been growing more tired each passing day of her pining affection toward his brother, and now he understood why Azriel had withdrawn further from the female over the last few weeks.

It was because of the unique female before their very eyes.

The middle sister went to open her mouth, to retort something that wouldn't even irk you, but Amren shushed her, halted the words in her throat and willed her to die with them, "Don't even try it," Amren served you more than her own court, finding a kindred spirit within you, and she would shame herself if she let Elain speak to you as if you were nothing.

Elain would never understand someone like you. She wasn't worthy of it anyway.

No one had ever tried to understand Amren, not really, they thought her too complicated to be worth it. As long as they brought her pretty jewels and respected her then there was little else to worry of in their eyes. But you, you had understood her instantly and had found a particular solace with her, like you were peering through a mirror and she was your reflection.

Sipping the potent liquid in your goblet, you bowed your head to her, quietly thanking your friend for halting the small spat before it escalated and ruined the evening entirely. Tonight was not about Elain and her fragile feelings, it was about showing the Inner Circle who now owned your heart.

So, the middle sister vacated the room feigning a migraine, and the aura instantly lifted. A soft smile formed on your lips when your eyes landed on your mate, your entire face relaxed; entwining your fingers with his, you blushed when he pressed his lips to your knuckles and dragged your index finger down his cheek.

The Inner Circle watched on, knowing that they had never seen Azriel so taken by anything. They feasted on the sight of his shadows purring through your hair, on your colliding smiles, and how your gentle words to one another were contained in an ornate bubble around your bodies.

As the evening continued, you found yourself quite enjoying their company, you sat bundled into Azriel's embrace, finding comfort in the arms that were wrapped around you whilst Cassian spewed war stories, bragging at his prowess.

"Not to brag," you began with a smirk, "But at least eight men have described me as 'terrifying', and two of them are in this room. Choke on that ego, Cassian."

Nesta's grin turned feline and excitement bubbled in the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn't give to spar with you, to have your legs wound around her and that tense gaze splitting her in half. From the whisperings of Prythian, it was very clear that you had done some rather diabolical things in order to obtain certain artifacts that had been locked away in your most prized and personal collection. So prized that its location was unknown. She could only imagine what trinkets you possessed, and the things you had witnessed.

"What about Azriel?!"

The Shadowsinger shrugged, his hand resting on your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, "I've only ever been entranced by my mate, Cassian," Azriel drawled, sipping the amber liquid swirling in his rocks glass like molten bronze, "It's you and Rhys who are afraid of her."

"If it's any consolation, I don't blame you."

Cassian frowned, turning to Nesta and asking, "Are you scared of her?"

"No," she answered a little too quickly, so quickly that you had quirked your brow at the sound, "I find y/n to be quite exciting."

"Exciting?" Cassian moved to Feyre and asked the same question, his manhood decaying when she too said that you didn't scare her, "Mor?"

The blonde who could not rival your beauty had always watched you from afar, and had always enjoyed how you made males squirm. Mor rose her glass to the stars and stated, "Bring every man you meet to their motherfucking knees, y/n."

"Amen to that," Amren tipped her glass in response, downing the rest of the thick red sap and finally feeling at home in the presence of her family thanks to you, and she eternally thanked the male sat beside you for being able to breathe some light into the storm cloud that was your mind.

"Mother above," Rhys grumbled, the women in his life uniting and itching to wreck havoc. The action of Rhys swiping his hand down his face, dragging the skin slightly toward in frustration, made a deep chuckle float from your lips, so serene that Nesta likened the sound to a siren call and found herself drawn to it. "Did I just make you laugh?" Rolling your eyes, you nodded at the High Lord who turned toward his mate, "This is the best day of my life," then back to you, "Does this mean that we're friends?"

Rhys waited expectantly, childlike orbs pleading to you with their innocence. You had no friends bar Amren and you were content with that. It meant that you only had one thing to lose. But as Azriel laid his hand on the small of your back, gaining your attention and giving you an expression of promise, the resolve of your solitude cracked, "Why not?"

The door to the River House flew open, a sudden shrill chill soaring through the air from the wild winds battering against the city, no doubt spurred on by your fury.

Many months had passed, and in that time you had truly blossomed, sure you still wore the mask of the devil on your features in public, but when you were with the Inner Circle, a group of people you now proudly belonged to, that mask drifted away like ash in the autumn breeze; and when Azriel was beside you, it felt as though warmth and happiness was all that you ever knew.

Much to Elain's upset, you and Azriel had officially accepted the bond and had locked yourselves away for four weeks to make the most out of every single moment together, and Rhys had been understanding enough of the bond between you both to not drag your mate away on another mission. The bond between you and Azriel was something that Rhys had never seen before, not even between him and Feyre.

"She tastes like every dark thought I've ever had."

The ceremony itself had been astonishing.

The women of the Inner Circle had spent the better part of two days dressing your apartment for the occasion and Feyre had made it quite clear that the upcoming ceremony was going to make theirs look ridiculous in comparison. Rhys was split between jealousy and awe when he saw it.

No one had ever stepped into the apartment beside Amren and Azriel, he had decided to move into the apartment after your return from the four-week sabbatical at the cabin, it was as though you were gifting them with the last part of you, allowing them to see what they could never fathom.

Faelights were strewn across the ceiling, curling around the arched windows that displayed the golden valley of the city in a way Rhys had never been able to appreciate before; tucked between the vines of the lights was fresh foliage, an array of green hue ferns caressing fully blossomed white roses and pale blue peonies. Sprigs of cedar and rosemary had been wove between the foliage and flowers alongside splinters of sandalwood, filling the room with the physical aspects of your scents.

Only the Inner Circle had been invited, and as you were dressing in your room with Amren, you could hear Nesta whining of her foolish jealousy of having to watch Azriel marry you. Amren had simply raised a brow and smirked at you through the mirror as she finished securing your veil to the back of your head.

There was no one you would want to share the moment with other than her.

Amren had blindfolded you, leading you through the home so that the gift wouldn't be ruined just so that you could get ready together, for the most important and deserving night of your life.

The dress that you had meticulously chosen was the most incredible garment Amren had ever seen, so much so that the first time you had tried it on in front of her, she had nearly cried at the beauty of it; and there you now stood, twisting in the mirror and running your hands down the hem of your veil and then your hips. The dress was made entirely of white lace that you had imported from the Day Court, an off-the-shoulder neckline and sleeves that kissed your wrists, it was elegant and graceful, and made the freckles of your trauma glow like shooting stars.

A gentle knock had sounded at the door and Rhys stepped in, taking one look at you and finding his breath catching in his throat. "You look amazing," he breathed, approaching you with his hands deep within his pockets.

The High Lord had been honoured when you had sheepishly asked him to walk you down the aisle; Rhys had found himself consumed with the need to protect you, after seeing your guard disappear, he saw who you truly were, a woman who just wanted to be loved and protected, and ready to allow other people to do it for her after spending so long doing it herself.

"Are you ready?" Inhaling deeply, you nodded and turned to him, noting the outstretched hand before you and feeling your usual anxiety bubbling in your gut. Rhys, realising that he shouldn't have done something so bold, went to retreat but halted when you took a small step toward him, reaching your fingers out to his palm and sliding them into his grasp.

Azriel was right, your skin was a smooth as honey.

A gentle smile of triumph later, you spoke, "I'm ready."

It was that moment that Rhys was begging you to remember as you barrelled through his house, no doubt heading straight for him in the confinements of his office.

He could feel your anger slam through the walls, your footsteps sounding up the staircase and stopping at the top of the hall, a pause to remember just how much you liked him before stalking down the hall and bursting into his office. Rhys cringed, knowing what was coming as you strode to his desk and slapped your palms flat against the wood.

"If you ever," you pointed your perfectly manicured finger in his face, "Send my mate back to me in that state again. I. Will. Destroy. You."

The snarl of your words sent a shiver coursing down his spine, and in that moment you were the y/n he had met one-hundred years ago. Cold. Distant. Almost demonic.

In his defence, he hadn't sent Azriel on an overly dangerous mission, it wasn't his fault that his Spymaster was ambushed in The Middle. Azriel's spilled blood was entirely his own fault in Rhys' eyes, "I didn't mean for him to get hurt, y/n."

The rushed footsteps of another sounded in the hall, and when Rhys looked past your deeply heaving form, he was relieved beyond compare when he saw a bruised Azriel approaching, "Angel, it wasn't his fault. I was distracted," his voice grew louder as he paced closer to the pair of you, appearing at your side and turning your head in his fingers to face him, "I was thinking about you and I didn't hear them coming."

Watching your shoulders drop, Rhys sighed and wiped away an invisible bead of sweat from his brow, sitting back down and continuing his viewing just as you tilted your head to the side and popped out your bottom lip.

"You were?" Azriel's eyes softened and he dipped his gaze to meet yours, "That's the most romantic thing you've ever done. You were attacked because you were thinking about me, you actually bled because you were thinking about me?"

Rhys could only watch on perplexed at your words, you threw yourself into Azriel's arms, muttering small apologies for brushing against the bruises littering his abdomen, "She's crazy."

The Shadowsinger could only huff, too entrapped by you to really reprimand him, "Yeah," his eyes opened lazily, brimming with exhaustion, "But she's my crazy."

Azriel's shadows curled over your shoulders and shuddered, crying to be as close to you as possible, like they were trying to entwine with your soul so that you one day may carry them with you wherever you walked. In whatever world.

A bond like yours was made to topple temples and shatter worlds, it was made to transcend time and space; and as you wrapped an arm around your mate and led him from the office, not without sending one more warning glare to the male you had come to love as a brother, Rhys knew that no matter where either of you went, there would be no place that you could travel to where the other would not follow.

Author’s Note

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Thank @cyphlyncolours for this one! Title: All Bets are Off Wordcount: 3327 Kinks: breeding, oviposition, cum inflation, knotting, egg laying, bondage (?), breeding stocks, overstimulation Synopsis: Ashe (she/they) is a human on an alien planet. Hanging out in an alien bar and playing games sounds like great fun... until the bids are raised higher than before. If she wins, the prize is a great amount of money. If she loses, well... the breeding stocks always need a new body.

-

The sultry air in the Aura Rainforest was something that few humans enjoyed, but Ashe had found herself coming to enjoy. It wasn’t impossible to encounter other soft-skinned folks like herself in here, but it was definitely something rare. She liked how comfortable it was, in only the barest modicum of clothing, and the Selesians seemed to enjoy the novelty of seeing such an unusual creature in their midst. The human settlement nearby had been tolerated when they’d first landed; the reptillian locals were not huge in numbers, and friendly enough, even if it had taken some time for communication to be established. That was hundreds of years ago now, and Ashe was part of a generation that was long since settled… although interactions between the two communities was a little more distant than it really should have been.

Ashe, though? They’d never given a damn what was expected of her. The thick leafy foliage was part of the building; the air was heavy with moisture, and her crop top – barely containing her heavy chest - and light yoga pants were not enough to stop sweat dripping down her back. For the scaled creatures that were her friends and compatriots, it was clearly pleasant – they found her strange, soft nature to be fascinating. Eyes drifted around the space before settling back on the hand of cards she had. It sometimes made her think of saunas she’d seen on footage about Earth, and always enjoyed it…

The last few games had been disastrous; an upsetting shift in pace from Ashe’s previous luck. This game had been one she’d learnt here, on the very first, nervous visit – a friend had heard her talking about wanting to try some of the local delicacies, and had almost mockingly recommended Aura Rainforest. The silence that fell when she’d first stepped in, a half-dozen sets of slitted eyes turning to look, suspicion that spoke of perhaps some crueller visits in the past. Yet, upon learning what kind of person they were? Ashe had been accepted with open arms.

The game was fun, but tense; a little like poker, a little like chess, even if it was played from the compressed-leaf ‘cards’, able to tolerate the balmy temperatures. The pile of money in front of them, though, was drawing tension. The space around had a low chatter, but many eyes were fixed upon the two players. All the others had dropped previously, and now, it was only Ashe and her opponent – Manna. She was a stunning creature, truly. Six foot two, glossy green and gold scales with touches of warm copper, brilliant orange eyes. She reminded Ashe of images she’d seen of cobras; the way her natural head shape flared out like a hood or even long hair… her own brunette locks felt unremarkable in comparison.

She was also the owner of Aura Rainforest, and one of the most skilled N’ic players that Ashe had ever faced off against.

“Damnit.” the human sighed, sitting back slightly, dropping her cards down in front of her. “I concede. I don’t have anything else to bid.” “Hmm…” Manna’s voice was as warm as the air, and she smiled in that languid way the reptillians had. “There is something else you could raise…” she murmured. “One more game. If you win, all this…” she gestured a clawed hand down at the pile. That was a good amount of money – enough to cover her rent for the month, at least. Brows drew in, trying to consider what was being suggested right now – before the black claw pointed across the room. Ashe turned, and her eyes settled on – ah. ‘The Stocks’, she’d heard them called, although they weren’t like any stock they’d ever seen before in their history docs.

It wasn’t a structure designed to hold the wrists and neck, no – it was something entirely different, something she’d rarely seen used but – there was a deep throb of heat that sunk straight to her core. Maybe, as Ashe looked back around, she saw Manna’s nostrils flare – but she could have imagined that, surely? “One night.” she said, with a grin, “Anything goes. I won’t let anyone hurt you, of course – standard rules would apply.” Yes, Ashe had seen that before – although never taking too close a look, just in case, not wanting to seem overly interested – that little translator in their brain working to shift the words to something she could understand. No hurting, no suffering, nothing overly… permanent. But, still… that was a hell of a thing to gamble on… eyes drifted back to the money. She remembered the last time they’d seen a body in the stocks… the moaning and gasping from the monitoresque Selesian as she’d been fucked hard, over and over… maybe… maybe the risk was worth it.

“You’ve got it. Deal me in.” she said, giving a grin that Manna reflected back, gesturing casually for the cards to be shuffled and redealt. As each one appeared, she inhaled slowly, well aware that every eye in the space was fixated on the game. She lifted the hand up, staring – trying everything she could to not reveal just what her eyes were fixing on. Impossible. There was only one hand in the game that could possibly beat this. Her own blue irises flicked up, focusing, don’t give it away… the tension held between them, then, finally -

“Marshall.” Manna declared. Ashe’s heart lifted, and she beamed, slapping down her own glimmering purple hand - “Full basilisk.” she declared, sure that Manna had overreached, but the snake was smiling, wider now, and that delight twisted to fear as - “Good hand, Ashe. But …” she laid her own down. “White sail.” “What? No! That’s – how?!” Ashe jolted to her feet, hands on the countertop. Manna began to laugh, throwing her head back before she stood, moving to the human’s side. “Looks like you have a night with us.” she whispered, just the faintest hint of a hiss in her tone. There was laughter all around, now, the rest of the bar delighted at her failure.

“Let me get you a drink.” Manna murmured, “You’re going to want it.” they waved at the bartender; a moment later a shimmering shot was laid in front of her. They stared at it for a moment, knowing just what that was; something she’d never tried, because it was expensive and – well -

“Are you sure?” Ashe murmured. There was a ripple of laughter in return; Manna nodded, leaning in her face close to the back of the human’s head, breath surprisingly warm for a mostly cold blooded creature… reaching out, her fingers caressed the cool sides of the glass before throwing it back. The ‘venom’ shot was made with – well – venom, from a particular species of Selensian – it was rare, and the price came from more than just how hard it was to obtain. Almost immediately, a new kind of heat was suffusing Ashe’s body, making her gasp.

“I always wondered just how it might work on a human.” Manna murmured, and now her slender hands were sliding over Ashe’s hips, then up – scooping under her crop top then the bra, cupping her heavy breasts. Ashe gasped roughly – her hips ground back instinctively, pressing against the growing bulge in her pants. There was more laughter, rising, but seeming so very unimportant in comparison to the throbbing heat building in her own crotch, the wetness soaking through her tight fitting pants. Those cool, unexpectedly soft scaled hands were massaging her now, rubbing over her nipples with a fascination that could only come from someone who didn’t have them. Then the fabric was being pulled from over her head, baring her in front of the entire group.

She found she didn’t mind.

Now the hands were slipping down, into the edges of her pants. Everything was becoming blurry beyond the desperation growing between her legs. As they were led through the bar towards the ‘stocks’, hands reached out to caress the soft skin, stroking her and fondling her, a whisper of what was to come…

There was a soft pad here; they’d never noticed before. But, well – they’d never been on this side of it before, after all. She let them lay her forward. There was a thick bar that settled over her hips, holding her in place, a deep soft curve in the ground, surprisingly comfortable as it was locked into place. There was a hand gripping their ass, stroking over the curve it, tantalisingly close to her desperate, aching hole…

Then something soft was pressing her clit, rubbing against it – she squirmed, bucking, letting out a loud moan.

“You know the rules!” she hissed at someone unknown. “I get first breeding. You lot get to go after. Remember – two drink minimum to use the fucktoy!” and there was a roar of laughter, the clatter of the bar picking up, and then – oh, God, yes – yes – sweet relief – there was something sinking into her. It was surprisingly slender and cool compared to the burning emptiness that was Ashe’s body right now, the venom making every nerve alive. Manna dug her claws into the bits of Ashe’s hips that she could reach.

