#//it’s so dreadfully dull

[infinitxes]

guys. i despise the culling games.

[pbjisgud]

I have to wake up for school in less than six hours and I can't fall asleep

[mo-aiki]

I now love you, is it too late? (Yandere Fiancé x F. Reader)

Summary: Heartbreak and romance are two sides of the same coin. They both deal with love between another. Your heart is broken but you are trying to move on, but someone is preventing you from doing so.

Notes: I never thought that the previous story would blow up like it did. You can read the first part here.

Warning: alcohol consumption, drugging someone, forced love, obsession, stalking, mentions of violence, I don't condone it, I just write it.

The days after his conversation with you, he should had been elated. For the first time in his life, he wasn't bothered by you and your antics. He could finally get work done without you bother him at every corner to come visit him or play with him. For the first few days, he was able to finish everything for once in his life instead of having a pile to do the next day. But overtime, somehow he was dreadfully bored.

His office felt quiet. Almost too quiet. The only sounds he could make out were the papers shuffling, the clock ticking, and the the voices that came in and out of his office.

Also, overtime he had completed work for the month. He was used to working more the next day and having work stacked up to the point that he needed to catch up, that now he has no idea what to do once he finished work for a month or two.

Alaric thought he could read. He has always enjoyed reading in his free time. But once he got to reading, he felt bored once again. He never realized that the books he read were nothing but boring. The books were full of political theory, history of the most boring topics, and informative information.

His lunches were quiet, his dinners were quiet, and his stomach often rumbled when he forgot to eat.

Life felt repetitive, boring, and dull. He was stuck in a routine of eat, work, and sleep. Nothing ever happened.

When (y/n) was here, she would always drag him somewhere, she had wanted to go to. To go shopping, a picnic, a play, an opera, to watch duals, or to eat. He always felt tired after those things, but at least it brought him excitment.

(y/n) often made sure he would eat flavorful foods and her favorite foods, to the point that he knows everything she likes.

(y/n) often made a ruckus in his home. Always talking, calling servant’s, squealing at her romance novels, and chatting with everyone.

'At least the manor was never deadly quiet whenever she was around...' he thought of as he smirked.

Wait. Why is he thinking about her?

He should be happy that she is no longer bugging him as often as she did.

He saw you outside. He was shopping for new cufflinks. His were "getting out of style" his secretary had told him. Maybe it was just a ploy to get him out of the manor, but he still went out nevertheless. He was in a jewelry shop. Unconsciously, he went to the one you often visited. The man knew who he was anyways, so might as well cut to the chase.

"Ah?! Your Grace!"

The man seemed to be looking for (y/n). "Where is Lady (l/n)? Doesn't she often accompany you?"

He just stood quiet for a moment before his secretary popped in. "His Grace is here to get cufflinks."

The man's eyes brighten. "Ah. Lady (l/n) has already thought of that for you. Please wait here Your Grace."

He brought out a box that he had gotten from a certain part of the store. He opened it, and there were square shaped, dark blue jewels, bordered with small diamonds, the metal gold. It looked like it suited him. Very well. She knew his taste well. She knew what he liked.

"If Your Grace does not like it, you can commission another..." said the man selling him the product.

Alaric shook his head. "No, it's perfect."

He signaled at his secretary to give him a generous check in his name as he left the shop, only to find you, looking at the ocean view from across the shop.

Why did it look like you were looking for something?

More importantly, why did it look like you were looking for someone?

You wore a bright dress, your favorite lace gloves, your prettiest sunhat and carried your favorite parasol.

He was confident that he was the only man who has ever had a very close relationship with you, other than acquaintanceship.

Wait, why was he thinking this?

Why should he care if you saw another man. This is an engagement of convenience anyways. There is no point in scrutinizing every man that either comes or came in your life.

But if you were going to be talking to men after him, they better be better than him. He was not going to be beaten by some half-rate man, who has never held a sword in his life, who has never had to train often to live up to your a standard(s), who has never had to deal with the responsibilities of being a duke from the moment he was born, who has not needed attention from you, and who has never lived up to your ideas of love.

