manhuamaenah

[manhuamaenah]

250625 - dat huynh on instagram

[manhuamaenah]

[manhuamaenah]

ABSOLUTELY SICKENING

[manhuamaenah]

HE'S GLOWING (cr. @taee)

[manhuamaenah]

18+ Teaser / The Captive Crown

[manhuamaenah]

18+ | Historical Enemies To Lovers Teaser

Full novella available on kindle (free for kindle members)

Please be aware if you do purchase the book I didn’t lie when I said high spice 18+ - the teaser is tame asf but in the book is much more explicit & themes are inline with this era which maybe be confronting to those unfamiliar with the history & nature of the time

Historical!AU • Warning : Morally Grey Men, Possessive Men, Alpha Male Type, Dark Romance, Stockholm Syndrome, CaptivePrincessXCaptorKhanSon

Inspired By Mongol Goryeo (Korean) Era

**I definitely didn’t picture Jakarn as Jeon Jungkook 👀 absolute coincidence Jakarn has 6 older brothers in the book… before anyone sues this has 0 reflection or real life association on any BTS members real characters or persons. Their just stunning men & would be soooo amazing in a Goryeo Era drama 😭😍

CH. 8 – A Pet in Silk

The summons came two hours after he left her.

Not from Jakarn.

Not even from a steward.

Just a pair of palace guards—silent, dressed in the Khan’s colors, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their scimitars.

“The Khan is expecting you.”

Mairen didn’t ask why.

She followed without comment, bare feet soundless against lacquered stone.

They walked her through the palace like she was already part of it.

Down the eastern halls. Past the barracks. Under wide archways painted with wolves mid-hunt. Servants turned to look as she passed. One dropped a tray. Another dipped so low her forehead brushed the floor.

Her robe was pale blue, sheer as breath, bound with gold cord at her hips. It had no sleeves. No weight. No armor.

A garment meant to be worn by someone no longer expected to run.

The guards didn’t touch her. But they also didn’t speak.

They weren’t escorting a prisoner.

They were delivering a prize.

The Great Hall of Batu Orochin, Khan of the Seven Sons, was not made for women.

It was made for war.

Dark wood beams framed the room. Iron torches burned with resin-soaked smoke. Long tables stretched from wall to wall, crowded with warriors, generals, and sons.

At the center: the Khan. Grey at the temples. Wolfskin cloak. Eyes like obsidian under flame.

And beside him—Jakarn. Silent. Unmoved. Sipping wine like the girl at the center of attention had nothing to do with him.

Until she stepped through the doors.

Then he looked.

A hush chased her in.

The guards didn’t announce her. They didn’t need to.

Everyone in the room had heard of the desert prize.

Now they were seeing her.

One of the wives leaned over the balcony railing above, lips curling. Another narrowed her eyes. A third said nothing at all—just turned her head slightly, like cataloging a threat.

Jakarn didn’t blink.

The Khan leaned forward, expression unreadable.

“So,” he said at last, his voice rough with wine and age. “This is what you dragged from the sands, Black Wolf?”

He gestured lazily.

“Come closer, girl. Let’s get a look.”

Mairen moved.

Not too fast. Not stiff.

Just forward—like a woman who understood exactly what this was.

She stopped before the raised dais, chin lifted. She didn’t kneel. But she didn’t stare either.

Her hands were folded. Her stance still.

Jakarn’s brothers watched from their places around the tables. Some with amusement. Some with curiosity.

Jochin raised his brows. Temulen simply blinked. Yesügei sipped his drink.

“She’s well-formed,” the Khan said, eyes flicking down her frame. “No burn marks. No broken fingers. You didn’t break her in yet?”

Jakarn drank slowly. “Didn’t need to.”

The Khan’s smile curled wider. “Does she speak?”

Before Jakarn could answer, Mairen inclined her head—only slightly.

“Only as much as needed, my lord.”

There was silence.

Then the Khan barked a short laugh. “She’s got teeth. Subtle ones.”