“You’re such a wet toy. Oh… we need to find more humans to test this venom on. Or maybe it’s just you. I saw the way you looked at it when I raised that bet… I bet you wanted to be here, didn’t you? Wanted to have everyone in this bar lay their eggs in you? You’re very lucky… I can see Snaa is looking at you. We’ll have to let her go last… when you’re all fucked open and ready for that monster, hm?” she laughed again, and the noises made her tremble inside, Ashe clenching around her member. It was just like Manna. Strong, long, slim but irresistible as it drove into her. Over and over, rough, uncaring almost, yet it felt like bliss.

She was getting closer, now, so close, feeling the liquid heat building and building, thrumming into her centre. There – there – and – no – Manna was pulling away, thick strands of cum still drooling from the tip of her cock. “I could’ve given you my clutch… but no. I want to wait until you’re a little more broken, pet.” she slapped Ashe firmly across the rear, and the human clenched, moaning wantonly. Her hands dug into the padding below her, breasts scraping against the soft material… her whole body twitched hungrily, still feeling that throb that was now dancing away, only --

“Ah -” the moan escaped her throat – Manna was still hovering nearby, but there was someone new lining up. Something thick and surprisingly blunt slid slowly down the crack of their ass, rounded and textured. It was so different from the owner’s slender tool, but – surely this wasn’t Snaa’s cock? They knew her – she was the komodo who sat in the back corner, downing huge jugs of the simmered palm ‘beers’, some kind of labourer with a beautiful muscular set of arms and oh, god, she was being split in half, this couldn’t be Snaa but what if it was already? They’d never be the same again. It felt so good; they were so slick and hot compared to the blunt, unstoppable intrusion…

“Fuck!” Ashe cried out as she came, clenching, yet the cock slipped all the way in, and the high laughter above her wasn’t Snaa’s, no. It was hard to think beyond just how full she felt, each ponderous thrust slow, steady, driving all the way in then nearly all the way out. Pre was drooling into their body, doubled up on the slick from Manna’s first filling, and then – oh – oh, they were moving faster, rougher. Each blow all the way in rocked her in the ‘stock’, whining and drooling into the padding. She truly was a toy, being used, the venom making her blood sing and body shimmer all over… a bliss that she didn’t imagine she’d ever feel again.

Somehow, that cock was getting thicker. At the base now, swelling – bigger – they couldn’t move even if they hadn’t been held. Twitching, pulsing, almost squirming where it was packed into her tunnel. Each pulse of cum had nowhere to go but in, the knot preventing anything slipping out. Ashe howled, then babbled, hearing the rising and falling of laughter and excited talking. Someone carressed her face, tilting her head up as if to check she was still alive. Her belly was aching – she’d never felt so full. Then there was a soft hand on that too, rubbing it – they could feel how it hung, packed with cum, into the scaled palm. Manna was talking, laughing, and the idea that she might be proud of just how well Ashe was taking the breeding… it sent another tremble of pleasure through them, making them clench again.

“Oh, it liked that.” a deep voice rumbled, and she finally realised it was Kroak. They had been knocked out in the first round of the game, entirely unable to hold anything like a poker face, but clearly didn’t seem to be all that disappointed. “Rub it again.” then that hand was pressing against her swollen womb and she was howling as she came once more, panting, gasping. “It’s like she was made for this.” “You’ve had your turn, pet. Move on.” slowly, the cock slipped out of her. The balmy air was cold for a moment against her swollen, open cunt; then there was another slipping inside. She let out a breathless little whimper, legs trembling against the sensation. It wasn’t bigger, but it was so ridged, lumpy and pressing in just the right places against their twitching, spread tunnel. She dug her nails into the padding again, realising through the fog just what the curve below her was for now. Oh, God. This had barely begun, hadn’t it? Her mind drifted; just a mess of pleasure, legs shaking, knowing that if they even tried to stand now, they wouldn’t be able to take their own weight. Another knot – yet more cum, unstoppable, as she came and howled and thrashed and their belly filled with the thick seed…

“Now, my dear… sip this.” Manna murmured, gently holding a glass to their sweaty lips. Ashe sipped, expecting more venom, but no – it was just water. Sweet and cool and fresh. “You’re doing so very well. Not too many left now, but…” she chuckled, reaching down to cradle her breasts, stroking over the rock hard nipples. Ashe whimpered, tender, squirming. “Well. All that cum sloshing around in you… isn’t it about time we got you some proper young, hm? Can’t waste it, after all.”

“Wha..?” Ashe mumbled, so lost in the sensations that they could barely register. Then there was another cock splitting them open, sinking in. Slow. Almost gentle, as if knowing how sore she was. They began to rock, bouncing her against them, then rougher, clawed hands adding to the marks on her butt. They added scratches, too, scraping into that flesh. Making it clear that they belonged to the patrons… it sent another tingle through their body, clenching, whimpering…

“Good toy.” the gruff voice whispered, and they laughed, “Good, good. Give in to it. We all know you wanted to be our breeding.” breaking off with a moan, there was that swelling. Different now, though – not quite a knot. Hips rolled. The lumps shifted. The starfish at the tip was flaring open, pressing into her cervix, and yet Ashe could barely feel it – no pain, only pressure leaning into pleasure. The eggs were thick, oblong, bigger than a Chabbit’s – slowly spreading the tip until it deposited into the pool of slick that filled them. A keening whimper escaped Ashe’s face, and that cool hand gently stroked her sweat-soaked features. Yes… she was doing well, wasn’t she? Oh… they would all be so happy with Ashe…

“Made to be a pet.” Manna murmured. “Might be something in that, sweetness. Oh…” she pressed a thumb to Ashe’s lower lip, and without hesitation the human pulled it in, near enough suckling on it, pupils blown wide… “Good. Good.”

The eggs continued to slip inside her, rounding that belly out further. Now the curved padding below was struggling to support her burgeoning frame. They moaned weakly against the thumb… more, more eggs… bigger, fuller… a low whimper of disappointment when that cock slipped from her hole. The last, of course, as promised, was Snaa. Huge, clumping her way towards them, wasting no time. It didn’t matter that she was rough – Ashe was so fucked open they could barely register anything beyond pleasure. Pounding against her cervix, pushing deep into her. Rough, wet slaps – the exhausted patrons cheering as Snaa pulled hard enough to loosen the lock on the stocks. Manna exclaimed a warning, but the night’s abuse and the powerful pounding – there was a clunk as it pinged open. Wasting no time, her thick hands wrapped all the way forward, grasping Ashe’s tits. They massaged them roughly, then those digits gripped her by the torso and lifted her up. Belly dangling, Ashe cried out, a weak howl as she was hefted like a sleeve.

Up and down, belly bouncing even with how tight and full it was. The clutch didn’t waste time – the eggs just as hefty as the creature releasing them. Each pushed sunk another inside her, bulging visibly on her front. A half dozen later, and the clutch was done; Manna lurching forward to help take Ashe’s weight and stop the human being dumped on the floor like a wet paper towel.

“Good girl.” Manna whispered, stroking a hand over her cheek. “Let’s get you out back and laying down, hm? I think you’ve earnt some sleep…”

--

She woke with a lurch.

It was cooler out here; the soft silky fabric of the couch below her. Ashe tried to sit up, then moaned. Her whole body felt utterly fucked out, sticky and sore. But beyond that, was another sensation. A low aching thrum. A pressure. Unresistable. Oh, fuck – the eggs had gone in. Now they were fertile, and … -- “Ah, yes. Humans. You’re so quick. Up to you if you’re lucky or not.” Manna was lounging against the wall, arms folded, completely naked, her tail curling languidly on the ground. “If you were like us, pet, you’d have to waddle around that for at least a week. Relax. Lean back. Enjoy it. I promise it’s going to feel ever so good.” she chuckled, moving closer. Ashe cried out again. Her overworked clit twitched. There was a throb, a hint of pain, and then heat rushed down through her tunnel. Liquid dripped; the eggs were moving. It stretched her out, but nowhere near as much as Snaa had. More leathery than she’d expected. Thankfully her body seemed to know what to do, rippling clenches and pushes… the first egg plopped wetly out of her. Manna was kneeling next to her now, stroking her cheek.

“Good pet. Good, good pet.” she murmured, low and syllibant, right by her ear. Ashe cried out and tried to buck, but her body was too heavy. No – there was no stopping this. Another egg, then another, until each was right on the tail of the prior. They whimpered, feeling fresh sweat dripping down their neck. “You know… I think you’re a natural.” she whispered, tenderly. “Let’s get these eggs out of you, and then, well… I know you don’t like your job, Ashe. How about considering becoming the permanent stress relief for the bar?” Manna chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve made this much in months after all.” she paused. Ashe moaned, squeezing, the egg slowly slicking loose then popping out onto the others. “Maybe I’ll wait until you can think past that big belly of yours, mm?” they murmured, patting the swell. Ashe howled – and came again, as yet another egg escaped...

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Pac-Man

Debut: a box

We all know Pac-Man in the game. You know Pac-Man in the game. I do not need to explain what he looks like to you, and I am so confident in your knowledge that I simply will not. You know that guy.

Now let's instead look at and talk about Hiro Kimura's interpretation of him as depicted on the Atari 400/800 box art! Let's make this our default vision of the character!

This is Pac-Man. Pac-Man is a striking yellow humanoid with a massive, spherical head, no nose, and a set of rodent-like upper incisors. He's wearing a tank top with his in-game design on it, sneakers with high socks, and, best of all, jorts!

This design DOES register enough as a Pac-Man to me, but aside from how goofy he already is, I can't help but think of him as a Stanley S. SquarePants-style cousin to the original Pac-Man. It's almost uncanny how similar the duos are!

Now, an issue I have with many Ms. Pac-Man designs is that, unlike her husband, she is often given a tiny mouth, not a mouth befitting a woman who eats for a living. How is this Pac-fella's mouth? A bit small, but not as small as the bites he's taking out of those floating plastic discs! I guess it's as much as he can get with that narrow set of teeth.

But geez, reaching for another when he's barely made any progress in the first? I hope he doesn't choke! Since this is a still image, I will give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he is able to chew through these discs like a woodchipper, and we just happen to see the frozen moment where only the first bite was taken. He can turn these macroplastics into microplastics like nobody's business!

And I guess he's in some kind of castle labyrinth, and the ghosts are trying to eat him, specifically. They think he looks Yummy, and I will have to take their word for it. I would not eat this guy, OR his plastic discs! However, there is a reason I am glossing over these ghosts. They're nothing in comparison to... the others.

Yowza in the howza! My word, and then my entire sentence! The ghosts on the unused Atari 2600 cover art (also by Hiro Kimura) are certainly the most viscerally frightening things any Pac has ever had to contend with. It's quite impressive, really! I can see why this art would be replaced, since it is frankly not an accurate representation of the game itself, but dang am I happy just to look at it. The Pacmeister here is very similar to the previous one, but this time, clad in perfect, stainless chrome, for some reason! I'd want to eat this version even less than the previous one.

What I WOULD like to eat, though, are those rectangular prisms he's munching. To me, those are delectable baked lemon bars. I'm also realizing that there's a frog hopping away from the chaos in the bottom right! Strange... perhaps a cheeky Frogger reference? Like, get outta here, Frogger, Pac-Man is better, and it's illegal to like multiple things at once? Well I like BOTH of these wacky box arts! If Capcom can use Bad Box Art Mega Man in a game, perhaps I can hope for Pac-Stanley to return in an amazing digital fashion...?

[throneofsapphics]

Imagine being rhysands partner for centuries and having to wait for him in court while he’s under the mountain? Just to find out that the very day he is set free, he also mated with Feyre, the human girl that saved everyone? Perhaps he doesn’t tell her right away but over hears it after some time? Or Confronts him of how he treats her so differently from her? Asking why and confront how he acts now and he just blows up and says it? You choose!

like the stories

Rhys x Reader

Summary: Reuniting with Rhys isn't what you'd hoped for.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, angst

A/N: Thank you for the request!!

part two

Every day you waited. Not with the perfect, flawless, selfless i’ll-wait-a-thousand-years energy. Yes, you would wait a thousand years or longer, but certainly not patiently and there was a fair amount of cursing, screaming, and occasional binge drinking involved to cope. 

Regardless, all you could do was wait, all you could do was your best to ignore the piece of you missing, the pain of that absence never abated, if anything it grew stronger over time. Until you had to rely on portraits to remember the exact detail of his face, until you couldn’t remember if he was citrus and sea or citrus and storms. 

The stories, at least the ones you’ve read, only talk about the happy reunions. They never touch on the pain and misery of the separation. 

Night after night you dreamed of a reunion. A few times you’d woken with tears in your eyes, the reunion dreams feeling more like a nightmare. 

“I don’t want you anymore,” his voice was flat and so unlike him your chest ached. 

“What did she do to you?” you whispered. That had to be the reason, she must’ve gotten into his head. The male you knew and fell in love with wouldn’t …

“She,” he spat, voice rising, “didn’t do anything.” 

‘You, you, you.’ Rhys wasn’t in your mind, but the word echoed in his voice.

-

Mor, your closest friend and confidant, had to threaten to physically restrain you, to keep you from making your way right to the mountain, right to him.

“He’ll be back soon,” she said, voice hoarse. Half a promise, half a plea to the mother. 

“He … he told you?” Your voice was low, quiet, disbelieving. 

“He didn’t tell you?” 

The world tightened around you, the air feeling dense, suffocating, too much. You saw Mor’s lips moving but couldn’t hear anything. 

Like a bad omen, you felt his presence again, for the first time in nearly fifty years. 

Mor’s eyes glazed, she glanced at you, lips moving in some kind of promise you didn’t hear before she winnowed away. 

48 hours and he hadn’t graced you with his presence. Some kind of protagonist you were, you glanced at the bookshelf full of romance books, not very gracious and kind and understanding. The books had it wrong, you’d decided. 

You knew his experience had been traumatic, and yours had been minimal in comparison, but you’d still suffered, hadn’t you? Still waited anxiously every night, not entirely sure he would return. Stuck in Velaris. 

It took 72 hours. 

Rhys stood across the room, watching you with something like longing and grief. 

Barely fighting the urge to sprint and close the gap, you stopped a few feet away from him. His shoulders were tight, entire body taut, looking as if his muscles might snap at any second. 

You held your arms open, letting him come to you. It seemed like the right thing to do. 

One. Two. Three … Fifteen seconds before he closed the gap. 

A three second hug. 

You swallowed your disappointment. There’s no saying what he’d been through, and you’d only heard rumors. Perhaps it was wrong of you to assume he’d want any kind of physical touch. 

“I missed you,” 

“I missed you too,” the reply was too quick and missing the usual ‘love,’ or ‘darling’ on the end. 

You could tell when you weren’t wanted somewhere, and took the hint. “I’m sure you have plenty to do,” you murmured. 

He nodded. 

Gods this was miserable. 

You managed to excuse yourself with minimal extra embarrassment, and saved the tears for when you’d left the vicinity completely. 

-

“A mate,” you whispered. Screaming didn’t feel right, it didn’t encompass the pure betrayal running through you. “When were you going to tell me?” Instead you had to overhear Mor and Cassian speaking of it. You kept going when he didn’t reply to you. “I thought you had more respect for me than that, I thought I meant more than that to you.” 

“How could you compare to a mate?” 

The words were stagnated, awkward, didn’t quite fit as a response to your statements and you knew he was just voicing his thoughts. 

You understood what the stories meant now, when they said your heart dropped to your stomach. 

Mouth opening, you didn’t need to be a daemati to read the words about to leave his lips, the backtracking. 

One hand held up, his mouth snapped shut. Another time, another situation, you might have laughed at how easily you exercised that small bit of control over him. 

The corner of your mouth tilted in a not quite cruel but not quite kind expression. 

“Thank you for telling me how you feel,” you said flatly, adding “Rhysand,” emphasizing the last letter. 

Irritation and hurt flashed across his beautiful features. Wanting the last word, you chose to stride through the doors, but paused to make sure they shut gently. He’d always hated slammed doors, and you couldn’t bring yourself to go that far. 

Like the novels, where the protagonist gets her temporary revenge. Temporary. The pain will come later, but for now … you glanced at the nearest clock. Just before ten, Rita’s would be open for hours yet and you were a single female now. 

Unlike the novels, he never came after you. 

[biblicallyaccuratemeat]

Lilacs

MDNI!!!

A/N: Trying out a new image/header thing! Just some super self-indulgent Thor smut because I felt like waxing poetic about him and writing all silly and formal. As always, betaread by my lovely bestie @teaflavoredwitch! Thor Odinson x female reader, wedding night, fluff & smut, first time, loss of virginity, body worship, bath sex, p in v sex, fingering, praise kink, breeding kink, loss of innocence, unprotected sex, loving & gentle, Thor speaking like Shakespeare (...doth mother know you weareth her drapes?) Also, learned a new word for coochie, quim! Googled medieval words for puss and that came up soooo... the more you know!

Word Count: 9.9k

Thor sat beside you at the head table, resplendent in his ceremonial armor polished to a brilliant shine. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, quite literally, in your magnificent gown. The gown was a vision of ethereal beauty, the gossamer fabric shimmering like a waterfall of stardust and moonlight. The long off-the-shoulder sleeves draped elegantly over your slender arms, the delicate lilacs braided into your hair only added to your enchanted appearance. You had never felt more beautiful in your life, though all you cared about was Thor’s stormy gaze fixed on you. 

He reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze as he leaned in close, “You look breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice filled with reverent awe. “A goddess among mortals.” He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. Your wedding band, quite simple in comparison to the grand festivities, glimmers in the light. A band of gold boasting a dazzling sapphire in the center, the color of which reminds you of Thor’s eyes. The sapphire of your ring matches the diadem resting in your hair, you have to remind yourself, you’re a princess now. The diadem decorating your head is already an impossible to ignore weight, both physically and mentally.

As the festivities continued around you, the head table laden with the finest delicacies Asgard had to offer, your lavender cake a sweet treasure among them, Thor couldn’t help but steal glances at you, admiring the way your diadem atop your head gleamed, a crown fit for the new queen of his heart. He raised his goblet of mead in a toast, a broad grin spreading across his handsome face. “To the loveliest bride in all the realms,” he declared, his voice booming with joyous abandon. “May our union be blessed with love, laughter, and a household of healthy, strong children.” His grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief and longing. “A daughter with your spirit, perhaps? Or a son with my strength and your charm?”

Images flood your mind, unbidden. A fair haired little boy , trying to lift Mjölnir before bursting into a fit of giggles. A baby girl with stormy eyes, bundled up in your arms as you see Thor off into battle. Motherhood was something you’d always anticipated, though you’d never pictured Thor as the father. Until now…

Thor downed the last of his mead and set the goblet down on the table with a resounding thud. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand to you with a gallant bow, “My lady, this celebration demands a dance with my most cherished bride. I couldn’t imagine letting this moment pass without holding you close, celebrating our union and the promised future together.” His voice was filled with tender anticipation as he gazed into your eyes.

You accept his hand, as always enamored with his wordsmith. Though many viewed Thor as boorish, simplistic, barbaric… You knew differently. He was eloquent and gentle hearted. He longed to recite prose just as much as he longed for the heat of battle. It was his intense nature, you think. Every part of Thor exuded electricity, passion.

He led you onto the dance floor, one hand clasping yours, the other gently settling on the small of your back as he began to sway to the lilting melody played by the Asgardian bardic troop. The guests parted to give the newlyweds a wide berth, smiling and cheering their joining.

Thor held you close, your body molding against his muscular frame as he guided you expertly through the dance. He whispered against your ear, “I must confess, I’ve anticipated this moment more than any other. The chance to hold you, to feel you in my arms, to start our lives together for all to see.” His hand pressed tenderly against your gown-covered hip as he spun you slowly, your skirts flaring dramatically around your legs. “You’ve captured my heart in a way no other ever could. I am yours, in this life and the next.”

In true Asgardian fashion, the reception carries late into the night, long into the early hours of the morning. Finally, belatedly, Thor whisks you away to a small castle on the border of Alfheim. It was a place you could be alone, away from prying eyes and well-meaning but relentless attentions of your friends and family. The carriage ride was a blur of nervousness and stolen kisses, of whispered words and tender caresses. The wait was over, and the realization of your new reality hit you both squarely in the chest as you were finally able to be alone, husband and wife.

Thor lifted you easily, carrying you over the threshold of the castle into the grand bedchamber. He kicked the door shut behind him and carried you to the middle of the room, where a magnificent four-poster bed awaited, draped in rich velvet and piled high with silken pillows and furs. The fireplace blazed, casting a warm, inviting glow over the intimate scene. He set you down gently on the bed, his hands lingering on your hips, his stormy eyes roaming over your wedding gown with undisguised hunger. “You know,” he murmured, leaning down to brush a teasing kiss against your neck, “I’ve dreamt of this moment…of having you all to myself, of being able to love you without any constraints.” His fingers find the ties of your gown, slowly beginning to undo them.

“Thor,” You whisper softly, hesitation decorating your delicate features. Instinctively, your hand shoots out to grasp his wrist, halting his fingers in their quest to divest you of your dress.

Thor paused, his fingers stilling on the fourth fastening as your dainty hand clasped his wrist. He looked down at you, his blue eyes filled with concern and a hint of confusion at your sudden hesitation. He could see the conflict on your face, the way your brows furrowed slightly, and he wanted nothing more than to smooth out the lines with the pad of his thumb. “My love,” he murmured softly, his voice low and soothing, “What troubles you, my heart? You need only say the word, and I shall cease my advances at once.” He cupped your cheek gently, his calloused thumb brushing over the soft skin, a gesture meant to comfort and reassure. “I would never force myself upon you, my dear. Our first joining must be a mutual act of love and desire, one that brings us both pleasure and fulfillment.”

Gnawing on your bottom lip nervously, fingers still wrapped around his wrist, “It is just that…” You sigh, shaking your head as you cast your gaze downwards in embarrassment, “My mother spoke with me before the ceremony,” A soft blush settles on your cheeks, you find yourself becoming increasingly flustered by the direction of the conversation, “She told me what…duties… are expected of a wife on her wedding night. She told me it would hurt terribly. Is that true? Will this be painful?” Your wide, guileless eyes stare up at Thor imploringly, silently begging for reassurance.

Thor’s heart ached in his chest as he listened to your words, a wave of protectiveness and tenderness washing over him. He gentled his touch, his hand cupping your cheek more softly as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed away the nervous moisture on your lash line, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. “My dearest girl,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, “It’s true that for a maiden, the first time can be uncomfortable and even painful. But I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to make this a night of pleasure and bonding, not of suffering.” His hand slid around to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your silken hair as he held you close.

“I am not a savage, my heart. I will be infinitely gentle and patient with you, taking the utmost care to bring you to peak after peak before I allow my own release.” He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “And should you ever feel any pain, you need only tell me to stop, and I will do so without hesitation. Your pleasure and well-being are my utmost priority.”

“Release?” You echo, brow knitting in confusion. Your mother hadn’t told you of any release, though she did inform you that this was how a woman came to be with child. You cock your head to the side, the very picture of innocence and naivety, “What release?”

Thor felt a rush of affection and a touch of amusement at your innocent query. He realized then the extent of your naivety, the fact that your mother had only prepared you for the pain and not the overwhelming, transporting pleasure that could be found in a lover’s arms. He knew it would be his privilege and responsibility to show you these secrets, to guide you through the hidden paths of sensual bliss.

He smiled softly, his hand sliding down to the base of your throat, feeling the flutter of your pulse beneath his fingertips. “Release,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, “is the momentous, shattering pinnacle of pleasure that a woman achieves when she surrenders completely to the sensations her lover inflicts upon her. It is the ultimate act of letting go, of losing oneself in pure, unadulterated rapture.” His fingers tightened slightly on your throat, a gesture of possession and protection. “And I will be the one to guide you to that peak, to make you scream my name in ecstasy as I claim you fully as my wife in every way imaginable. Will you let me do that, my innocent bride? Will you allow me to show you the depths of physical love?”

“A lady does not scream, Thor,” You scoff good-naturedly, smoothing down the skirts of your gown, “Especially not a princess, that is entirely inappropriate behavior.” You state primly, ever the picture of elegance and grace.

Thor let out a low, amused chuckle at your prim admonishment. He couldn’t help it- the juxtaposition of your delicate elegance and innate innocence with such a demure scolding was utterly charming to him. It was a testament to your character, a blend of pure and innocent, yet possessed of a quiet strength. He leaned in even closer, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, “Ah, my sweet girl, always the picture of refinement, even when faced with the most base of passions. But I assure you, when lost in the throes of lovemaking, propriety often flies out the window. Surrendering to desire, to the heat and flames of lust will have you crying out with wanton abandon. It is then that a lady becomes a goddess, her very essence laid bare and awash with rapture.” His hand slid down your back, emphasizing his point, “And I fully intend to bring you to that precipice of pleasure, to make you scream your joyous release to the heavens above. Allow me to take you there, my love.”

You consider his words, dark lashes sweeping across the apples of your cheeks. So with a soft hum, “Very well, so long as you promise it will not be too painful.” After a moment of fiddling with the lilacs braided into your hair, you speak up once more, feeling braver, “What shall I do? How are we to proceed?”

Thor felt a surge of tenderness and anticipation at your soft, trusting words. He knew that you were placing your innocence, your very self, into his keeping. And he vowed then and there to cherish that gift, to nurture and guide your sensual awakening with loving care. He brushed a tender kiss against your cheek before leaning back, his hands coming to rest on your waist, his thumbs gently kneading the fabric of your gown. “Fear not, dearest,” he murmured comfortingly, “I will be your guide and protector at every step of our journey together.” 

He rose and walked over to the fireplace, adding a log before turning back to you with a smile warmer than the fire. “First, allow me to help you out of your gown. Then, I will run you a bath in the adjoining chamber- the hot water and scented oils will serve to relax you. And while you’re bathing, I have a surprise gift for you- a bottle of Nectar of the Gods from my own private stores. A sip will leave you feeling boneless and receptive, ready to embrace all the new sensations and pleasures I have in store.”

Still smiling warmly, his eyes twinkling with promise and anticipation, Thor held out his hand, “Come, my love- let your new life begin. Give yourself over to me fully and without hesitation, and I swear you’ll find only bliss and ecstasy in my arms.”

“Very well, draw the bath, but forgo the wine please. I’d like to remember tonight,” You agree easily, pushing up to stand, smoothing your skirts down once more. You all but float over to the vanity, fussing over your hair, “Shall I leave the flowers in my hair or take them out?” You hum, mostly speaking to yourself than your new husband.

Thor smiled softly as he watched you fuss over your appearance, a picture of nervous yet excited anticipation. Your innocence and attention to detail in such a simple task touched a deep chord within him, stirring his protective instincts. He knew he would always cherish and nurture your sweet nature, even as he looked forward to showing you the heights of passion and pleasure you could reach together. He came up behind you, his large frame dwarfing your smaller one as he gazed at your reflection in the vanity mirror. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to your neck beneath the curtain of your hair, his scruff lightly grazing your skin and sending delicious tingles along your spine.

“Leave them in,” he murmured against your nape, “The lilacs are as lovely as the blossoms of a goddess, and they suit you perfectly. They’ll be a sweet reminder of our wedding day and this momentous occasion.” His hands slid around your waist, pulling you back against the hard length of his body as he captured your gaze in the mirror. “And once I’ve unlaced your gown and slipped it from your shoulders, I’ll scatter a few more blossoms across your skin… and kiss each one in turn.”

You return Thor’s warm gaze, holding it in the mirror as you hum, “What oils did you put in the bath?”

The scent of something floral and earthy filled the air, a soothing and sensual blend that promised relaxation and arousal in equal measure. Thor had selected the oils himself, a special combination he had prepared just for your first night together. Leaning down, he brushed a soft kiss against your ear as his hands began to slowly unfasten the ties of your gown, “A special blend, my lady. Asgardian night blooming jasmine to stimulate the senses and ignite your passions. Aspen extract to alleviate any nervous tension and leave your skin silky and smooth, and a touch of honeydew nectar to enhance your natural beauty and scent.” His fingers deftly undid the last of the ties, and he eased the gown from your shoulders.

As the rich fabric slipped down your body and pooled at your feet, Thor’s breath caught at the sight of you clad in only your undergarments and the delicate lace of your corset. He drank in the sight of your skin, flushed and glowing in the warm light of the fireplace. “You are a vision of loveliness, my dear,” he breathed, “A goddess descending to earth.”

You preen under your husband’s praise and adoration, with a shy smile and rosy blush, “Thank you.” You breathe out, fiddling nervously with the lacy hem of your chemise.

Thor felt a surge of tenderness seeing your nervous ministrations. He could sense the delicate dance of your emotions- shy anticipation mixed with innocent trepidation. Reaching out, he gently captured your small hands in his larger, stronger ones, stilling their anxious movements. “Shh, sweetling…” he murmured, his voice a deep, soothing rumble, “There is no need for bashfulness betwixt us now. We are husband and wife, bound together in love and marriage.” He brought your hands up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to each knuckle before turning your wrists to trail his lips along the sensitive inner skin, his tongue flicking out to taste your fleeting pulse.

“Tonight, I want you to experience only pleasure, my heart. Allow me to worship your body as the temple of love it is. Surrender to my touch, my caress…and know only bliss.” He slid his calloused thumb along your bottom lip, a teasing, intimate gesture. “Now let me help you off with this delightful little chemise and corset…”

Instinctively, you tense up, gaze flickering between Thor’s eager hands and kind face, “I…” you begin to speak, pausing as your blush darkening impossibly so, spreading down to your chest, “No one has ever seen me in such a state of undress before.”

Thor felt a rush of understanding and tenderness at your nervous hesitation. He knew that for a maiden, baring one’s body completely to another was a profound act of vulnerability and trust. And despite your innocent upbringing, he understood intrinsically the significance of the gift you were about to bestow upon him. He cupped your face tenderly in his large, gentle hands, his thumbs brushing over the delicate apple of your cheeks as he gazed deeply into your eyes. “Sweetheart, I comprehend your nervousness and I honor the trust you place in me,” he murmured softly, “For a lady as pure as you, unveiling herself to her new husband’s eyes and touch is a testament to the depths of love and commitment you hold for him.”

His gaze remained locked with yours, his voice low and resonant with sincerity, “I swear on my honor as an Asgardian prince and your devoted husband, I will cherish this gift of intimacy you grant me. I will worship and adore every inch of your skin with loving, reverent touches… and I will never do anything to hurt or frighten you.” He brushed a particularly tender kiss across your trembling lips, “Will you allow me the privilege of undressing you fully, sweet wife? So I may marvel at the beauty of you, and our love may fully bloom in the heat of our joining?”

With a soft hum, you nod once, granting him your consent.

Your trust and willingness to bare yourself to him humbled and touched Thor deeply. He knew it was a sacred act of love and submission, and he vowed to honor it always. With a gentle hand and reverent heart, he slowly peeled away the stiff boning of your corset and the delicate linen of your chemise, easing it down your slender shoulders before letting it slip from your body to pool at your feet. And as the last of your garments fell away, Thor drew in a shuddering breath, awestruck by your naked beauty. He drank in the sight of your skin, silken and lush in the golden light of the fireplace. His gaze traced the elegant lines of your body, from the graceful column of your throat, over the delicate curves of your breasts, down to the soft, womanly swell of your hips and thighs. He marveled at the way the flickering flames seemed to dance across your skin, painting you in a warm, intimate glow.

“Magnificent…” he whispered, his voice thick with admiration and coveting. Leaning in, he pressed a trail of reverent kisses across your collarbone before murmuring against your skin, “A goddess in human form, yours is a beauty of which song and legend will forever sing.”

Thor’s praise earns a shy smile from you, your nervousness fading away in the sunshine of his open adoration. Feeling emboldened, you reach out to trace the intricate patterns adorning Thor’s ceremonial armor, “Will you be joining me in the bath?’ You ask coyly, tilting your head to the side.

Thor silently admired the width of your hips, a part of you that promised to bear his children, to keep his legacy alive. He imagined the radiant glow of your skin, rounded and full with the life of his seed growing within you. The thought sent a bolt of lust straight to his loins, his manhood already hard and aching within his breeches. He captured your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a fervent kiss to your palm. His tongue teased over your lifeline, tracing the path he imagined his own pleasure would take as he claimed you fully. “Indeed, my love. I could not resist the chance to join you, to bathe you, to worship your glorious body as you immerse us both in the warm, scented waters.” His voice was a low, intimate rumble, thick with promise and anticipation.

In a fluid motion, he shrugged off his own robes and began to divest himself of his armor, each piece falling away to reveal the honed, muscular form beneath. The firelight played across his skin, accentuating the defined planes and curves of a warrior’s physique. He watched your face intently as he unbuckled his sword belt and let it clatter to the floor, noting the widening of your eyes and the delicate flush coloring your cheeks at the sight of his near-nudity. Once he stood bare before you, save for his breeches, he pulled you into his arms, crushing you against the hard length of his body. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your breasts pressed against his chest, the softness of your belly and the gentle swell of your hips. Capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, he swept you up into his arms and carried you towards the bath, ready to begin your sensual journey together.

You gasp into the kiss, surprised by the sudden intensity of Thor’s attention. The kisses Thor bestowed upon you during your ceremony and reception were chaste, what was deemed appropriate in the audience of hundreds of Asgardians. Your eyes flutter shut in bliss, melting into the overwhelming heat of the kiss.Thor could sense your innocence, your inexperience with such passionate, unbridled affection. And yet, he could also feel the way your soft curves melted against him, your ample breasts pillowing against his muscular chest, your shapely hips fitting so perfectly against his own. It fueled his desire, stoked the flames of his lust to new heights.

Cradling you closer, one large hand splayed across the small of your back, savoring the delicate curve, as the other tangled in the silken fall of your hair. He deepened the kiss, his tongue delving past your parted lips to claim the warm cavern of your mouth, to dance and duel with the sweet recesses of your own tongue. He drank in the taste of you, sweet and heady, a flavor more intoxicating than the finest Asgardian mead. Each slide and glide of his lips against yours, each teasing flick of his tongue, sent bolts of electricity zinging down your spine to settle in your loins.

By the time he carried you into the bathing chamber, your breath was coming in soft, panting gasps. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and aspen, the steam from the bath curling sensuously around your naked bodies. Thor set you down on your feet, his large hands squeezing your waist before sliding around to cup the globes of your ass, lifting you subtly as he claimed your mouth once more in a fierce, hungry kiss. He could feel his cock throbbing urgently against your belly, hard and ready and aching for you, as his hands kneaded the pliant flesh of your rear.