He wasn't going to lose to a man who never even knew you like he did.

But he saw you were being accompanied by a maid after his thoughts had raged through his head. He walked closer towards you. He saw you.

Your eyes had seemed like the eyes that often looked his way when he greeted someone. Not like their lively selfs that he was so used to from you. Your eyes always shone brightly when he was in your presence.

Your smile, one of formality, not your genuine one. You smiled the brightest whenever he was around. Anyone could tell with that smile that you loved him.

You looked like any other person he had interacted with. Formal and in-line with etiquette.

Even your speech was formal. It was no longer bright and cheerful. It was no longer, "Alaric! What are you doing here?", it was now, "Pleased to see you, Duke Caius."

"It's pleasant to see you too, Lady (y/n)." he responded back.

You nodded you head while a wave of silence came through. He didn't talk, you didn't talk, both of you were looking at the distance of this port.

'She is rather quiet. Too quiet..." he thought in his head. Often she was the one who started up a conversation.

"I'm very sorry Duke Caius, but I must leave. I am shopping with a friend, and I wouldn't want them to keep on waiting for me, so, please excuse me."

You started walking off slowly, but then he spoke. "Would you like for me to escort you?"

You turned your head. He thought you would be smiling and agreeing to his suggestion immediately, holding his arm in a loving manner and chatting with him the entire way, like you used to do whenever he had brought out that idea.

But you had shook your head. "No, but thank you for your suggestion, Duke Caius. My guard is nearby here anyways."

You walked off as he could only look at you and your maid walking. He didn't even realize that his secretary had came back, as he only chased after you in the same direction.

He saw from a distance, you holding the arm of some man. A dull man. He was mad at that moment, but his anger wasn't towards you, it was towards the man you were with.

You had became more distant with him. Avoiding him at every moment, like he was the plague. Every time he noticed her, she had seem to always step away from him, with every step she had taken, walking away from him instead of towards him like they used to do.

At parties, you would often avoid him, while his arm was being stuck onto by Lady Thompson.

Social events had you talking to the ladies, sparring no time for him.

Outings with no small talk.

Every little thing you had done to distance yourself from him, almost drove him insane. His head now full of questions for your sudden change in personality. In the span of a few weeks, you had all of the sudden became the most formal person on earth, to the point people started questioning the legitimacy of the relationship.

"It seems like they will break up soon..."

"Are we sure they are engaged? Lady (l/n)'s sudden change in personality must mean something..."

"How sad this relationship had to come to. It feels like they are in a married’s quarrel!"

"I heard that Marquis (l/n) is planning on annulling their engagement..."

"Really?!"

These nobles and their chatty lips. These rumors meant nothing. (y/n) would never let something like an annulment happen to them.

He was bewildered. Shocked. Almost appalled with this letter.

He thought that she had delivered a letter to write to him once again, but this time, this letter was from Marquis (l/n).

Dear Duke Caius,

I regret to have informed you, that I am making a selfish and personal decision to annul this engagement between you and my daughter. I have came to this decision after her reaction and my bewilderment at the Royal Ball from 4 months ago, after you had escorted Lady Alina Thompson instead of my daughter.

I could see the heartbreak in her eyes, and as a father, it is painful to constantly see your daughter in constant heartbreak from the very boy you had known since he was young.

When your late father and I had planned this engagement for the both of you, I knew I would have to give up my precious daughter to a man I could trust, not a little boy who has yet to grown up.

You have yet to proven to me that you could be a man I could trust you with my only child, my daughter.

I wish you well and hope you will continue to collaborate and see the (l/n) house positively and as allies.

Sincerely,

Marquis (l/n)

The letter came with the annulment papers with it. He quickly looked through the papers too see your signature on them and your thumb print.

He stood quiet for a minute, before chuckling. "(y/n)...oh (y/n)..."

He felt like ripping the papers to shreds in the very moment.