He waved to a steward without looking. “Seat her.”

A cushion was laid near Jakarn’s place, not beside him — just close enough to be claimed, not honored.

She sat. No one told her to. But she knew where to go.

She didn’t touch the wine. Didn’t reach for food.

She folded her hands and waited.

The Khan let out a bark of laughter. “She’s clever, this one.”

He looked to Jakarn, raising his cup.

“You always did favor the sharpest blades.”

Jakarn dipped his head. “They cut cleanest.”

And the murmurs began.

Low at first. Behind cups and over platters.

“Slender bones, but she holds herself well.”

“Did the steward bathe her before bringing her? Or was that his doing too?”

“Pretty. Bit small for a first wife—unless he’s making a point.”

“If she survives winter, she’ll be stunning by next spring.”

Jakarn said nothing. Just drank slow, letting their words wash over him.

But the smile that curved his mouth was smug. Undeniable.

Jochin leaned over from a few seats down, voice just loud enough for Jakarn to hear.

“Careful, little brother. With that much attention, someone might ask to borrow her.”

Jakarn didn’t glance over.

Didn’t smile.

“Let them try.

Jakarn didn’t speak to her the rest of the night.

But once—only once—she felt the weight of his stare.

And for the first time since the raid, she didn’t feel afraid.

She simply felt… watched.

His mouth was already on her throat when she hit the furs, one knee bent, one arm bracing herself—bare, breathless, but not begging.

Jakarn didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t hesitate.

He parted her thighs with one rough drag of his hand and slipped two fingers through the heat between her legs—testing, claiming, filthy in how familiar he already was.

“Still soft,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

“Still mine.”

She made a sound—quiet, more exhale than moan—but he caught it in his mouth before it could grow.

He kissed her hard, open, teeth dragging her bottom lip until she gasped again. His hips pressed into hers, already hard against her belly, already unforgiving.

He didn’t undress.

Didn’t need to.

He dragged her further up the bed by the hips and dropped to his knees between her legs, gripping them open with both hands.

“Keep your eyes open.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

His mouth was on her in the next breath—hot, skilled, merciless. Tongue dragging through her slick with unhurried force, like he had something to prove and all night to prove it.

She arched, hands flying to the sheets, but he caught her thighs and held her down.

“You want to be seen?” he growled between strokes.

“Then let me look.”

Mairen whimpered—real now, raw—hips twitching as he sucked her clit between his lips, fingers already sliding back inside her. She was wetter than she should be. Soaked from the walk, the eyes, the throne room.

He ate like he was starving.

Like she was the only thing in this kingdom worth feeding on.

When she came—because she did, fast, with a sharp gasp and a full-body tremble—he didn’t stop.

Not until she was twitching beneath him, thighs closing, breath catching.

Not until he’d licked every bit of it from his fingers and stood over her, belt already unfastened.

“On your knees.”

Her limbs shook. Her robe was forgotten. Her skin was flushed and damp with sweat.

But she turned.

Knees to the rug. Hands on the furs.

And when he slid inside her from behind—slow at first, just the head—he groaned.

“That’s better.”

He fucked her like a man re-staking a claim.

Hard. Deep. Focused.

One hand in her hair. The other gripped her hip so tight he’d see the marks by morning.

She cried out once, but didn’t stop him.

Didn’t ask him to.

He slammed into her again and again, the sound of skin on skin sharp beneath the palace silence.

“Say it again,” he hissed.

“Yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

He pulled her back against him, both arms wrapped around her now, chest flush to her spine. Still moving. Still filling her.

She whimpered.

He buried himself deeper.

“They don’t know what you sound like.

They don’t know what you taste like.

But I do.”

And when she clenched around him again—body shaking, voice gone—he followed her over the edge.

Groaning loud. Burying his face in her neck. Filling her.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing.

Sweating.

Silent.

Until Jakarn finally pulled back, lifted her easily, and laid her onto the furs beside him.

Not sweetly.

Not gently.

But like something claimed again.