When he finally broke the kiss, his voice was a low, rough growl against your ear, “I want to feel your soft, naked body slide against mine as we immerse ourselves in the hot, scented water. I want to bathe every inch of your nubile form, to caress and massage you until you’re boneless with pleasure. And then, sweet girl, I want to lay you out on our marriage bed and worship you with my hands and mouth and cock until you’re irrevocably mine.” He nipped at your bottom lip, his eyes shining with the force of his desire. “Will you allow me this pleasure, my goddess? Will you let me bathe you, pleasure you, as your devoted husband?”

Your response comes easily, quickly becoming second nature, “Of course,” you all but breathe out, smiling adoringly up at your new husband.Thor assisted you into the steaming bath, his hands caressing your skin reverently as he helped you settle into the warm, fragrant water. The heat seeped into your muscles, easing any lingering tension as the heady scent of jasmine and honeydew enveloped you. He climbed in after, the water sloshing gently around your bodies as he settled himself behind you, his strong legs straddling either side of the large, circular tub.

He pulled you back against his chest, your head coming to rest just beneath his chin, your hair fanning out across the water. His arms came around you, one hand splaying across your lower belly possessively while the other cupped the soft weight of your breast, kneading the pliant flesh. He could feel your heart beating against his palms, a steady, tempting rhythm that matched the pounding of his own. His lips trailed along your shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin as his hands began to explore your body with sensual intent. He massaged the globes of your breasts, rolling and plucking at your nipples until they peaked into hard little buds against his palms. His fingers slipped lower, skimming across your ribcage and dipping into your navel before settling on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, brushing maddeningly close to your most private place.

Pleasure sparked through your nerve endings with each touch, each caress, until you were squirming against him, breathless and aching with a need you couldn’t quite define. His hard, hot body pressed against your back, the thick length of his cock nestled in the cleft of your ass, letting you feel exactly what you did to him. One hand drifted higher, his fingers sliding through the slick, bare folds of your sex with a teasing, playfully light touch, not quite penetrating you, but stroking and petting until you were panting and arching into his touch with shameless abandon. “Tell me what you need, sweet wife,” he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble against your ear, “Guide me in pleasuring you as no other man ever has. I want to make this a night of sensual delights you’ll never forget.”

A soft, unbidden whine rips from your throat, melting even further back against his chest, “Thor,” you breathe out sweet and slow, your thighs parting wider in invitation. A heavy, burning blush settles on your cheeks, biting your lower lip against new pleasures you’ve yet to experience.

Thor groaned softly, your sweet breathless whimper music to his ears. He could feel the way your body responded to his touch, your thighs parting instinctively to grant him greater access to your most intimate places. The evidence of your arousal only inflamed his own, his cock throbbing and pulsing against the soft curve of your ass. He rolled his hips, grinding his thick length against you in a slow, sensual rhythm that mirrored the ancient dance of passion as old as time itself.

“Aye, sweetness… let yourself feel the pleasure, let it consume you,” he murmured, his voice a deep, seductive purr against your ear. His hand drifted even higher, his fingers slipping between the slick folds of your sex to tease along the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. He circled and flicked and stroked, his touch light yet purposeful as he drank in each tremor and shiver he drew from your lush body. “That’s it, my goddess… I can feel how much you need this, how desperately your body craves my touch. I will give you the pleasure you’ve yearned for, the ecstasy you never knew you could feel.”

His finger delved deeper, a long, thick finger pressing slowly into the clutching heat of your cunt. He groaned at the feel of your silken walls fluttering around the invading digit, your untried body welcoming him with eager, grasping intensity. His thumb continued to circle your clit, stroking and teasing in time with the slow, sensual undulations of his hips. “Tell me, my dearest… have you pleasured yourself in the night, your slender fingers delving into this sweet cunt, seeking to ease the ache of your desire?” His voice was a dark, intimate rumble in your ear as he pumped his finger slowly in and out of your dripping sex. “Or have you been utterly untouched, this your first true experience of intimate caress? I can feel the way your little quim clings so tightly, as if it feared I will slip away before sating this fire we’ve kindled.”

The prim, delicate nature of your upbringing shies away at the vulgarity of Thor’s question, your blush darkening impossibly so. Mustering up your courage, you shake your head once in denial, “No,” you murmur slowly, “I’ve never…touched myself before. It’s not proper for a lady to do so.” 

A dark chuckle rumbled through Thor's chest as he felt your maidenly blush and bashfulness at his salacious question. He could sense the prim, innocent nature of your upbringing, and the way it made you shy away from such explicit discussions and acts. And yet, he could also feel the way your body responded with a will of its own, your untouched sex clenching and fluttering around his invading finger as if begging for more.

Thor smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his beard rasping lightly against your sensitive skin. "Ah, sweet wife, propriety has no place betwixt a husband and wife on their wedding night," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive purr. "In the halls of love and marriage, there is no act too intimate, no word too bold. I will teach you the secrets of bodily bliss, the erotic delights your innocent heart has never dreamt of."

To punctuate his words, he slipped a second finger into your tight, dripping channel, pumping them slowly as he rubbed the heel of his palm against your sensitive clit. His other hand slid up to cup the weight of your breast, kneading the soft globe and plucking at the pebbled peak until it strained against his fingers. "You are mine now, my goddess, my wife... and I intend to claim every inch of you in the most carnal and intimate ways imaginable." He nipped at your throat before soothing the sting with a long, open-mouthed kiss. His fingers slid from your sex to grip your hip, pulling you more firmly against the thick ridge of his erection as it throbbed against the cleft of your ass.

"Tonight, I will introduce you to the sweet sin of lust, my love. I will make you scream in rapture and beg for my cock as I fill you again and again until your belly swells with the evidence of our coupling." His voice dropped to a husky murmur as he ground his hips more insistently against yours. "Now, spread your thighs wider for me, sweetness... let me feel the heat of your untouched sex as I prepare you to receive my manhood."

You tense up, confusion flooding your system once more, “Your manhood?” you echo, brow furrowing, though you still follow your husband’s instructions. You spread your legs as wide as the tub will allow, a pleasant ache in your muscles beginning to add to the dozens of new sensations flooding your senses.

He could sense your naivety, your lack of experience with the intimate details of coupling. It both endeared and aroused him, knowing that he would be your first and only lover. His hand drifted down to your inner thigh, gripping it gently as he guided your leg to drape over his, spreading your legs wider to expose your most private place to his hungry gaze and exploratory touch.

"Your quim is my manhood's haven, sweet girl," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive growl as he drank in the sight of your glistening, swollen folds. "A man's manhood, or cock, is the virile member that brings a woman pleasure and fills her with his seed to quicken a child within her womb." To illustrate his words, he took your small hand in his large one, guiding it to the thick, rigid length of his erection as it jutted from his body. He could feel it throb and pulse against your fingers, the skin hot and silky and hard as steel beneath your touch.

His other hand never ceased its sensual assault on your sex, his fingers pumping slowly in and out of your dripping channel as his thumb circled and teased your sensitive pearl. He could feel your innocence beginning to give way to instinct, your hips starting to undulate almost imperceptibly against his touch as he stoked the fires of your pleasure.

"In a moment, I will lay you upon our marriage bed and spread your thighs wide with my strong hands. Then, I will nestle between your legs, my cock mere inches from your sweet sex. And there, I make love to you, fill your belly with my seed... and you will scream my name like a prayer to the gods." His voice was a dark, lust-drunk rasp against your ear, his words painting a vivid picture of the erotic delights to come.

Bath water sloshes in the tub, you gasp as Thor places your hand on his thick cock. Your hand can’t even wrap fully around it, “Thor,” you say hesitantly, “Where is that supposed to go? It’s so…big.” You blink up at him, flushed skin glistening from the bath and slick, “It’s not going where your fingers are, is it? It won’t fit!”

Thor's only response to your hesitation was to trail his fingers up from your dripping sex to firmly grip the underside of your knee, urging your leg to drape itself fully over his hip. The new position left you open to him completely, your glistening pink folds naked to his heated gaze as he gazed down at where you were joined. "Oh, sweet innocence," he groaned, his thumb rubbing firm circles over your sensitive pearl as two fingers pumped slowly into your slick canal. "A man's cock is made to fit inside a woman's sex, to fill her utterly until there is no space left unclaimed. It is a tight, perfect union... the ultimate act of oneness between two lovers."

He guided your hand to stroke down the thick column of his shaft, groaning as you explored the shape and heft of him. His cock was flushed a deep, angry red, the bulbous head an almost purple hue as it wept with need. "Don't fret, my goddess," he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble despite the searing, desperate lust in his eyes. "I know your untouched sex seems too small, too tight to contain me. But trust in my experience and your body's ability to stretch and accommodate me."

Thor's voice deepened, thickened with raw hunger. "As I slide into you, you will feel a stretch, a pressure unlike any you've known. There may be a moment of pain as your hymen yields to the conquering force of my manhood. But that pain will fade swiftly as your lush body adapts to be filled utterly for the very first time."

He captured your chin in his calloused hand, tilting your head back to meet his burning gaze as he ground his rigid length against your dripping sex in a slow, sensual rut. "You will feel every thick, pulsing inch of me as I claim your virgin depths. And as I begin to move within you, your inner muscles will flutter and clench around my plundering cock as if to hold me deep inside you... begging me to flood your womb with my hot, virile seed."

A heady mixture of fear and arousal flood your mind at Thor’s assurances and explanation. “I already feel so full, Thor,” you whine, pussy slick and tight around his two fingers, the warm bath water aiding his cause, “There is no way I can take anymore than this…inside me.”

Thor gentled his touch, his fingers slowing their thrusts to a languid, sensual glide as he felt your slick inner muscles clench and flutter around the intrusion. He could feel your trepidation, sense your concern that his thick, pulsing manhood would never fit within your tight, untried sex. Gently, he stroked your cheek with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he gazed at you with a mix of tenderness and barely restrained lust.

"Hush, sweetness... trust in me and in the way your divine body was made to receive mine." His voice was a low, soothing rumble, his breath hot against your cheek. "Your sex may feel taut and stretched around my fingers, but it will yield and open further to welcome the slick glide of my manhood. The warmth of my flesh will meld with the intimate heat of your core as I fill you utterly."

Thor's fingers curled inside you, pressing against a special spot that made you gasp and shudder against him. "There, feel that... your body knows its purpose, even if your mind does not. This sensitive patch of flesh, when caressed just so, will send jolts of pleasure through your veins with each thrust of my hips, each deep stroke of my cock as it claims you."

He leaned in closer, his lips a hairsbreadth from yours as his fingers slid from your dripping sex. Still gripping your knee, he notched the thick head of his erection against your slick folds, bumping against your entrance without penetrating you. The textured surface of his cock pulsed and jerked against your sensitive flesh, leaving no doubt as to the size and shape of the manhood that awaited you.

"Breathe, my goddess... breathe and relax, and feel me begin to enter you." Thor murmured the words against your lips before capturing them in a searing, ravenous kiss. At the same time, he rolled his hips forward, the broad tip of his manhood beginning to push past your entrance as he slowly, inexorably breached your untouched sex.

The pressure is agonizing, your body tensing in protest, almost as if it's trying to barricade Thor from entering you any further. You inhale sharply, not daring to breathe, screwing your eyes shut at the sudden intense fullness of his cock breaching your virgin pussy. A tiny, pitiful whine rips from your throat, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes.

Thor gentled his grip on you, one large hand stroking down your flank soothingly as he felt your body tensing in a mix of fear and anticipation. "Shhh... breathe, my love," he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling purr against your ear. He could feel you trembling against him, could sense the way your untouched sex clenched and fluttered nervously around the thick head of his cock as it began to breach you.

He rolled his hips slowly, determinedly, gradually sinking more of his throbbing length into the tight, clutching heat of your virgin passage. He groaned at the exquisite sensation, his eyes fluttering shut in bliss as your untried walls squeezed and rippled around him. "You feel exquisite, sweetness... so impossibly tight and hot and perfect around my aching manhood," he rasped, his breath coming harsher as he struggled to maintain control.

Thor's hand drifted down to your hip, gripping it firmly as he rolled into you with a steady, inexorable pressure. He could feel your hymen stretched taut around the girth of his cock, your untouched sex protesting the sudden intrusion even as it yielded to the inevitable force of his possession. With a sharp, stinging pinch, your virginity surrendered to the relentless thrust of his hips, a trickle of blood rolling down the length of his cock. Pausing for a moment, he murmured soothing words into your ear as he gave you a brief respite to adjust to the feel of him filling you so utterly. "The pain will pass swiftly, my goddess... and in its place will bloom pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. Trust in your body's ability to accept your husband, to welcome the deep penetration of a lover's cock as it claims you utterly."

Thor's voice deepened, roughened with lust and desire as he rolled his hips slowly, burying another thick inch of his shaft into your tight, grasping sex. "You are barely halfway taken, my love... but already you feel like heaven wrapped around me, your untouched walls squeezing me so sweetly as if begging for more. I will give you more, will fill you again and again until my seed takes root within your fertile womb..."

You gasp for air, eyes flying open wide as Thor ruptures your hymen. Hands fly to grip the edge of the bathtub, knuckles white. A soft whimper falls from your lips as you try desperately to will your body to relax around his invading manhood, “Barely half way?” you gasp out, “You’re going to kill me, Thor.”

Thor chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling through his broad chest as he felt you tense and gasp beneath him. He could sense your disbelief, your shock at the sheer size and thickness of his manhood as it stretched your untouched sex beyond what you thought possible. Leaning down, he captured your lips in a searing, dominating kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim your mouth as thoroughly as his cock was claiming your virgin passage.

He rolled his hips again, pushing another thick inch of his shaft into your grasping sex, the lewd squelch of your juices and the creak of the tub the only sounds in the steamy room. "Fear not, sweetness... you are far too delectable a morsel to die now," he murmured against your lips, his voice a sinful caress. "I will not let you perish, no... I will make certain that you live through the most exquisite pleasure a woman can know. I will bring you to the heights of ecstasy again and again until you are drunk on the feel of my cock splitting you open on every plunge."

Punctuating his dark promise, Thor rolled his hips faster, sinking more of his thick length into your dripping sex with each sensual undulation. He could feel your inner muscles fluttering and clinging to his invading shaft, as if desperate to hold him deep within your core.

"You take me so well, my goddess... your divine sex stretches around my cock as if it was made to be claimed by me and me alone," he groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his climax. He was so close to the edge, the sensation of your untouched body gripping him like a silken vise threatening to undo him before he could bring you to your first peak.

His hand drifted between your thighs, his fingers seeking out the sensitive bud of your clit. He rubbed the swollen nub in tight, quick circles, teasing out your arousal as he rolled his hips steady and sure. "Come undone for me, sweetness... let me feel your maidenly sex spasm around my cock as I bring you to your very first release. Drench my shaft in your slick as I make you mine for all eternity..."

Finally, the discomfort and the stretch melts away into the most full, intense pleasure you’ve ever known. A low, breathy moan falls from your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, head lolling back as your cheeks flush, breasts heaving with each breath. You spread your legs impossibly wider, offering more of your slippery cunt to Thor.

Thor groaned deeply as he felt your molten inner walls begin to yield, the exquisite pleasure of your silken heat enveloping his plundering cock. He could sense the shift in your body's reaction, the tension giving way to a desperate, aching need. The knowledge that he was the cause of such rapture, that he was the one to bring you to the precipice of your very first climax, sent a dark surge of pride and hunger crashing through him.

The tremors of impending release rippling through your lush curves spurred Thor into a frenzy of lust. He needed to make you his, to claim each inch of your nubile flesh, to mark you indelibly as his woman. The tight confines of the tub no longer satisfied him - he required a grander arena to cement your union, a bed that would bear witness to his conquering and your surrender.

"That maidenly blush blossoming on such fair cheeks will haunt my mind for all eternity," he muttered, draping you over his muscular arm and rising from the tub in a spray of water and steam. Your lithe body leeched against his sodden skin as he strode swiftly but tenderly towards your marriage bed, his every step jostling his cock and drawing gasps and whimpers from your lips. Thor's hands mapped the sweet curves and valleys of your body with ravenous touch - the ripe, peach-perfect globes of your ass, the slender line of your back, the ripe fullness of your breasts.

"Sweet, succulent girl," he breathed, his voice a rumble of dark promise and hungering need as he deposited you on the center of the expansive bed. "Spread your legs for me, my goddess... open them wide and offer yourself to me, my wife."

He crawled over you, his weight settled between your thighs as he nudged them even wider apart with his knees. The thick length of his shaft, slick with your juices, emerged from his groin and slapped lewdly against your dripping sex. "I will take you to new heights, sweetness... plunge you into rapturous ecstasy as I fill the deepest recesses of your womanhood with my throbbing, virile flesh."

Your legs fall open easily, pussy gaping open in the absence of Thor’s cock. He drank in the erotic sight of your glistening sex, the swollen, flushed folds blossoming open to receive him. Your body's betraying readiness fueled the inferno of lust that consumed him, the hunger to claim you, to possess you utterly as was his right and duty as your husband. Gripping your hips firmly, he notched the broad, dripping crown of his cock against your entrance, the flared head kissing your cunt and making you writhe with need.