You were happy for once in your life. You had met someone special to you. Arthur Johnson.

A stableman who engaged in conversation with you when he was working for your family. He always had a kind demeanor. soft spoken, and was often willing to hear you. Despite your age gap with him (being 10 years), his status as a commoner, and his rugged appearance, you felt like for the first time in your life, you had actually met your prince charming.

He took on dates to the crowded places like small festivals and the farmer markets. Your first present from him being a cheap pendent necklace from him.

His personality was well liked by everyone as he seemed to have a good relationship with everyone.

His voice was deep and attractive, smothering your ears and causing you to blush around him whenever he talked.

He always called you 'princess' or 'my lady' whenever out and about with you, causing you to be flustered at such comments.

He had introduced you to his ailing mother. You never felt so bad for anyone. You had offered to help him, but instead he rejected such offers from you. "My lady, you really don't need to help us..."

"Nonsense Arthur! Your mother is sick and-"

He always shook his head. "I do not want to rely on my lady to always help us. Thank you for the idea though."

Elliot was boring.

Gregory was pretentious.

Adonis was suspicious.

Adrian was paranoid.

But Arthur, was a gentleman.

Until you never heard back from him one day.

He had holed up in his manor until something had happened. He had gotten news of you being spotted on dates with other men.

Afterwards he had a reason to leave the manor from this point onwards. You were with a man after man often times. Talking, chatting, flirting, and being brought around with. He had his secretary look at the backgrounds of those men.

Low-ranking noblemen, and sometimes even commoners.

The perfect people to direct his anger at. After all, what are those families and people associated with them, are going to do against the wrath of Duke Caius and the Caius Duchy.

All of the sudden, these men had been riddled with debt and their families in financial ruins.

A son of a baron, tricked by a scammer he had paid for. He had fell for it, meaning he was too naive and not needed for (y/n), who was just as equally naive.

A son of a viscount, conned and arrested for the possession and the selling of forged art. The real artwork, costing millions, and in his own manor. He "might" had hired an artist to help him with it, paying off their own debt and giving them money. He was too irresponsible that he didn't even check to see if the artwork was genuine. (y/n) would had lived a life of cleaning up after him.

Another son of a baron, swallowed by loan debt after taking out loans to do his playboy schemes. He often bought expensive stuff in order to impress the women he was trying to bed with. Where did he get the loans from? He sure doesn't know, does he? He had troubles with infidelity. He will he constantly cheating on (y/n) if Alaric didn't catch it early enough.

A son of an earl, swallowed in gambling debt by him. He had seen him in the casino houses, and he thought why not taunt him. Plus, he paid off the casino house to always make him win no matter what. He was a gambling addict, spending his days holed up and gambling his money away. (y/n) would be left to die on the streets with nothing if she had been with him.

A stableman, in loan debt as well, after he had offered to help him with his ailing mother. But now his mother dead, and the loans still needed to be paid off. Otherwise, he could just kill him and sell his organs to the black market to get all the money back from him. Guess what option he did. He was poor, and poor men don't deserve her love if they cannot give her what she wanted. Plus, he might just brag often about his now, new lifestyle if she were to be with him.

The stableman was the most annoying in his eyes. His last words before he had slain him were, "Protect her for me, please, for this old bachelor..."

All of these men strengthen his point overtime. That he was the perfect man for her.

He is skeptical and less naive.

He is responsible.

He has never had issues with infidelity that he has known of.

He has never been financially irresponsible with money, nor has he gambled.

He has always had the ability to give her everything she has ever wanted.

He came to the eventual conclusion.

No man could replace him.

You felt trapped.

A rumor had spread around about Duke Caius's wedding day coming up. You thought he was just going to get married to Alina, but instead you and your father were summoned by His Majesty.

He was congratulating you and your soon to be wedding day. "Congratulations Lady (l/n)! You must be a happy bride. And you too Marquis (l/n)!"

You and your father were confused, but still acted like everything was normal, until you brought it up. "Excuse me Your Majesty, but who has told you about this. I thought I had wanted it to be a smaller event..."