——————————————————————-

[manhuamaenah]

Between Blót & Battle

Teaser | Full Novella Available On Kindle

18+ Strictly

Viking!AU Norse!AU

ForbiddenRomance!AU ArrangedMarriage!AU | #darkromance #highspice #smut

The sun was only just beginning to climb, casting soft golden rays through the sparse spring canopy overhead. Light danced across the mossy forest floor, dappling the rocks where their damp clothes lay drying.

Hvitserk and Melkorka sat close together on the bank, his fur cloak spread beneath them. The chill still clung faintly to their skin, but warmth was returning—slowly, steadily.

Melkorka leaned back on her hands, tipping her face toward the light. Her damp hair caught the glow, curling gently at the ends. Beside her, Hvitserk lay on his side, propped on one elbow, watching her openly.

She caught him looking and arched a brow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “What is it, Lord Hvitserk? Surely you don’t need to stare so openly.”

He grinned, unashamed. “Can’t a man admire something rare and beautiful?”

Her laughter rang out—soft and teasing, like wind chimes in the stillness. “Rare and beautiful? I believe you’ve been in the mead again, my lord.”

“Not this time,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re different here. Away from the main house. Freer.”

Her smile faded to something softer, more wistful. “It’s easy to feel free out here.”

He pushed himself up slightly, mirroring her posture. She turned to glance at him then, something fragile flickering in her expression.

“Do you ever wish it was different?” she asked quietly. “That we had more control over our lives?”

Hvitserk shrugged, a hint of honesty edging into his tone. “Sometimes. But sons of earls get plenty of privileges. We raid, we fight, we chase glory. And when we don’t want to marry…” He trailed off with a sly look.

Melkorka narrowed her eyes. “When you don’t want to marry…?”

He smirked. “We have other options.”

She rolled her eyes but laughed again despite herself. “Of course you do. Meanwhile, daughters of earls are expected to stay untouched and obedient. Perfect until marriage. And we’re supposed to be grateful if the man we’re given doesn’t make us miserable.”

There was an edge beneath her jest now—bitterness she hadn’t meant to let show. She forced a lighter note into her voice.

“Though maybe that’s the reason we’re kept so ignorant. So we won’t run from a husband who’s no good at it.���

Hvitserk chuckled, the sound deep and rich. He leaned a little closer, the teasing in his voice returning—but rougher now, shaded with something darker.

“You wish to know before you’re stuck with someone for life, Lady?” he said softly. “I could show you what good is.”

The boldness of the offer hit her like a rush of wind. Her eyes widened slightly before she laughed again—nervous this time. She swatted at his arm. “Gods, Hvitserk. I don’t need a demonstration. I’ve heard plenty about how talented the sons of Ragna are. The women’s table is full of songs.”

He raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “And did the songs satisfy you, Lady Melkorka? Or are you still curious?”

Color rose in her cheeks, but she turned her face away, pretending to be unaffected. The air between them was thick now, electric, the teasing too close to something real.

“Keep talking,” she murmured, trying for flippant. “And I might start to think you actually believe your own songs.”

He leaned in even closer, voice barely above a breath now.

“I don’t have to ruin you to show you,” he murmured.

“All you’d have to do is let me.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t look at him—but she felt him watching.

Then his hand came up, gentle, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips lingered for a beat too long, and his voice dropped even lower.

“I wouldn’t dare deny you.”

The words settled between them like a stone in still water, rippling through the fragile boundary she’d been clinging to. She froze—not in fear, but in sudden, overwhelming awareness. Every sensible thought screamed at her to step away.

But the ache in her chest, the heat stirring low in her belly—it refused to be reasoned with.

She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze.

There was no jest in his eyes now.

Just quiet, aching hunger.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered.

Hvitserk’s smile faltered, lips parting slightly as if he might answer. But he didn’t speak. He only leant in—not all the way, just close enough that his forehead hovered a breath from hers.

Waiting.

Giving her the space to pull away, to laugh, to command him to stop.