He gazed down at you, his sky-blue eyes blazing with a mix of tenderness and wild hunger. He saw the ripe, succulent woman beneath him, offered up to him as he had long dreamed of. In that moment, he knew he would never want another, would never crave a body or touch save yours. "You are a rare beauty, wife," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "A perfect feast laid out for your hungry, loving husband to devour."

Thor rolled his hips with a powerful flex of thick muscle, his shaft sinking into you with a deep, imperious thrust. He groaned at the exquisite sensation, pleasure exploding like starlight behind his eyelids as your scorching silk enveloped him, squeezing him like a glove. Thrust after relentless thrust carried him deeper into your body, stretching you in a dance of erotic bliss around his plundering cock. Thor could feel the stirring flutter of your climax building in the clutching heat of your sex, your untouched walls beginning to ripple around his invading length. He saw your head thrash against the pillow beneath you, heard your breathy mewls and gasps, the stuttering pulse of your blood beneath his stroking fingers.

"Yes, my goddess," he rumbled, his breath hot against your throat. "Let it come, my love... I can feel your pleasure building, your sex tightening around me like a heavenly vise. You are exquisite, sweetness... and all mine."

Thor pistoned his hips faster now, drunk on the feel of your hot, slick flesh gripping him so urgently, so needful. One hand drifted up to palm your breast, tweaking the rosy, distended peak as he rolled over you. "Come for me, my divine wife," he commanded, his voice a husky rasp of lust. "Scream my name and surrender yourself to the pleasure only I can give you."

You moan in response, bringing a shaky hand to rest over your lower belly, “I can feel you, so deeply inside me,” you sigh out, tilting your hips upwards to meet his thrusts, slick drooling out of your stretched hole and around his dick. “I don’t know where you start and I end. Perhaps this is how it was always meant to be. No me, no you, we are one.:

Thor groaned in bliss as he felt your molten sheath grip him like a velvet vise, clinging to his pistoning shaft with desperate, mewling cries. The slick gush of your arousal painting his cock and balls spurred him to greater fervor, his hips gently rocking against yours with the force of a thunderous tide. He could feel your womb, ripe and ready, nestled snug against the tip of his manhood as he plunged ever deeper into your sweet depths.

"Yes, feel me, my goddess," Thor hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into the giving flesh of your hip as he guided you lovingly against him. "Feel the thick, throbbing heat of your husband's cock as it claims your untouched core. Surrender to the pleasure of being filled and stretched and taken for the first time."

He dipped his head to capture your lips in a sweet, sloppy kiss as he rolled his hips in deep, sensual circles. His tongue delved into your mouth, mimicking the thrust of his member, laying claim to your every secret, hidden place. He swallowed your cries of rapture with his own groans of lust, the sounds of your coupling echoing obscenely in the grand chamber. The pressure building in your core wound tighter and tighter as Thor undulated sensually into your sex. He could feel your pleasure cresting, threatening to wash over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy. Sensing the impending cataclysm, he redoubled his efforts, plunging into your grasping sheath with a power that shook the very bed beneath you.

"That's it, sweet girl," Thor panted harshly against your skin, his sweat-slicked body slithering deliciously against yours. "I can feel your quim fluttering around me, your virginal body trembling on the precipice of rapture. Give in to it, my love... Surrender yourself to the bliss only I can give you."

He crushed his mouth to yours once more in a searing kiss as he hilted his hips forward one last, ultimate time. With a roar of triumph and ecstasy, Thor felt your sex spasm around his plunging member, your walls rippling wildly as your climax exploded through you. The rhythmic clench and shudder of your sex milked his shaft as he erupted deep inside your core, flooding your fertile womb with the boiling surge of his seed.

You gasp into Thor’s mouth, a needy, whiny moan following it as you experience the mind-numbing bliss of your first orgasm. Your eyes roll back, spine arching clean off the bed. A gush of slick floods Thor’s dick, your body trembling mindlessly beneath his.

The intense clenching and release of your climax was milking his cock with a rhythm that stole his breath. He could feel the pulse of your orgasm in your flesh, the shuddering of your limbs under his body. He swallowed your moan with his own as he relished the sensation of his seed pouring into your womb within waves, his manhood spilling rope after rope of thick creamy cum inside of your womanhood.

He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, and every shudder of your body, he savored it. He pulled his mouth away from yours as his hips continued to grind against you. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his voice a rumble of dark satisfaction as he slid his hands under the small of your back, arching you into him. "My wife, so tender and so sweet, your first climax is mine to take," he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours, watching your every expression. Thor's hips continued to roll and move his cock inside of your, still hard. He ground his pelvis against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with a skill that was honed by the many centuries of his existence. He could sense another climax building, deeper and more intense than the last. He could feel your sex fluttering around him, milking him with desperate, hungry pulses.

Thor let his hand rove over your body, caressing your nipples as his body forced more pleasure from you. He leaned down to kiss your neck, feeling your pulse against his lips, feeling it fluttering and racing. He slipped his fingers between your thighs, feeling the way his cock was nestled within your sex, finding a rhythm with his thrusts and his circling fingers. Thor did not ask your permission to continue, rather he simply decided that he wanted to continue.

"Two for two my love," he murmured softly, his voice a husky growl against your skin. "Feel it, darling girl... feel my cock feeding you my thick, hot seed as I make you cum again and again for me."

Now, his hips finally began to move in earnest. Every thrust powerful, precise, and devastating. His gaze did not leave yours as he consumed your body. Thor reveled in the sensation of your sex, slick and throbbing as his hips rolled forward into you, his cock driving in deep then pulling out only to thrust in deeper still. His thrusts came faster and harder, relentlessly driving your pleasure higher and higher as you have never known. Your body trembled beneath him, your eyes wide with shock and pleasure as another orgasm crashed over you. Thor growled in satisfaction as he felt your sex clamp down on his cock, milking him with desperate, hungry pulses. This one even more powerful than the last.

Thor felt his own climax building, the pressure in his loins intense. With a low groan he buried his cock to the hilt inside your body as he exploded once more, flooding your womb with another thick, sticky stream of seed. His hips moved in short, sharp thrusts as he ground his pelvis against your clit and forced through the climax until the end. He lay there panting for a moment, his body slick with sweat as his heart pounded against his chest. Thor had never felt so completely sated, so utterly fulfilled.

You take a moment to catch your breath, finding your bearings in the wake of two intense orgasms. Your eyes, glazed over and fucked-out flick over to Thor’s form. You brush aside a few damp locks of hair that are plastered to your forehead, “That is how one makes babies?” You ask in a breathless, wrecked voice. Your vocal cords feel rubbed raw, you’re sure you’ve given the servants a show to discuss later.

Thor was still nestled snugly inside your warm body, his softening cock resting within your well-used sex. As the waves of release ebbed away, he assisted you in brushing the damp hair from your forehead, tucking them gently behind your ear. His thumb trailed over your flushed cheek, relishing the tender afterglow reflected in your glazed eyes.

"Aye, sweetness," he murmured softly, his voice a soothing rumble. "That is how a man and woman unite to create a new life. And you were exquisite in your first coupling."

Thor leaned in closer, capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss filled with adoration and contentment. His hand drifted down to rest on your belly, splayed over the spot where he had spilled his seed deep inside you. A spark of possessiveness stirred within him at the thought of his essence quickening inside your fertile womb. "And that is only the beginning, my goddess," he breathed against your lips. "I intend to spend the rest of our lives showing you the myriad pleasure that exists between a husband and wife."

As he spoke, he rolled you onto your side, spooning you from behind. His hand drifted over the ripe curve of your hip and ass, pausing to squeeze the flesh and fat that had brought him such rapture. His softening cock slipped free of your body with a lewd sound, a trickle of your combined juices leaking out to stain the bed sheets below you

With a breathless giggle, you declare “We are going to have dozens of children then.”

Thor laughed, a low, contented sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your back. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply your scent, a heady mix of something floral and the musk of your lovemaking. His arms tightened around you, one hand splayed possessively over your belly, the other cupping your breast, his fingers toying gently with your sensitive nipple.

"Dozens, my love?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble of amusement. "I should hope so. I intend to ensure that our line is strong and numerous, a testament to our love and passion."

He paused, his hand drifting lower, tracing the curve of your hip and the swell of your ass. His fingers dipped between your thighs, gathering the slick mixture of your arousal and his seed that leaked from your well-used sex. He brought his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a low groan of satisfaction.

"Mmm, the taste of our union," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "I could feast on you for eternity and never grow tired of your sweetness."

Thor's hand returned to your sex, his fingers tracing the swollen, sensitive folds with a gentle, teasing touch. He could feel the heat of your body, the way your sex clenched and fluttered at his touch, and he knew that you were far from sated.

"Besides," he continued, his voice a low growl in your ear. "I have a great deal of time to make up for. All those years I spent pining for you, dreaming of the day I could finally make you mine."

His fingers dipped inside you, coating them in the thick mixture of your arousal and his seed. He brought them to your clit, circling the sensitive nub with a slow, deliberate touch. He could feel your body responding to him, your breath hitching in your throat as a soft moan escaped your lips.

"Now that I have you, my goddess," he murmured, his voice a low rumble of possessiveness. "I intend to spend every waking moment ensuring that you are well and truly mine.”

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

Hello everyone! Part 2 of Merlin refuses to leave Camelot after a magic reveal won the latest poll, so here we go! I hope you all enjoy this continuation! :D

NOTE: You can find part one here.

Without further ado, onto the story!

For the first time in what must have been several years, Arthur recalled the dolls that Morgana used to play with when she first moved into the castle.

They were well-made dolls, crafted with fine cloth and neat stitching, but they were also well-worn from Morgana carrying them around with her, hugging them close for comfort wherever she went in the unfamiliar castle.

Arthur could remember scoffing at Morgana when he had seen her playing with the dolls in her new room, imagining names and lives for each of them and moving them around to play out whatever story she wished.

If his memories served correctly, Arthur believed that that was one of the first fights he got into with Morgana, after he had taunted and teased her for playing with those dolls. He had called it a stupid little game, only fit for girls.

As he watched Merlin Emrys go about his days exactly as he had for the past ten years, acting for all intents and purposes like nothing had changed at all and that he was just an ordinary human servant, Arthur was disturbingly reminded of Morgana playing with her dolls, moving them around this way and that and having complete control over their lives, their very reality. The irony of the comparison wasn't lost of Arthur either, given how many times he had also teased Merlin about being a girl.

Perhaps this was a part of Emrys's grand plan? To get back at Arthur for all of the humiliation he endured at the hands of the ignorant king by turning the king and all his people into little more than dolls, forced to play along with his fantasy of being a regular servant lest they also be struck down by his rage, their souls tossed aside like broken little ragdolls?

If that truly were the case, then this punishment was far lighter than what Arthur deserved. He had hunted down and slaughtered Emrys's followers, burned his temples, and had demeaned the god of magic himself for nearly ten years by somehow missing the fact that his manservant was secretly a god the whole time, and his punishment was to simply continue on as if everything was the same?

No, that couldn't possibly be the case. Emrys's forgiveness might extend enough such that Arthur wasn't immediately struck down for his hubris, but he had to have some other punishment in store for Camelot. But now, the question remained: what punishment would the god of magic levy upon the kingdom that had so greatly disrespected him, and could Arthur spare his people from the divine wrath that he had brought down on them?

As Arthur sat at his seat at the round table, feeling the full weight of Emrys's gaze on his back, he made a solemn vow to himself: whatever retribution, whatever wrath that Emrys wished to rain down upon the people of Camelot, Arthur would shoulder it all. This was his duty as king.

But, to Arthur's dismay, no matter how many times he pleaded with Merlin Emrys to spare his people, the god never obliged, simply giving Arthur a menacing smile and setting out his clothes for the day, dressing Arthur up like a helpless doll.

Arthur couldn't even get away from Emrys long enough to convene with his knights and form a plan of attack against the god of magic holding their home hostage. Nothing that Arthur did was outside of Emrys's sight, and any attempt at resistance was snuffed out before it could even begin.

(Arthur couldn't help but think about how Merlin's constant presence was a comfort, before... before the truth.)

The only time when Arthur got any privacy from Emrys was at night, when he was able to climb into bed and stay up late into the night wracking his brain for any strategy, any way to persuade Emrys that might protect his kingdom.

But the next morning, after a restless night that bore no new ideas to beat Emrys with, the god would burst through the doors of the royal chambers with a tray of breakfast in hand. And, like every morning since that damned battle at Camlann, Arthur would leap out of bed, sword in hand, only to be disarmed and sat down at his desk with little more than a flash of gold in Merlin's Emrys's eyes. Pushed around like a ragdoll.

After dozens of mornings like this, over a month of feeling powerless and useless, Arthur had had enough. His already too-short patience had run dry, and in his frustration, he made a stupid, foolish mistake. The kind of mistake Merlin- before- would have chastised him for and then have gently guided him towards the better solution.

But Merlin wasn't here. He was gone, perhaps he never even existed and was just a lie the whole time, and Arthur was stuck with an unpredictable and dangerous god in his place.

Namely, an unpredictable and dangerous god whose head Arthur had just thrown a platter at with all of his might in a fit of rage.

Oh no.

Arthur's heart dropped to his gut as Emrys, with an irritated huff, froze the platter in midair and the reality of what he just did came crashing down on him, making his knees weak with horror.

His only method of keeping his people safe was by keeping Emrys appeased enough to limit whatever punishment he had in store for the kingdom to only Arthur himself, and Arthur had almost just hit him in the head with a platter!

Arthur opened his mouth to beg and plead for his people's safety, kingly pride be damned in the face of his entire kingdom being wiped out by divine wrath because of a stupid mistake that Arthur himself made, but was cut off by a sound that once made his chest bloom with warmth, but now only brought dread.

Laughter. Merlin Emrys was laughing at him. Was the god of magic truly so excited about finally smiting the king that had humiliated him for almost a decade that he would laugh about it?

... On second thought, the laughter made sense. For what felt like the hundredth time in the past month, Arthur braced himself for the agony of being struck down by divine wrath, certain that this time he had finally crossed the line and that Emrys would put an end to him here and now.

"Oh Arthur, you really never change, do you? Always such a prat no matter what."

Merlin Emrys shook his head, laughing and smiling all the while, much to Arthur's bewilderment. What was he playing at?!

Suddenly, Arthur's feelings of hurt and betrayal welled up alongside his frustration, and his mouth moved before his brain could register it.

"At least I haven't changed. The same cannot be said for everyone."

Emrys's eyes widened at his words, looking shocked and, surprisingly, hurt. But why would a god care about what a king that he was holding hostage thought about him?

"But I haven't. I haven't changed at all, Arthur, it's only your perception of me that has changed. I've always been... this. And I'm happy with my life as it is, and I don't want it to change.

Don't you see? That's why I'm still here, why I'm doing all of this. I don't want anything to change."

Merlin looked at him earnestly, as if pleading with Arthur to hear him. It was strange, thinking about a god looking at him, a mortal man, pleadingly.

But, if this was truly all he wanted? To live out his life as Merlin the manservant, and not the all-powerful Emrys?

While Arthur certainly couldn't understand it, if treating Emrys as his servant would be what kept the god of magic's wrath at bay, then Arthur would play along and pretend for as long as he needed to.

For everyone's sake.

Arthur gave Emrys Merlin a strained smile as his new plan to ensure his kingdom's survival formed in his mind.

"In that case, why don't you get my armor and weapons ready for training later today, Merlin? We've got a long day ahead of us."

As Merlin gave him a familiar bright smile, Arthur prayed to any gods who weren't Emrys that he hadn't just made a deadly mistake.

And that's all for this au for now! I hope you all enjoyed Arthur's POV! Please let me know if you would like to see a continuation of this au!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

Also, a big thank you to everyone who showed support on this au! I'll try to tag you all here:

@obsessionrepression @transteddyd @merthurogies @dontknowanythingohwell @scuttlingsleipnir

@auroraboringaliceinwonderland @thedollopheadofcamelot @starlight-kestrel @iron-niffler @rainbowsmagicandshit

@linotheghost @sugar-coated-prat-dragon @archiveofcamelot @elementalpirate4 @anemwevieam

@spekulatiusmuffin @theintrovertedintrovert @esoulix @wheneverfeasible @auldsusie

[comfortless]

Offering you a prompt because I know you could make it perfect! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)✨ You know about Minoan Bull Leaping? What about that with a hybrid Köni?

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. König is a man here!!: ears and a tail and a set of horns but that’s it!, fem (afab) reader, nondescript animal death, codependency and a little possessive behavior, reader gets injured, historical inaccuracies, one-sided worship, mentions of violence, reader is a virgin for three seconds, cunnilingus, smut.

word count: 11.5k.

  You’ve practiced this, and still the tension and nervousness bleeds through you, courses like a steady river under skin and curves around bone. The bulls are so much larger than the fallen trees and heavy stones you’ve danced around and over for practice, and the nights spent tempting them with treats had never been enough to prepare. Twigs and jagged edges are nothing in comparison to the horns of very alive and breathing beasts; petting their heads is far simpler than prancing over their horns.

 The bulls wait in the field, grazing, sturdy monoliths amidst a sea of green below the warm light of the sun. It kisses every inch of skin, highlights the determination and giddiness on the faces of others and lines your frown in shadow. Three feral bulls for two men and a woman far more practiced than you; a rugged, adolescent thing with his horns barely poking through waits just for you, misplaced from the herd and huffing indignantly some distance from the rest. 