His Majesty let out a gleeful laugh. "Duke Caius came to me last week, talking about how now he had decided to plan his wedding. I thought it was a splendid idea! And thus I had given him permission to use the chapel. He seemed elated at the idea, and thus was willing to plan the wedding himself."

Your eyes widen as you nodded. Your head blanking out the entire time. 'Isn't that impossible, unless...'

You went running out of the palace, finding a carriage to use to get to the Ducal Manor. You needed an explanation of what was going on.

Once you got there, you immediately asked the butler where he was, only to see Alaric, looking happy to see you as he came down the stairs to the front of the manor.

"(y/n), my bride! You are just in time for your dress fitting."

He snapped his fingers to have the servants taking you somewhere as he followed, you resisting. "Wha-? No! Alaric, I have to ask about something!"

He smiled in front of you. The previous you would had elated and been happy at his smile. But now it felt uncanny. Like something was off.

"You have finally called my name..."

You gasped as the servants kept on dragging you to your dress fitting. His hand over his heart as he looked like a sad puppy all of the sudden. "Do you know what it feels like to be called one name for my whole entire life with such endearment, only for it to be taken away?"

"No! That's why I'm not here! LET GO OF ME!"

He snapped his fingers as the servants let go of you. He walked towards you, as he placed his hand on your cheek. All you could feel was how cold it was. Like it was ice. You looked directly at him. "I am here to ask, why are we getting married?!"

His puppy face came back, as both of his hands cupped you face. "(y/n), I thought this is what you had wanted..."

Your eyes widen as he looked directly at you. "A big fairy tale wedding, your dream dress, your knight in shining armor sweeping you off your feet, true love's first kiss...isn't this what you had wanted all your life?"

This is what you had always wanted, but not like this. Not while Alaric had this sudden shift in personality and when he felt completely different form the Alaric you had knew.

But also, when your feelings for him had wavered like tides in an ocean. "But I thought the annulment had gone through..." you had said to him.

He chuckled, soon going onto full blown laughter. "(y/n), I know you still want to get married to me. So let's have the wedding of your dreams." he said while placing a kiss on your forehead, something you would had blush at, if everything about this wasn't sketchy.

"But! But!"

"No buts. We are getting married in 9 days anyways. Now, let's go to your dress fitting!"

Everything was too sketchy these past 7 days. Alaric had a sudden change in personality. An extreme one in fact. He all of the sudden became loving.

Following you everywhere.

Bringing you onto his lap while he works.

Having picnics with you.

Having tea with you.

Being your dance partner for practicing.

Locking you in his manor and giving you a splendid guest room while at it.

Coming into your room and reading you to sleep.

Increasing security around you.

Feeding you himself, personally.

Disciplining the male servants if they had touched you.

And the most weird one, not leaving your room, even while you slept.

He had changed, but for what? Now all you felt was creeped out by his sudden shift in behavior. Every single little thing done by him almost felt suffocating. Like he so desperately needed you to either be beside him or to in this manor.

You wanted to see your friends again. You wanted to talk to people again. You wanted to see your father again. You wanted to go shopping again. You wanted to see Arthur again. You wanted to do the things you did. You wanted to leave this suffocating manor for once and do something other than being restrained by him.

So you snooped. When he left, you went around his office. Previously, you had always barged into his office, always running your mouth in a tasteless way. But this time, you had avoided his office, unless he dragged you to it to be with him.

You looked around with something on your mind. "He must have the annulment papers somewhere..."

There was a family portrait of him and his father in his office. A portrait must mean that there's something behind it. Touching the frame, you opened up a secret compartment that was full of bank statements. "Elliot Lancaster, Gregory McClain, Adonis Lovesett, Adrian Hill, Arthur Johnson..."

All the men you had been with. The bank statements had shown how their wallets had gone empty in the span of a week or two.

Elliot and his family had gone bankrupt and sent to an island in the north.

Gregory had been charged with forgery and sentenced to 3 years in prison.