She didn’t.

Her resolve snapped like a taut bowstring.

She closed the space between them, her lips finding his with a soft, decisive press—a silent admission that she wished to be shown everything he had promised with his teasing.

Hvitserk didn’t hesitate.

He kissed her back with a hunger barely held in check, his hand slipping behind her neck to pull her deeper into it.

Gods, how he had dreamt of this.

Of her mouth, of this softness.

From the moment she stepped from her father’s carriage all those weeks ago, too proud and too perfect—he had wanted this. And now she was here, beneath him, her lips pliant under his own.

He guided her down gently onto the thick fur they’d been seated on, his body half-covering hers. His hands explored slowly, reverently, as though committing each curve to memory.

Her skin, still cool from the stream, shivered under his rough palms, but her blush burned hot. A lovely contrast.

Opposite to him in so many ways, and yet—somehow—the same.

He broke the kiss, leaning back slightly to take her in.

Laid out beneath him, flushed and bare, she looked like something pulled from a saga—a goddess hidden in mortal form. And gods, it would be hard not to ruin her. Harder than he’d thought.

His gaze drifted up her body, lingering when he noticed her eyes had dropped, lashes low, shyness tugging at her features.

“Melkorka,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing.

He leaned closer again, one hand tilting her jaw so her eyes met his.

“The gods have blessed your face too well,” he whispered, thumb brushing her cheek. “Keep your eyes on me, sweet one.”

Her breath hitched, and after a beat, she obeyed—biting her lip as she lifted her gaze. He watched the heat bloom across her cheeks again as his hands began their slow descent. From her waist, down her hips, then over the tops of her thighs, spreading warmth and anticipation wherever they passed.

She thought he would touch the place she ached for most—her hips shifted instinctively—but instead, his fingers trailed to her knees, then back down. One hand returned to rest at her hip. The other slipped between her thighs.

The change in her eyes was instant. She tried to keep her composure, but the way her lips parted and her lashes fluttered gave her away.

Hvitserk’s mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk. Gods, she was so responsive. Every twitch, every breath, every flicker of her gaze felt like a reward he hadn’t earned.

His knuckles brushed gently up the inside of her thigh, moving slowly, deliberately, until they grazed the heat waiting at her core.

She gasped, her body jolting the slightest bit.

He echoed her with a teasing drop of his own jaw, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise—but his eyes never left hers, gleaming with mischief and something deeper. Something dangerously close to reverence.

“Oh, mín kæra,” he said, voice low and utterly unlike himself. “How are you so wet already?”

There was no swagger in it now—just quiet awe.

He let his fingertips slip through the soft curls at her center, tracing the wetness he’d found. Her heat seared him. He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, trying to control the growl threatening to rise.

Parting her folds with careful fingers, he stroked along them slowly, reverently, spreading the slickness he found there. When he found the swollen knot of nerves near the top, her back arched the slightest bit—eyes fluttering half-closed.

He clicked his tongue softly, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed with more intention, circling the spot gently.

“Uh-uh,” he whispered, fingers still teasing. “Eyes on me, remember?”

Melkorka whimpered, the sound soft and strained as she fought to obey. Her thighs quivered slightly, her body betraying the storm building inside her. And still—still—she tried to hold his gaze, just as he’d asked.

Hvitserk’s pulse thundered in his ears.

She was being good for him. Even now. Especially now.

And gods help him—he wanted to ruin her for every other man who might try to touch her after this.

She let out a soft, broken whine as his fingers continued their slow torment, struggling to lift her heavy lashes again like he’d asked. Hvitserk could swear he felt his pupils dilate with every sound she made—each delicate gasp a direct pull to something primal inside him.

Gods, the things he would do to ensure he was the only man who ever heard her make sounds like that again. He’d burn down kingdoms for less.

He caught her mouth with his again, too greedy to resist. He was losing the wrong battle entirely—torn between leaving her lips untouched so he could hear every sweet moan fully, or devouring her completely and drowning in the taste of her.