 You watch the others go, one by one, as they skip and somersault toward their gruffer partners. Your hand rises up the expanse of your robe to brush over the jewels layered along your throat. Their movements are rushing water, fluid and perfect, so elaborate and pretty that you fear even blinking will cause you to miss the most important details. 

 And then they reach their bulls. 

 Some huff, one tilts his head in curiosity. An attempt to gore, perhaps, except… these things are not vicious, only happy creatures. They know the importance of the dance just as you do. When the curious one does accept the grasp of a man’s hands over his horns, you feel yourself beginning to walk, possessed by the need to claim your own bull and perform just as they do. 

 The show that you put on is less graceful, but does not lack heart. A trip on your first somersault that sends you into the grass, righted immediately when you hear your bull huff only paces away. You laugh, coo, and chirp as you approach with more balance. The sparkling jewels dance over your skin just as the others dance over their bulls, leap after leap, and the animals remain calm. 

 Yours is no different. He allows you to graze your fingertips over the soft fur of his back, does not so much as flinch when your press your palms flat over the sides of his face. The horns poking out of his skull are rounded at their tips, not yet properly grown in. You kiss the dip between his eyes and tell him how special this performance must be. To tame a wild animal is something divine in itself, but to tame a bull takes someone truly virtuous. 

 The grass tickles along your calves, the sun feels so warm and lovely against your face. You sigh in contentment as your steps lead you back, arms raised in preparation to jump. The others cheer you on, guide you with their voices as they wait next to their animals. The scent of nectar and pine lulls you to comfort, allows you the courage that you lacked initially; knees bend and arms raise, your eyes locked on the sprouting horns. 

 With your posture immaculate, you take your first leap.

 The sun catches on something tar black and glimmering waiting in the trees just out past the pasture. Two tall horns springing from either side of a head, the stature of a man, just as your fingers curl over the calf before you’s much smaller horns. 

 The heart in your chest ceases its pounding for a moment, and your eyes must have widened the very same as a child’s would when encountering something sweet or shiny to treasure. 

 There’s a man attached to those horns in the tree line. Though you could not make out his face beneath all of the shade and foliage, you were so certain that it must have been a man.

 A man larger than any man in Crete. Impossible and imposing. 

 The tumble that follows this reverie is what breaks away any hope of this being a lovely day. 

 Your concentration was broken the very second that the creature showed itself, and it was far too late to stop even when you were no longer a part of what was occurring between you and your sable-furred calf. The animal senses the not-right about the situation, takes it as a cue to move just as you were lifted over him and sends you sprawled out into the blooming wildflowers. The earth at your back, the sky to your front, and the pain takes its time to trickle in like winter chill and crawl up from your soles to the base of your neck.

 The thin gold of your necklace must have snapped, because one of the jewels lies over your middle now, and several others have been left for dirt and birds to claim in the grass. 

 It’s your bull that comes to worry over you first, his wet nose nudges at your cheek when the scent of blood from broken skin taints the air with iron. It’s just a scrape along your palm, sullied by the peak of a jagged rock lying buried just below the soft soil of the pasture. The blood runs in small streams when you marvel at the wound, held up keeping sun from your eyes. 

 His coarse tongue finds its way to your hair, retrieves the flowers from it as if his stomachs could not wait for the consoling to be done to be fed. In your stupor, you almost want to call the poor thing stupid, but you only tell him that he’s done as well as you hoped. 

 You’ll dance with him again, you promise. 

 The injury takes time to recover from, even with the most patient of healers seated at your bedside. He reminds you that a woman of your standing is something special in herself. Proud, noble, and meant to be wed in the coming months each time he layers salve over the scrapes and the expanse of bruising along your back. Your linens are changed by the slaves of your household, new jewels provided in abundance and placed around your neck as though you even need to look presentable now, bruised and stuck in your bed.

 No one knows what you saw, not really. You aren’t even certain what that vision was. They whisper of madness when you bring it up. The Minotaur remains in the labyrinth, far away from here and bedded down in the dark. Men don’t possess the horns of bulls, and you must have damaged your head too, because no one believes a word you speak about it, about him.

 Your mistake, you learned, was probably what spurred your poor calf to be chosen for sacrifice. A bad omen forfeit, maybe. So young and gentle, and now gone. The soft fur off his ears and the quivering of his nose wouldn’t be felt again, and worse still…What if you were not meant to leap with them at all?

 There is fruit and barley served up onto a plate made of bone as you’re ordered to eat by your healer. People can be crueler than bulls, you think to yourself; you haven’t even got the desire to eat after hearing such a thing. You’re bleeding from the heart when the first bite is forced into your mouth, gut twisting and fingernails digging into soft linen. 

 “I promised…” Your voice is muffled by a particularly fat portion of plum. It goes ignored by the withering old healer that tilts your head back and strokes your jaw with a soft palm to encourage you to swallow.

 “Eat.” 

 And when you don’t, when you spit it back onto the plate, you’re rewarded with another bite and further encouragement as your sobs fill the room. It should be expected, not as hard as bone or as tough as the skin of the fruit when you’re finally offered sweet wine to swallow it down. You shouldn’t be a mess over an animal who served his purpose well and would be heralded as some savior for giving some clumsy woman trust and a chance.

 It’s just that there’s so much more to it, for you. Patches of purple and swelling are much easier to spot than guilt and other turmoils. 

 Your first should have been beautiful, should have left those watching with stars dancing in their irises. You couldn’t even handle a calf, and you feel more pitiful and helpless the longer that you harp on those thoughts. 

 You rest and have dreamless bouts of slumber. You walk alongside the healer, leaning against the old man for support when you find the pain is still very much there, stinging and vile. The people about the city always smile to you, offer you flowers and sweet fruit and ask when you’ll be well enough to dance again. 

 Often, it even soothes the ache that they can’t see well enough. Provides some hope that, yes, you can return to what you’ve always hoped to do, display your grace and strength and find some place in a flowery pasture before the day of your wedding. You’ve heard of women tearing a place that makes them bleed on horseback, how getting the pain over and done with then has made consummation far easier when that day comes for them. Maybe that could happen for you too. 

 You ask to hear the story of the Minotaur more times than should be appropriate from the slaves of your household. Some of them are foreign, not entirely sure of just how it should be told. You find yourself especially fond of one of them who twists her words to make everything seem honey. 

 “…I like to think that he wasn’t alone down there,” she finishes on her second retelling of the night. The first had ended with a separate possibility altogether, one that saddened you to the core. 

 “Do you?”

 “Yes,” she laughs, taking the comb of carved bone to your hair, gently running it through each tangle provided by your pillow from lying in bed for the entire day. “Maybe he had friends or…”

 “A wife?,” you question in amusement. Bulls didn’t take wives, even if they were part man…

 “He is a man. Surely he had a woman,” she laughs again, bright and giddy, and follows it with a shrug.  “You said that you saw him. Maybe it’s a sign.”

 “I didn’t say it was him,” you almost wail in embarrassment. It was true that you had endlessly questioned and pondered for the past few weeks, speculated on what may or may not have been there, beneath the trees when you took your fall. For some odd reason, your fascination with that creature had ignited a flame someplace in your chest, growing ever brighter with each day that passed. “He didn’t have a bull’s head. Only the horns.”

 She plucks at your hair with the comb a little longer in silence before setting it aside and casting you an almost fretful glance. “That sounds scary…”

 “Oh,” you sigh. She’s right, of course. There were plenty of terrible things described with those attributes. But… if bulls didn’t scare you, then surely bullmen could not be any worse. “He didn’t hurt anyone though.” 

 “But you did get hurt,” the girl reminds you sympathetically.

 You swallow dryly, and at last decide to put these fantasies aside. Your injuries were almost healed in full, and the last thing that you needed was for everyone to think that you were not simply wounded, but crazy too. A mad woman wouldn’t find a husband, and you were not a cow meant to be fantasizing over bullmen. The place you were given since birth was that of noble standing, a woman worth her weight in pearls and gold, not meant for fields and horns.

 When morning rises and the yellow-red glow of the sun pokes its way through your window, you find you’re able to stand properly without the old man’s help to keep you upright. 

 You wash your face with the water from the clay pot in the corner, smile to yourself when you dab carmine onto your cheeks and smear it with the palm of your hand to look the part of some blushing dove.

 Your robe is clean and soft when its pulled over you and fastened, delightfully comfortable when there’s no more bruising to irritate. Incense is lit, and you immerse yourself in what is before you rather than in shadow. 

 There’s a clamoring in the street below your window as you finish preparing for the day, both cheers and shouts of fear that stir both confusion and trepidation in your belly. It takes some time before you can coax yourself into taking a peek, find the strength in your trembling legs to look upon what may very well be the final march for a man deemed worthy of execution or perhaps some other misfortune. 

 Everything is painted honey and gold over the chalked clay of the buildings and the smooth stones layered over the streets.

 There are women fleeing, a few cowardly men accompanying them. Children walk backwards or affix themselves to high walls to stare back at what’s being led by soldiers clutching thick lines of woven rope. 

 The thing that follows behind them leaves your heart in your throat, because it… he, is no prisoner or omen.

 The bullman from your endless daydreaming walks with his arms fastened behind him, thick tail flicking in irritation at his backside, soft auburn ears fold back against his head. 

 The face, closer now, intrigues you the most, because as you’ve claimed endlessly: he only looks the part of a man. Some rugged barbarian, for certain, but still he does not bare any resemblance to the Minotaur or any other beast from the tales and songs. Though his nose is crooked, and pale scarring layers in abundance over tanned flesh, he looks almost sweet. There’s a gentleness about him that betrays the strangeness of his silhouette from before.

 And he bleeds crimson like any other man, from a wound dug out in his shoulder where a spear must have pierced him. The blood along his chest has not even had the time to dry. 

 The poor man is bleeding and naked, not a scrap of cloth to conceal him any place, not even where his hair curls above his loins.

 You imagine what the healer and slave girl must think now, when the subject of your endless ramblings is out on display for the entire city. Whether monster or forgotten god, the bullman is here, and in your haze of thought you will yourself to storm out into the street. There are hisses of confusion and fear all filtered and feathering on the air, many voices, but what is worse are the screams. 

 He doesn’t even possess it within him to look afraid, only terribly annoyed or maybe even somber. It was difficult to tell by the lack of expression on his face. His eyes are sad, but his lips are pressed into the barest line. The only indication that he feels anything at all is the swishing of his tail, a tell of anger in bulls. Maybe in men baring their resemblance, too.

 “Where are you taking him?,” you demand, a shrill cry from your doorstep. 

 No answer comes your way from the soldiers at his side. 

 “Please…”

 The words fail you as you find yourself stepping in front of this march. Ten soldiers to keep one man in a hold, it was ridiculous. Though he towered over them and possessed horns sharp enough to gore, to see him like this… It all stirred so much emotion within you that you almost think you must have really injured something in your skull, because the city spins around you and your eyes sting fiercely. 

 Every step halts when you begin to sob right there in the street like a bereaved wife finding out her husband has been tortured or killed in some distant land. Even the bullman seems intrigued by your tears. The quiet blue of his eyes flits from what stands beyond you to your face, puffed and slick with tears. Why cry for a man you do not know?, he seems to ask wordlessly. Why throw yourself out in the midst of danger? 

 “… my bull is dead, so I would like to…” To dance with this one. To see past the abomination of what he was and maybe cherish him in the way he deserved without deserving.

 His ears prick forward, and he huffs something whispering and foreign in his tongue. Just one word that you’re uncertain of the meaning of, probably demeaning considering that you had called him an animal, not man. But he speaks. He speaks and that is enough for the soldiers to exchange cautious glances from the titan they lead to the curious display of the crying woman in front of them.

 “You want to dance with this bull?,” one asks, both amusement and disbelief painting each syllable. 

 You nod your head, weak but fiercely resolute in your wish. 

 Not “this bull”, but perhaps “this god”.

 You’re both stripped bare of any defenses, fates left in the hands of men who only know to kill and fuck. Somehow luck shimmers through, because you’re presented with one of the ropes a soldier carries. It’s offered to you with a stiff, callused hand, dropped unceremoniously into the palm that rises up to wait. 

 You walk beside your bull, not where you would rather lead him but where the other men urge for you to go. People watch on with curious stares, and you know most assuredly that when your healer hears of this new derangement, you will suffer another fortnight in bed with herbs and prayers over your head.

 The bull watches you the entire time with a stare that lacks any emotion. The beast could be grateful, humiliated, or considering ripping you apart the moment his binds were undone and you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of it until he was upon you. What’s stranger still is that you don’t fear him. He looks to you the entire time and your hand clutching the rope does not tremble. Your pulse races, but only with something beyond fear, something an ordinary man has never gifted to you.

 The gated pasture is bears a cool breeze when you enter, you watch as one of the men ties your new bull to a post and tells you that he is wicked, but the only crime he’s being accused of is being what he is. 

 “You’re hurt,” you assess a little dumbly when everyone has paraded away. The grass stains the white linen you wear as you sink to your knees at the titan’s side. 

 You’ve nothing to tend to his wound with. Dirt is smudged into the divide in his flesh with gentle swipes of your thumb, a strip ripped from your robe when you try to stop the bleeding further. He hisses when you fasten it tight, shoots you a glare that both makes stars fall in your eyes and sets a stampede to rush in your heart. Your heart, you think, but really it’s something else. You feel hot all over and it’s the stupidest thing. 

 “I know, I know..,” you mumble as you tie the cloth, straighten yourself out and cover the expanse of your thigh that’s been revealed as you settle back into place. “Can you move it?”

 “Yes.”

 It hardly registers that he’s freed himself somewhat until a massive hand curls tightly around your wrist. The touch is not at all gentle, it’s probing, the tip of each digit leaving small curved indentations in your flesh, intent on keeping you thoroughly in place.

 “Why aren’t you afraid?” His voice comes as an odd grumbling, seemingly unused for some time. It isn’t deep, either, which comes as the most jarring thing about all of this. It’s so pleasant, that even with his iron hold you find yourself smiling as a flurry of affection stirs between your breasts.

 Because I was right, you yearn to say, but hold your tongue for fear of seeming too brazen and less subservient than you should be, catering to a god you’ve never even heard of. Both man and bull, something divine and strikingly handsome even with his soft features. 

 “Should I be? Will you curse me..?,” you ask, softening your grin to glance up at him through your lashes. Demure and flirtatious before you even think to catch yourself. A maiden should be more cautious dealing with ordinary men or things not yet known, but even when your expression reverts to one of mere curiosity, it seems too late. 

 His nostrils flare as he regards you; then, his hand shifts upward to stroke at your bare shoulder, fingertips move to dance over your clavicle. The hand comes to rest beneath your jaw, a thumb carefully brushing over your chin. Then, he withdraws all at once, turns his head with a huff of breath. He doesn’t bellow as the other males in the pasture, does little to seem more cow than man in your presence. Perhaps it’s a practiced courtesy: to appear more human than the additions crowning his head suggest. 

 “Dummes mädchen.” He doesn’t tell you what that means, and his voice canters off to silence when you push and prod to ask.

 He doesn’t budge when you ask where he’s come from, some distant land across the sea you even speculate. You ask him what he is in name, and in turn his ears seem to lower, flatten further, as though he were trying to hide them altogether. There wasn’t much he could do about the horns, though. 

 The bull barely even returns your shy glances, the only indication that he knows and rather likes that you’re still seated at his side is the flare of pink that rises from his throat to settle upon his cheeks, the way his jaw tightens and loosens when you speak. 

 “What is your name?,” you ask him when the silence grows too much. You’re starting to feel beads of sweat prick at your skin from the glow of the summer sun above, and more than anything you want some closeness, some proof that maybe your listless life is not a total loss. Earning a god’s favor would only be too lovely, the perfect cure for the unnamed thing that ails you. “So that I might worship you properly?”

 That prompts a response. 

 He turns to you with a forced stoicism, one that does little to subdue the way his eyes widen and his face burns. Being jabbed at and held captive like an animal would make any man more than a little unhappy or wary, but your words dissolve that into smoke in an instant. He tells you his name in a keening sort of voice, one reserved for wolves or agitated horses.

“König.”

 You repeat it, once, twice.

 It sounds funny and foreign, too simple for what he appears to be. You tell him your own when he doesn’t ask, repeat it just the same so he remembers his only acolyte. Someone so cute for a god of beasts or maybe even good harvests.

 You wanted to pry further, have every secret expelled from his tongue, unite in words and quell that horrid, demanding passion. It’s why men run way to brothels, you supposed. Excitement and the allure of something pretty to stake a claim into… but you’re a maiden rather than some feather-headed soldier.

 “When you’re better, we will dance,” you declare with a hope that he might understand. “My first offering to you.”

 König stirs, rumbles someplace in the expanse of chest. His hair curls there in the widest patch, you note, trails down right to thighs that make brick resemble only soft clay. You’ve never openly ogled a man like this, and it doesn’t feel shameful, not when you’re convinced you already have an understanding here. 

 You couldn’t imagine he would crawl on his knees for you to prance over him like a yearling deer, bellow like a proper animal when you took his horns in hand. The ugly, ivory prongs about his head looked too dangerous anyhow. One slip… you didn’t want to imagine what would happen then. 

 “… Richtig.” Then, “What do I give to you?”