Her thighs clenched tight at his sides as she gasped against him, breaking their kiss in a breathless cry. Hvitserk almost lost the last fragile thread of honor he had left.

“Hvitty-y,” she moaned, the sound so soft, so desperate, it nearly undid him.

He groaned aloud—an involuntary, guttural sound—and cupped her cheek with his left hand. Gods above and below, she was perfect. Just as everyone whispered. And yet she was more—his, right now, in this sacred little pocket of time.

And still, even now, she tried so earnestly to obey. Her lashes fluttered open again, searching for his gaze just like he’d asked her to. Good girl.

He wanted to give her everything. Everything. And more.

He didn’t miss how her breath stuttered when he paused his strokes, how her hips tilted toward his hand instinctively. She was intoxicating. Utterly goddess-like, even like this—naked beneath him, trembling, begging without a single word.

She didn’t have to wait long. He slid a single finger into her without warning.

The gasp that tore from her lips was sharp and exquisite. Her body arched off the furs in surprise, and Hvitserk chased her mouth, catching the sound mid-air.

He needed her. All of her. Her reactions. Her taste. Her gasps.

She panted against his lips—so sweet, so undone. He nuzzled the curve of her cheek with his nose, a silent reminder.

Eyes on me.

And gods bless her, she tried.

Her dazed, glassy gaze fluttered back to his, her lips parted as she exhaled. He began to move his hand again—slowly, deliberately withdrawing his finger before easing it back in. Her eyebrows knit together, the most beautiful display of overwhelmed confusion and aching pleasure he’d ever seen.

Her lips trembled. Her lashes fluttered.

And still she tried.

She whined softly, lashes fluttering closed again.

Hvitserk grinned against her cheek, almost proud. She was fighting her own body to obey him. And she was losing.

He’d never seen anything more divine

Hvitserk dropped his head to kiss the curve of her chest as she arched into him again, his mouth trailing slowly, reverently up to her collarbones. Then higher—to her throat, where her pulse thundered beneath his lips. He didn’t stop until he reached her ear, where her breath hitched and shuddered.

Her hands had found him blindly in the haze of it all—one clutching tight around his wrist, trying to control the pressure between her legs, the other splayed over his chest, her nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.

Hvitserk whispered against her ear, his voice a low hum, thick with reverence and want.

“I know, unaður minn… I know.” (My delight.)

She could only manage a breathy, helpless whimper before another moan ripped through her—raw and unrestrained. Her thighs twitched, trying to clamp shut in instinctive retreat, her grip on him tightening like a plea. He smiled against the side of her neck, smug and utterly undone.

“Be calm, ��stin mín,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her jaw, “it will be easier to take if you breathe.” (My love.)

And then he gave her no mercy.

He repeated the same exact motion—pressing, circling, pushing just right—and it tore another choked cry from her. She tried to arch away from it, the sensation too sharp, too deep—but his free hand was already there, steady on her hips, holding her down firmly.

He let his weight press more into her, anchoring her to the furs, forcing her to feel all of it.

She was gasping now, her eyes squeezed shut, every muscle trembling beneath him. And still, she kept trying to run—rising against him again, her hips twitching up to meet his hand and then flinching back as if it were too much. As if she couldn’t bear it.

He didn’t relent.

“Melkorka…” he breathed her name like it hurt to say. Like it might damn him if he said it again.

She didn’t know—couldn’t know—that watching her like this, feeling her like this, had him dangerously close to his own edge. One more sound like that and he’d embarrass himself, finish just from the way she looked—because of how badly he wanted her.

Maybe it was for the best they weren’t promised. Maybe he couldn’t be trusted to let her go if she were his.

Because the thought of returning her to her father’s land made something violent twist in his gut. Something possessive. Something dangerous.

He couldn’t look at her face again. Not unless he wanted to say something stupid, like Stay with me. Let me keep you. Not unless he wanted to throw away every promise he was born into.

So instead, Hvitserk pressed a soft kiss to her jaw and began working his way lower.