 His question confuses you fully, because the way he speaks it does not seem curious at all. As if there’s already a resolution in the words. No clothing, no weapons, not even a coin. The only thing present and available is what sits between his thighs, a daunting pillar. He asks only for a consent to what he does not bring out in words, only hinted at from the way his gaze drags up from your throat to your eyes.

The strangest mating rite from the strangest man of all…

 You don’t ask him about that.

You let the words hang in the air for a stretch of time. Then, you fetch him some water from the creek just past the field. You untie the binds still shackling him to the fence post as he drinks from the shallow bowl. He laps at it like a dog, furrows his brow a little when you’re caught staring again. 

 There’s too much to look at to entirely separate yourself from him. And he speaks so oddly it’s difficult to distract him with conversation. So you settle to admire, and he does so in turn. When you find yourself watching the way his chest puffs with each intake of breath, his stare only maps you the same, mimicking or appraising.

He grunts, too; flicks an ear when he stares down at your lap and embarrassment immediately floods you when you realize that his senses are not entirely human, either.

 You fold your hands into your lap and part your lips to speak again, to maybe ask him why he came here at all to serve as some distraction from the way he appraised your hips with that dreadful stare.

 “When?,” he interrupts immediately, casting his dish aside and straightening up to look down upon you. Exacting some misplaced wrath, you assume. Let a woman leap over him and maybe have his freedom after. He just wants it over with, and you can’t blame him at all.

 “I told you… when you’re better.” 

 That must not have been the right thing to say, because his injured arm is the one he gathers you with, brings you up and over him to press your chest to his and glare down at you. The glow of the setting sun seems dull by comparison to the ember in his eyes.

 “I am fine.”

 The calendars have been a blur since you fell. You huff and pout in thought, trying to think in spite of the way the closeness has you feeling dumb and dizzy. 

 “A few days..,” comes your answer, quiet and apologetic. “I’m nearly certain.”

 König sighs and you feel it flutter your hair, the warmth on your neck. His arm drifts from around you, as if to signal that you could depart at any moment. Whatever had possessed you now leaves you in place, flustered and miserably infatuated. It pains you that he only seems exasperated by this entire ordeal rather than enthused, but he seems to soften somewhat when you don’t bolt away immediately. The tension leaves his shoulders slowly, and the summer sky of his eyes is placid instead of burning.

 He could strike you down at any moment, leave you gored out here in the grass with common bulls, destroy the fence and maybe all of the people in the city too… but he seems intent on just keeping this silly oath and having you seated here.

 “They caught me when I came to find you,” he says, blunt and careless, as if seeking out a woman he saw once from across a field is just a common thing to do. The very same as worshiping some creature driven out from the forest. “I saw you. Then you fell.” 

 “You were looking for me?” Your words are expressed with shaky intakes of breath, nerves alight with both love and caution. Led toward you by want, a thing you both seemed to feel. 

 He goes utterly stiff at that, but grits his teeth softly as his gaze casts down to where you’re seated in his lap. 

 A chance meeting… or maybe it was something as wonderful as fate after all. 

 You looked the part of lovers already, and perhaps that’s made him shy… but bulls don’t get shy, and König is no exception here, because his hand immediately rises to lift the robe covering you, drifts the linen up to reveal the soft fabric of your loincloth.

 “Yes,” he grunts, staring down at the prize between your legs. A reward he’s already promised to himself, one you freely give when you don’t give him a smack or shove his hands away. 

 He smells of the forest: of wispy pine nettles, water from a spring, juniper. Of a man, whose closeness you had yet to have entirely. No bristling comes; you don’t close yourself off. He’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen— sad cow eyes and the bulk that only comes from a life rich with work and fighting, survival and instinct.

Had he ever even had a woman?, you wonder. Did he find you lovely, too? 

 König huffs appreciatively, lowers his head to your chest to bump his nose against your breasts. You release the breath that was caged unbeknownst to yourself, and your arms come around him naturally, cradle him there. Maybe he had never even been held… So, you pet him, trail your hand along the nape of his neck, up and through the messy strands of hair atop his head. 

 “You are injured too,” he hums into plushness, breath washing over thin fabric and causing your nipples to rise in answer. He must have felt the scab on your palm, healing, but still coarse and stiff. Even in what you perceive must be some sort of courtesy, worrying over your scrape, he doesn’t peel himself away from what entices him most here. His hands descend to stroke at your sides, trail down lower until both palms are fitted against your backside. 

 He squeezes, slow and intentional, weighs your flesh in hand. Explorative and further appreciative when another hiss leaves his lips to filter out along your clothed sternum. If he were not seated on his tail, you imagine it would have swayed fiercely, excited by the earlier fight and now the prospect of breeding some silly woman. You don’t have that indicator to read his thoughts, but the throb of the mighty weapon between his legs is enough to know. It’s warm and hard beneath you, gives a slight jump when your fingers dance over the base of his horns.

 “I got hurt because of you.”

 “Little maiden… I would never hurt you. Only please you,” he declares, sounding prideful. Just as a bull should, even in such a predicament. Like a god, proper and true. Surely this city would be cursed for what they’ve done to him. He will fuck their virgins and leave everything else scorched and ruined. And a part of you is almost giddy to know the very first would be you. 

 You’ve yet to touch men, but you knew well enough what the wetness down there meant, what his erection meant. Why men grope and fondle just as he does to you now, when a hand rises to tug down the top of your thin dress, when his head lifts just enough to lick at the side of your tit.

 The air around you both thrums, pulses as though there are thunder strikes surrounding. And the sky is still clear when your head lolls back to face it in full as a nipple is enveloped by a hungry maw. He suckles at you, pushes his hips upward and strokes at your ass when you whine and pant. The cover of nightfall grants you some mercy, because no one is around to hear those cries or the way he grunts into your flesh, greed pouring from the both of you. No gods or stable hands, only a glassy moon and a blanket of star shine amidst murky sable like sea water. 

 When he lies you back, viciously lapping at your breasts, sucking your skin to grind between his blunt teeth, you take the horns into your hands again to tug him close. He groans, bellows like a man starved into your chest, drool and bruises layered over your skin. You should be in bed, waiting for some droning dullard to wed you first… not allowing a beast of a man to lower you into grass and dine upon you like this. 

 The gods would probably find this humorous… even if he might very well be one of them. How easily mortals could be swayed, even virtuous women, at the appeal of some miserable thing to save with an ugly, big cock. 

 But one or two bullmen was more than enough for this world, surely. No spawn of yours would be sent to a labyrinth deep below the earth, dark and desolate, and you’ve already bled this moon…

 It pains you to push back against the face that sends pure fire through your belly with each swipe of his tongue, but you do. König seems both dumbfounded and frustrated when he separates from your flesh, the moon in his eyes eclipsed in full. 

 “I can’t..,” you try to explain, to tell without telling that you don’t want to push some horned infant from your cunt just because you like him a little. You wet your lips and stare up at him, hopeless and lost here. 

 “Why?” Your bull doesn’t understand, because of course he doesn’t. He’s trying to give you the only thing that he has to offer. Maybe he’s fucked other women before, women who took him gleefully and sang pretty beneath him, coated that raging thing between his muscular thighs in their essence and left lovely pictures in his memory. You don’t know why that thought alone is enough to make your head feel cloudy with wrath. 

 He asks again when you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. Bulls may be sacred, but no one’s ever said that they were not stupid. 

 König only pulls away enough to hover over your sex instead, panting gruffly like something starved and prepared to plunder an unsuspecting hen. Still, he waits for an answer, and you don’t think to spare yourself enough to close your parted thighs. 

 “I thought we would… after we danced,” you try, and maybe that would have worked if you didn’t have your softness and every treasure laid bare to him like a submissive vixen. 

 The beast only shakes his head and raises your legs to rest over each of his bare shoulders, corded in muscle and heat. He doesn’t nick you with his horns, careful even as he pushes his face right to your womanhood. The loincloth remains in place, but it’s the most fragile barrier. His breath makes your toes curl as it hits your sex, sends a wave of pure want swooping from your chest right to your cunt. 

 “You smell..,” he muses quietly, trails off as though drunk on just a whiff of you. When a thick finger tugs the cloth aside, you squirm from panting breath arcing over sensitive flesh. It’s the wettest you’ve ever been: little fantasies did nothing by comparison to the real thing, presented right before you and inspecting you down there. 

 He flattens his tongue over your entrance and relishes in the way that makes you squeal, draws back just to repeat the motion and watch you with pupils blown when your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly. 

 “You have not been touched.” His ears flick as he speaks, gaze dragging down, back to the pussy that calls for him. 

 “No… that’s why- ah-“ 

 The ideas of children and expectations are long forgotten when his tongue presses to a spot that sends you shivering. It circles over it, too warm and heavy to bear. Your back arches, breasts heave, and he laughs into your cunt knowing he’s found the very spot that would make you forsake all but him. 

 The torture grows delicious and lovely, what he had done to your breasts is exactly what he does there. He suckles at the bud, scrawls his name over it with a wet, lapping tongue. You feel as though you truly have gone mad, fingers curling into the earth to keep you in place, because not even the gods could tear you away from this moment, not now…

 It’s when your trembling thighs begin to tense and your voice grows further pitched that König decides to probe at you with a finger, too. It slips in with resistance, and the intrusion is strange… both horrible and ethereal at once. The titan finds a space inside of you, one to curl his finger against. It’s clumsy, uncertain until he finds that that is what makes you cry the loudest. 

 There’s a blinding white as though the sun has seared its way into your skull, sent the rays of its warmth into your very veins. It brings about a haze, leaves you quivering and panting as bliss rolls over you in steady waves. He gives you another lick, from your slit down to your ass before sitting up. Not an ounce of hesitation is weighed in his stare or his actions when he brushes the thick cockhead through your labia. 

 “I am going to fuck you,” he declares in a groan, already feeding you a fat inch of him. There’s still lingering resistance, but the honey that drips there now is in abundance, coats him with each shallow thrust. 

 You choke on the pain of such a sudden stretch, but find yourself only leaking more at the sight of him: a god laying claim to some mortal girl, you, above you, in you. The sounds he makes only ripen the elation. There’s desperation in each grunt, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s found something truly holy. 

 He drops over you, an arm to either side of your head when he sinks in fully. As if to dull the ache of your womanhood, at the loss of your title of maiden, he licks your cheek, the corner of your mouth, any place to soothe. When you capture him in a real kiss, your taste still lingers there upon his lips.

 He seems even more delighted that you would show him affection than what’s occurring between you. The press of his hips comes to a halt, because he savors that display of what is or isn’t love. It’s almost shy, the way his mouth molds over yours, the way a hand drifts to your hair to pet at you. The other lowers to take your thigh and draw it up and keep you pinned in place. 

 You think to hold him now, too, when he breaks away from the kiss to gaze down at you with a shimmering stare, one that speaks more substance than anything he’s given you in your entire conversation. Your nails stay bedded down with the dirt, though, knowing with a fierce certainty that once he moved again it would be the only tether to dull the ache of a vicious fucking. 

 Except, he’s only gentle. 

 The cock inside of you takes a slow drag out, teasing and tentative as though trying to memorize every ridge inside.

It’s agony, because it feels like lovemaking.

Beasts don’t make love, they only have violent ruts and part ways entirely. König fucks like a man devoted. His eyes never stray from your face when he pushes back inside, all too careful. It must feel better than the being amongst his kind in the mountain he descended from, because the sounds he makes are fragile, barely contained whines that seem foreign from a man of his stature. 

 “I have been… watching you for so long, little..,” he huffs, burying his hand into your hair and dropping his head to press his forehead to your own. The words barely register, hardly make sense when the thick tip of him pushes right into the softest part of you again. It’s better than a finger… better than anything you’ve ever felt, and with everything so doughy and hot what you want to say only comes in a keening whine.

 “Gods,” he continues when your sounds are smothered and blanketed by the filthy, sloppy sounds of your own wetness. You must be soaking the very earth you lie upon, dewy and warm. “Better than I dreamed.”

 The slowness paves way for a heady, brutal thrust when he realizes that he isn’t hurting you. It only feels better the more that he moves, with each thick vein along his cock felt, with how he repeatedly spears against that spot that brings tears of rapture to the corners of your eyes. That new pace does not relent. You squeeze him the most like this, savoring in how he carves his way inside, molds you to take shape for him in what looks like pure violence but feels like love. 

The sounds of impact and the scent of sweat and arousal surround you, the moon above and everything beneath it seem of so little importance now.

 König does not silence himself even though you wished that he would. He pants against your face in his mother tongue, babbling endlessly as pleasure spikes for him. It wouldn’t be long until he filled you to the brim with thick spurts of seed, you could feel it in the way he throbbed against your walls, how each thrust was more prolonged and deep. Your mind swims, pleasure so intense its as if you’re drowning in the deepest depths of the sea itself. 

 “I came from the valley..,” he tells you in a feverish whisper, only now recalling that you didn’t know a thing about him before offering your cunt, maybe even your heart…

 “Not a god… not anyone…” 

 It’s too much when his hips press in faster, when his cock reaches the end of you, over and over in frenzied repetition. Overwhelmed and stuffed to capacity, you sob and quiver, taking him into your arms and clawing at his broad back. The pain only seems to make him more feral, because his hands leave your thigh and your hair to grasp at your face instead, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he bares his teeth and spears into you relentlessly. 

 “Little one… I want this for the rest of my life,” he growls. “Promise me…”

 The words sit on your tongue, fully prepared to surrender yourself to some beast of a faraway valley, chased and poked with spears or fire… Any hope of a cozy life would be forfeit here, already has been the moment you allowed him between your legs. It’s a horrible secret, one surely only Pasiphaë must have known of… how wonderful it felt to be bedded by a man like this. Not old enough to have fathered the Minotaur, but surely bred to be something akin to him. 

“…I promise,” you whisper, perhaps desperate for this torturous copulation to end… or continue. Feeling so whole, full, right. Your offering is beating warm and overflowing in your chest, and König only looks as though he’s about to break at your words. The blue of his eyes grows glassy, translucent waves painting over each iris, but those tears don’t shed. They’re only dismissed with more needy rasps.

 He growls, hooks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of your throat when his strokes begin to stutter. Your bull comes with a muffled howl, pumps pearly ropes of seed as deeply into you as he can manage. Your hiss of surprise is stifled with a blazing kiss where he moans into your open mouth, delves his tongue as deeply as his cock. He pumps several more times, intent on spilling every last drop inside, none wasted.

 It seeps to earth when he parts from you, when he inspects the milk and honey of successful union between your legs. He looks surprised, confused almost when that stare is guided back up towards you as his chest continues to rise and fall swift with exertion.

You raise yourself up on your elbows, draw your legs shut. Not in shame, but… apparent embarrassment, your former courage is diminished when he looks at you as though you’re the most peculiar thing beneath the stars, when you’ve revealed yourself almost entirely and had him fuck and take apart all of it. 

 Maybe it’s the same for this beast, because his surprise and unshed tears are so evident here. He no longer looks the part of a god, but a lost man.

Not anyone, he had said. Is that what he felt? Or only what he had been told..?

 “You’re not a monster,” you whisper. The chill of night settles over your skin, but there’s still warmth here, blooming like a flower in volcanic soil; the sun itself was incomparable to this peculiar thing that had taken root here. 

 He snorts at that and shakes his head. The ears there are cute and pluming with fluff, a reddish brown that suits him so remarkably. He’s kissed by the sun, even bathed in moonlight here. The prettiest of monsters, if he’s fooled himself into believing he is one. 

 “You should not have given yourself to me,” he tells you as his eyes narrow. The threat holds no weight, if it were one at all, because he grasps at you and pulls you in close; brings your cheek to his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I will not leave you alone.” 

 “Good.”

 Maybe he’s speaking through the haze of a good fuck after being the cause for screams or raised weapons for so long, but you pray it comes from a truth. You’ve offered him a full meal of you, a treasure that none other has had, left yourself weak and aching all for one. His grip only tightens around you, refusing to let go as if to confirm your belief.

 You’re brought back to the earth with your bull curled at your back, two powerful arms snaked around your middle with his nose pressed into your hair. 

 “After your dance, you will come with me.” There’s no longer a request, only an order. You’ve accepted him as both your man and mate, and it seems to please him greatly. His chest puffs against you, pride and contentment harbored there. 

 “To where?,” you ask him dreamily. The sea is what you’ve seen the most of, and the foothills and mountains seem a distant place. You imagine that maybe where he’s arrived from must have had others like him, maybe the women there were what he had had before… And maybe that makes you more precious somehow, different and coveted because you hadn’t run, only charmed him with questionable nursing and a request to prance over his back. 

 “Everywhere,” he answers immediately, stroking at the dip between your breasts. “I will never let you go.”

— — —

You’re separated from your bull come morning. It’s heart wrenching and terrible after a night of such passion, but you couldn’t allow for anyone to see you out there with your clothes in disarray and sperm slick and running down your legs. You had waited for him to sleep, for his dreaming to give way to raucous snoring before you slipped away, casting him a woeful glance. The giggling on the way from the pasture would have been terribly humiliating had anyone been awake to hear, but you were fortunate last night.

Come morning, there’s a pain between your legs and traces of blood in your loincloth. You hastily cast that from your body, hide it beneath your mattress before crawling back into bed with your thoughts a whirl. Candied fruit and precious stone, everything sap sticky and sad all the same… because as much as you would like to venture there, to see him, it was most rational to keep away.

If you were caught, you could only imagine the trial or lack thereof. The spears that would have come then wouldn’t miss their target. He would be deemed something far worse than a monster for daring to touch a lady such as yourself.

You bide your time tending to your duties and praying that your loss of virginity isn’t as apparent as it feels to you; when the thoughts drift back, the warmth upon your face only grows and your thighs immediately press together.

And you ponder his offer of leaving the temples and people behind to haunt someplace else with him, away from all else.

It's mad.

You barely knew him, of even what he was. He didn’t even have the sense to keep secret that he had been stalking you for some time, before you ever even noticed, with his fat cock buried inside of you. His ways of courtship lacked any shame, and maybe that’s why the passing thought of a normal man being in your future seems only lackluster. König could hunt, build, provide far better, you assumed, given his stature… And the gods gave him the knowledge of the most tempting tricks with his tongue.

The days leading up to what would call you back to him pass in a tortuous crawl. Even distracting yourself with thoughts of him in lonely silence with a hand between your thighs seems too little. You’ve even asked every slave woman here just how she gets the thoughts of men out of their heads. The advice is merely that sex does not always lead to marriage and children; they part ways like the animals in the forest and leave little room for love in their dens.

You hoped that he was thinking of you, too.

It would be ridiculous to say you’ve missed him, but seeing him in that field bound by rope again once you return is exactly what you want to shout. The birds call from the trees, singing beautifully and everything seems to glow, all except for König.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, cast long and dark from a lack of sleep. He does not even look your way when you take your place next to the others.

He’s forlorn. Maybe even pissed at having been gifted a warm meal only to have his face tugged away and a rope secured to hold him back from tasting or touching again. You should have warned him, about customs and etiquette, reassured him with your words that a little distance was fine because you’ve already made up your mind… but it seems too little and too late to peep your objections now.

The beast is led toward the other bulls by a man half his size, looking as though he’s on the brink of soiling himself from fear. The screams from before are not present now from onlookers, but König seems far less comfortable here than he did in the streets of your city.

Flowers are brought and tossed to both the hooves of bulls and the feet of dancers, yet none are presented to your partner at all. Even with green springing up below his feet, the area he waits in seems barren by comparison. It’s miserable and sad, all of it, and you once more long for being so winded against him that you two seemed to be the only things alive beneath a night sky.

You call to him when the man holding his lead gives it a sharp tug, and it’s dropped instantly as if you really hold some power over what becomes of him… You only hoped that whatever fate lay in wait for him would be coupled with your own. A passive life in a cave or something like that, where you could call him your husband, even… watch the sweat drip down the muscles of his back as he coaxed a fire to life.

Your bull tilts his head towards you, and though he tries to force the very same indifference from before his inner thoughts betray him. His brow remains furrowed, his expression grim, but his ears perk up and he immediately marches toward you. His gait is more of a charge, and had those horns been pointed to you, peril would await.

Punishment only comes in the form of a large man staring at you as though you’ve just wounded him terribly. You remind him there are no blades here with the gentlest touch of your hand along his bicep, swept down to curl at his wrist. It’s the most you could do here, and you could only pray to Aphrodite that your love would be understood regardless.

“You left,” he gruffs, raises a hand to tilt your chin up just enough to face him, though his gaze averts the second that you lock eyes. Shy, definitely not, but with so many watching, he seems entirely out of his element. The hand that graces beneath your chin even trembles, but it’s not fear you find when you search his eyes again.

Hurt.

It’s unmistakably hurt.

“I’m surprised that you did not,” your answer is a whispered one. He should have freed himself, whisked you away like an unsuspecting bride. You recall the other women’s ramblings from before, of men and how little what you experienced together may have meant.

“I do not wish to be apart from you.” He speaks as though it’s the most common knowledge of all, as though you’re a silly thing for ever believing that your want and his are one in the same. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t belong here, amidst people that cast their judgment yet herald the animals that he bears a small resemblance to.

Neither do you belong, you realize. You haven’t belonged since the day you spotted him amongst the trees.

The odd looks that follow König are cast upon you now, too. They see this peculiar beast with one of their women and think of her as sullied down to the marrow in her bones. You must smell of him, marked without a proper mark at all. He hasn’t branded you with any more than soft bruises from kissing your breasts and fitting the length of himself inside of you.

You take your risks and call them offerings, and he greedily accepts each and every one you bestow. You allow it when the hand cupping your jaw drifts lower, graces your breast with the softest touch before taking your fingers between his own.

“You have to be patient.”

He snorts at that.

Bulls are not patient creatures.

The ceremony has already begun. There are real animals here: beasts even larger than König that chew at the grass below them, flick their tails and ignore all that happens around them. There’s prancing and singing, elaborate acrobatics and leaps that must have taken years of practice.

And when you dance with your bull there is none of it.

He stands in place as you twirl around him, weaving around behind and before him as you bend to collect fallen blooms from the ground. Yellows, blues, flowers with no name or place, scavenged from fields further than the pasture. Your laughter pulls even a smile from his hardened face, a face you’ve found handsome since seeing, but must provoke terror in most men…

He’s so horribly endearing in his own ways. It’s the fastest you’ve ever fallen, or anyone in the whole world has, even… The legends and stories speak of love that shoots straight and strikes true like feathered arrows, singing on the wind until they prick their targets. You honor them just as he seems to, and you would tell them to him if only he asked.

Your head and heart are muddled and sick with love, melted down like precious metal within your body. He twists and brings you back together and whole when you’re taken up in his arms and lifted.

“I could touch the sky,” you laugh, clinging to an ivory horn. Pressing a kiss to the pointed tip of it, you swear you detect the heat from his face on your belly.

“Little one… I will take the sun for you, if you ask.”

“You would burn,” you warn.

He drops you then, cradles your body close to his chest instead and carries you as though you’re nothing more than a small dove with broken wings, something to be cared for.

“You make me burn already.”

“König…”

“No, not…” He shakes his head, smushes your cheeks between a thumb and the rest of his fingers as you’re forced to lock eyes again. The giant’s hand is careful with you, more gentle than his teeth or his…

“Call me something else. Something better.” There’s a keening to his voice, a fervent desperation there. A need to be not simply wanted. Wherever your titan has come from with his constellations of scars, the wound still there on his shoulder and all the pain he masks in behind a forced grimace… it has all led him here.

To the woman he watched practice taming bulls for weeks or months, to the only person he believed could accept what he is.

He only wanted to hear it, to have the most shattered wish answered with a tender chime. To bed you wasn’t enough: it could never be so simple. Your heart has been what he’s after all along; he reassures you in self just in voicing this.

“You’re lovely… my love,” you breathe. “You’re mine.”

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and the pools gathered in his eyes do seem to shed. Your face is released as he rubs away anything that may shed. The dark circles are coupled with red rings now, but still no part of him seems weak or broken. He hides that away with everything else, bottles perceived weakness and sets it out to sea and gives you the grin of a proper brute instead.

“Ja… you are mine too.”

You’re set down only as the bull leaping comes to a close, when the people retreat and König seems content in knowing that no one is left to whisk you away. It’s all that he’s waited for, to have you alone after this tradition he did not quite get. He played his part well enough, even if you hadn’t had the chance to climb onto his back as the others had with their bulls.

Only then does he begin to tell you of a life bought and sold without end, of the fighting pits you’ve only heard of and never seen. His tongue does not spare you details of chains and spears, what they do to men like him. There are hundreds of scars, each with a misery attached, some still carrying pain that never heals. Promises were always in abundance to keep him contained, weapons were smithed and placed into his hands since before he could remember…

The life you had imagined for him has never existed. There’s never been love there: he spares you the nature of the women he may have been fortunate enough to touch before, but he whispers that you’re the only one who has ever kissed him.

Your heart breaks for the wounded boy he’s buried inside, and you weep when he tells you he’s only ever prayed for a woman like you. Someone soft and cute, who didn’t run or wail… Who craved him just as terribly if not more, gashes and teeth, horns and all the rest.

And he comforts you when you cry, pulls you in so tightly that your breath catches and the tears do sob. You whisper apologies into the hair on his chest, for all the awful things you would never imagine doing to him, and he scoffs at the pity in your voice.

“Do not cry for me,” he whispers into your hair, leaves a trail of kisses along the crown of your head before dropping to his knees before you and pacifying the best he can by stroking along your back. “I have you now, hm? My little maiden, richtig?”

“Yes. Yes, always,” you promise. Another gift.

You’re led away from the pasture under the veil of nightfall, your arms curled around one of his own. There are men about carrying sharpened steel, thieves and drunkards hiding out in the dark as well, but not an ounce of fear trickles through you to diminish what’s already felt. The stars above are in abundance, brighter somehow on the night you forfeit all.

König speaks unguarded now, each question is met by a response. It’s the first time he’s ever been asked about himself, he tells you this when you express your satisfaction at finally hearing more than a few words at a time. He’s terribly cute when all of the praise and attention cause his face to ripen like summer fruit, red and shimmery with sweat rather than dew.

You’ve brought nothing for a journey, but he swears to you that there is pilfered honey, wine, fruit and furs in his den, some dark place he describes as special. It’s the only place he’s ever called home, so surely it must be.

König doesn’t warn you that the trek takes weeks, nor that the mountains are even more beautiful up close. The foliage is wild, the air fresher and free of the smell of cattle and people, and each climb seems steeper than the last. He doesn’t tell you of the wolves or bears, but you hear them at night when he pulls you even closer to him. The wild things won’t hurt you; the wildest of them all considers himself to be the king here, a ruler that they respect or dread rather than dare to cross.

It isn’t a cave that greets you when you come to rest after days and nights of exertion, but a hut built of cut wood and clay. Built as well and thoroughly as any builder from the city would have done. He tells you of where he learned such things, watching men work after sparring with animals and their own kin in pits; how they would promise to rear families in structures like this, how he hoped in crafting all of this that one day he might have the same.

“It’s wonderful,” you tell him, crossing the threshold to find just what he has already told you was waiting here, so far off from common roads that none of it has been pillaged.

The gifts come aplenty, too: a new comb make of bone for your neglected hair, jarred honey and trinkets from his travels or pulled away from a former captor’s corpse. There’s even a weapon for you here, a blade sleek and shimmering, some foreign sword that astonishingly reminds you of a part of him.

“I will find a prettier one for you,” he says as you examine the blade, heavy even when held in both of your hands. It’s only a mercy that you are not the provider here, because there would be no deer or even rabbits slain when even holding it makes your movements sluggish.

“… I like it. All of it.”

He plucks the blade from your hands with ease and casts it aside. The sound of it tapping, then clattering against the wooden boards rings out loudly before he’s upon you. The trek to the mattress seems an eternity, longer than even the venture here. Cloth and jewelry, the only lasting remnant of your former life follow suit, piling over the sharpened steel.

There’s a bear’s pelt beneath you to soften the stiff straw, less wild and ferocious than it may have been in life, now smothered by the lingering scent of him. The lonely nights spent here must have been terrible and tragic. Did he allow the shield to fall and weep then? In the comfort of bear skin and the calling of night birds outside, tears and wasted seed.

The urgency is a looming beast on the air, prevalent and fierce when you’re pulled into König’s lap. Your bull lacks the patience to prepare you with his mouth or a curled finger now, only pivots your hips to take him with a prod as his head lowers for his mouth to latch onto your breast.

“I am in love with you,” he whispers against your flesh. You’re left at his mercy as he guides you with one large hand placed upon your thigh and an arm curled around your back. It’s slow, always slow when he begins, when he’s drunk on the feel of you surrounding him and every new feeling that floods his head.

The ears prick forward when you sing for him, whimpering as he buries himself further. As though it’s the most pleasant sound he’s ever heard in the span of his life. The only thing more beautiful is the acceptance and surrender you offer. There’s never been a shield in place, no guards to watch over you… he’s the only thing; he’s broken through every gate or wall to steal you away from those perceived defenses.

He knows, too, when your panting mouth repeats his own words.

He bucks into you with more haste, slips his tongue into your mouth and groans when you take it between your teeth. Skyward and earthly with each motion, the sea and the mountain tethered as one. And maybe you’ve never leapt with the cattle from your city, but you dance with this bull so naturally that it vanquishes any doubt of where you’re meant to be. What you’ve yearned for was not the taming of animals, but maybe a man…

Your orgasm comes sudden, a wave of wet heat that drools from your core, aids in the glide of the feverish pace he guides your hips into. König’s head tilts back, bliss painted upon his expression from how you close in around him.

You take your chances and press your face to the column of his throat, biting down on him just as he had you. The salty sweat on his skin leaves its taste on your tongue as you lick over the freshly painted mark. The sounds of his own pleasure are cast away; he goes silent and still, and you almost fear you’ve made some terrible mistake here… But König comes undone at that, desperately gathers you in his hold as he pulses within you, writhes beneath you.

He refuses to release his grip even when his cock grows soft, just rolls you onto your back and covers you like the thickest blanket.

“You didn’t fall this time,” he huffs into your hair.

Though your lips part to try and order him to be quiet, he grinds his hips against your own as if to make the obscenity of his comment even more apparent. It only heightens the warmth you feel sweep up into your cheeks.

“Little dancer…”

And finally he rises above you, another wild grin slowly gracing his scarred face. A thumb brushes against the pulse in your neck until his hand rests right over the heart tucked beneath your breast. It’s better than any promise of a lofty field or a mountaintop, even covered in sweat and come, to see the way that his eyes light up with pure mirth when he feels it’s beating.

“You feel it… you didn’t lie,” he mutters, and you try your best not to allow that comment to claw amongst the others he’s made that left wounds in your heart, gashes that bleed for him.

“Why would I?,” you ask, voice so thin and soft you would think it unheard if not for the flick of his ear.

“I did not think anyone would ever…” He rubs at his face as he falls to your side, only to pull you in close again. The defenses raise in those words, but lower as they do time and time again when you nestle into his chest, pet at the curls of hair there.

“They said no one could ever love me.”

The tears in his eyes finally are laid bare. They roll down his cheeks, and he does nothing to hide them this time. You accept his silent crying without comment, the only indication you share that you know, see, is in the way you press a kiss to his jaw where they gather and spill.

“Fools, they were..,” you whisper to him, just as quietly as before. The sanctity blooms further as his chest rumbles, a contented hum coupled with a squish to bring you even closer to him.

“Ja… just fools,” he answers you in a voice not broken, only softer than it has ever been. “Like you. For this… giving so much.”

“And you are greedy.”

He nods once before reaching for your hand; his own curls over it, still splayed out over his chest. He’s no cocky, rough brute now. He pets at it with a trembling thumb.

“I will never let you go.” He speaks it as though it is a curse, rather than the blessing you’re certain that it is. Most women would fear a lustful beast raised up to kill even gladiators, yet there’s only the sweetest consoling to be found with him for you. “You will suffer me until we both die.”

“I could not imagine a better fate.”

[seat-safety-switch]

One of my more accomplished friends is an MRI operator. When we first got talking about what we did for a living, I didn't get very interested. Now, don't think I'm some kind of elitist snob. My career (freelance journalist/greasy dirtbag) is a laugh-a-minute thrill ride, where you're as likely to get hunted down by friends of corrupt small government as you are to throw up in the back of a diesel-swapped Geo Metro being used to chase cows back into the paddock. It's set the bar very, very high.

By comparison, MRIs are boring healthcare stuff, meant for taking extremely high-quality pictures of people's junk all day long. Those pictures are then viewed by doctors, who will sneer at those people for not eating enough cauliflower. Just an absolute snore, which although involving a cool machine that's very loud, didn't fascinate me in the least.

That is, until they mentioned The Quench. In case you're unfamiliar, MRI machines operate on the principles of magnetism (that's the "M.") Big-ass magnets are used to send pulses throughout the machine, and those pulses are inconveniently blocked by chunks of your body standing in the way. By recording how irritated those magnets are, we can figure out what's going on inside your shit. Of course, you need big, big magnets for this, you're not running down to the grocery store and diagnosing a brain misfire using that cute little toddler-art-retainer shaped like a frog.

Sometimes, when shit really goes wrong, you need to stop the magnetism in a hurry. Maybe a patient walked in with a fully loaded firearm, and the magnets are now using it to shoot the inside of the machine. Perhaps you just decided that you would like to end your career. Either way, hitting the "quench" button douses those magnets with several hundred thousand dollars' worth of liquid helium, which makes them stop doing magnet-y things and start racking up billable hours for the MRI maintenance guy. This kind of highly expensive mechanical failure is my jam, and I asked immediately where I could get me some of those quenched-up magnets. Surely, they wouldn't reuse anything they've beaten up in this way?

My so-called friend figured out what I was up to, and clammed up almost immediately. Almost. He gave me just enough information for my inquisitive journalistic mind to figure out that they just chuck these big-ass magnets into the dumpster out back of the hospital, and someone with an enterprising enough mindset could then un-chuck them into the back of, say, a U-Haul van with the license plate removed after being careful to avoid all the security cameras along the way. Not that I would do such a thing, especially because it involves driving through a particularly weak chain-link fence near the seniors' centre.

Coincidentally, are you coming to my unveiling of my new magnetic-levitation Volare-launching system this weekend? I promise to listen very intently to whatever bullshit you say about your boring job, you'll love it. The Mayor is gonna be there, cut the ribbon and everything. Shit. Siri, remind me to get plastic scissors for The Mayor.