He kissed down her neck, her chest, pausing to mouth over the curve of her breast. Her breath hitched again. His tongue flicked teasingly before continuing downward.

By the time he made it to her hips, he felt her body tense beneath him—her knees twitching to close, to shield herself.

He didn’t let her.

With firm, steady hands, he spread her knees again and settled between them like he belonged there.

“H-Hvitty?” Melkorka’s voice trembled as her fingers tightened against his wrist.

Hvitserk pressed his lips to the sharp edge of her hip, humming low against the bone. Gods, why was she so perfect? She wasn’t even trying.

That nickname—Hvitty—was far too improper for a lady of her standing to use with an unmarried lord, but he kissed her again for it anyway, banishing thoughts of titles and expectations.

“Trust me, ástin mín,” he murmured.

Her mind reeled. He’d called her many sweet names since she arrived at Ragna’s stronghold—but that was the second time today he’d called her ástin mín.

My love.

The thought barely had time to land before he kissed her again, lower this time. And then lower still.

“Remember?” he said softly, mouth hovering just above her heat. “It’s easier if you breathe.”

His breath ghosted over her most sensitive skin—a place no one had ever dared touch, let alone breathe on—and her lips parted instinctively. Her mouth dropped open, stunned, as she looked down at the berserker kneeling between her legs.

“Ég held þér,” he whispered. I hold you.

Before she could ask what he meant, he pressed his mouth to her center.

He kissed her exactly where his fingers had toyed with her before, and the jolt of pleasure that shot through her stole every thought from her mind. Her head fell back against the furs, her lips parted in a silent cry. One hand gripped her chest as if to anchor herself; the other tangled in Hvitserk’s hair, pulling hard.

He groaned at the feel of it—her taste, her sounds, her need. He opened his mouth wider, sucking gently as he pulled away, only to be shoved back down by her trembling hand.

He smirked against her, flattening his tongue against her soaked folds. She didn’t even realize she was begging, but he gave her what she was asking for all the same.

She cried out his name, and the sound undid him. His groan vibrated against her, making her hips twitch. When she began to roll into his mouth, he let her. Gods, he wanted her to. He wanted her to use him, to learn herself on his tongue.

And selfishly, he hoped that whoever touched her next would be cursed with the memory of what she liked because of him.

He grabbed her hips with possessive strength, lifting her toward him as she arched again, mouthing and sucking wherever he could reach. When her thighs threatened to close around him, he pressed her back to the furs and held her open instead.

She trembled violently, hips jerking each time his tongue slid forward. He could feel how close she was—he could taste it.

“H-hv—” she hiccupped, breathless.

He slowed his tongue, easing the pressure. He hummed in acknowledgment, giving her space to speak.

That was the story he told himself, at least.

Melkorka: “It’s—it’s too much. I can’t—”

He hushed her before she could finish, the soft shhh brushing directly over her slick, swollen folds.

She was too far gone to realize he’d released one of her legs. His fingers returned, parting her again—just as before. But this time, he was watching.

Not her eyes.

Her.

The realization should have made her legs snap shut, but the look in his eyes—black with hunger, shining with awe—froze her.

She exhaled softly instead, and her knees fell open.

His gaze flicked up. She was watching him. Glowing in the dawn light like a vision.

“Kroppurinn þinn er fullkominn.” Your body is perfect.

He slid two fingers into her, slowly, easily—her body taking him in like she was made for it. His jaw dropped, his control slipping with it. She gasped above him, and when his eyes found hers again, they were still there. Still on him. Half-lidded, glassy, beautiful.

So good.

So his.

He leaned in, flicking his gaze to hers before lowering his mouth again. He sucked at her clit while his fingers curled inside her, and her jaw fell open in a broken breath.

She still didn’t look away.

“You are far too good for this realm, gull mitt.” My gold.

He barely pulled away to speak, and the words dragged cool air across her burning heat.

She bucked her hips, chasing him.

He chuckled.

She did know what she wanted.

He withdrew his fingers fully—then slammed them back into her.

She cried out, loud and uncontrolled, her head tipping back.

He used the hand on her thigh to pull her closer, forcing her flat on the furs again.

“Ástin mín, show me. Please.”

He laid a long, slow kiss against her clit, sucking gently before speaking again.

One of her hands gripped the furs; the other found his head again, trembling. His breath grazed her sensitive skin.

“I have you, my Melkorka. Let it take you, ástin mín.”

And then he devoured her.

His mouth worked in tandem with his fingers, each stroke precise, each flick relentless. She pushed his head down harder, grinding into his face now, a string of high-pitched whines escaping her.

Her back arched violently.

He groaned against her, intoxicated by the taste of her, and the vibration sent her over the edge.

Her body clamped around his fingers, heat and slick overwhelming him.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

She cried out—his name again—louder this time, legs tightening, one hand grabbing his wrist, the other fisting the furs as her orgasm crashed over her.

Only when her body finally went slack did he ease his fingers from her.

Drenched.

He slid them into his mouth without hesitation.

A soft, surprised noise came from above.

He looked up at her—the woman—and didn’t feel guilty. Not even a little. She was everything he’d dreamed of. And more.

He crawled up her body, laying his own over hers, warm and heavy, and cradled her face in both hands.

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Deep.

Not like the first.

His eyes cracked open mid-kiss, just to watch her. Blissed out and glowing.

She felt his gaze and flushed, instinctively trying to hide her face behind her hands.

Hvitserk gently grabbed her wrists and placed her arms around his neck instead.

Then kissed her again.

And again.

Smiling into it.

Not giving her the chance to retreat.

Not letting her go. Not yet.

The sound of roosters echoed faintly in the distance.

Hvitserk’s head snapped up, eyes darting toward the direction they’d have to return from.

Shit.

He hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

His breath caught a moment later—not from panic, but from the feel of Melkorka’s hands sliding slowly down his torso. They wrapped around him, bold and deliberate.

His teeth clenched. His gaze shot to hers, wild with restraint, and his hand instinctively closed around her wrists.

Stopping her.

Stopping everything.

If she let go now, he feared he might lose it anyway.

Melkorka’s voice was soft. Bold. Almost challenging.

“You do not desire it, my lord?”

Hvitserk’s eyes widened.

Surely Earl Kjartan had followed them into the forest and struck him in the head. That had to be it. He must be dead, lying somewhere in Valhalla, hallucinating his perfect beloved whispering impossible things.

But her hands were still on him.

And her words? Oh, they were real.

She tightened her grip, and he hissed—forehead falling to hers, eyes clenching shut.

“Trust me,” he ground out, voice strained, jaw tight.

He gently squeezed her wrists, coaxing her fingers to release him. Her body responded instinctively, and finally—finally—he could breathe again.

“There is nothing more in this world or the next,” he rasped, “that I want more than to have you. Whole.”

He dragged his hands up her sides, slow and reverent, memorizing every inch of her. He pushed his lips to hers again—hungry but gentle, desperate to savor rather than consume.

And then she surprised him again.

She lifted her hands and cradled his face, holding him to her as if he were the one at risk of slipping away.

Gods, she was so bold now. So unafraid.

He adored it. He adored her.

It would be so easy—too easy—to let go of what was right. To take what she was offering. To abuse the power he held over this moment and ruin her for anyone else.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not like this.

“I must take you back,” he whispered against her lips. “We’re already late.”

His eyes searched hers, flicking between them with quiet intensity.

He saw it.

That flicker of disappointment.

But it passed as quickly as it came—replaced by something he knew too well: understanding.

She knew the rules. Just like he did.

After all, there were few people who understood the lines not worth crossing with an earl for a father more than the two of them.

[manhuamaenah]

we had him for so short :(

[manhuamaenah]

(211/∞) the perfect nose for butterflies to land on it ♡ cr. @jung-koook

[manhuamaenah]

I missed his silly behaviours so much 🥹