Adonis had been bankrupt and charged with assault against a Marquis for mingling with his wife.

Adrian had been cut off from his family due to his gambling addiction, and has now gone further in debt.

And Arthur. The nice man Arthur. His body was never founded when his mother reported him as missing.

Your eyes widened in horror as you looked at the other pages. He had planned it. From the financial debt to killing Arthur and selling his body parts on the black market. Each paper described the reports of the deeds he had done.

Especially for Arthur. His was the most gruesome one. Chopping him up into bits and selling his innards to the black market while dumping the rest to the ocean on Beckett's Beach, where you took your first date with him.

You couldn't help but squat out of fear immediately. Were you responsible for all of these mens' demise?

Would Elliot and his family still be living in the capital in peace if he never met you?

Would Gregory go back to being his artistic and art loving self if he didn't buy from that one painter you had told him to buy from?

Adonis was already kinda shitty.

Would Adrian change if you had stayed with him?

Would Arthur still be alive if you never noticed him?

You didn't know, and that's when you started crying. Your tears fell down rapidly like waterfalls. The papers, the bank statements, the pieces of news, the reports, all of them now wet with your tears on the paper. You couldn't help but feel for them, especially Arthur.

Arthur was now dead, and his mother soon meeting him.

And it felt like it was all your fault.

"We'll always be together, my lady, this old stableman promises."

Crying alone in Alaric's study, you thought about the moments you had with Arthur. They were all going to be a faded memory of the past. If only you weren't so naive and if only you knew.

"Why is my bride crying?"

Your head turned to see Alaric at the door of his study. You gulped as you got up, dusting your dress while at it. "I-it's nothing, Alaric..." you stuttered, trying to hold back your tears.

He came close towards you as he looked at all the papers on the ground and the portrait, open. He chuckled for a bit. "Did you read these?"

You shook your your head. "I just...found them, that’s all. I swear I didn't read them!"

He looked at the papers, then at you. You could tell he knew that you were lying. He always said you were an open book and how you wore your heart on your sleeve. "Don't bother lying (y/n)."

He pointed to the part on which you had stained with your tears. The paper transparent as he put the papers down on his desk, walking closer to you. Each step growing closer, each step he took feeling like he was mad. Each step felt like an eventual punishment for your actions. "Why were you snooping around in my office, (y/n)?"

You answered with the first thing on your mind. "B-because! I just...w-wanted to l-look around, Y-your Grace..."

"I told you..." He gently pushed a piece of hair behind your ear. "Call my Alaric once agin, (y/n)."

His words laced with anger. He was speaking almost like he was threatening you. He looked at the pendent around your neck. Almost like he never noticed it before. Taking the pendent in his fingers, he looked at it obsessively. "Who gave you this necklace, (y/n)?"

You gulped instead of speaking. His hands felt cold when he touched your cheek, looking at you with his angry eyes. "I said, who gave you this necklace, (y/n)?"

"A-Arthur..." you mumbled.

"Who?"

"ARTHUR!" you said even louder before he started laughing hysterically.

"That peasant? Why bother keeping something cheap around your neck. I thought you hated these things?"

You used to, but now this necklace represented Arthur. "I-it's none of your b-business, Alaric!" you yelled out.

"It is my business. Considering you are to be my wife soon, something like this is unacceptable for a Duchess..."

He slowly got closer to your ear. "Especially if it came out that a peasant gave you such a thing...I wonder what would happen to your father...for allowing you to be romantically involved with a man of dirty origins..."

Your eyes widen. "Arthur isn't like that! You don't know him!"

You tried to walk out, only for Alaric to hug you from behind, holding you in a tight grip. You felt like you were losing air by the second once he held onto you. "He's never told you? His mother was apart of a brothel..."

You breath stopped as he whispered more into your ear. "He was the illegitimate son of a noble...people like that deserve to be killed for grasping an ounce of your attention..."

You tried to get out of his grip, but instead he had ripped off the necklace on your neck, letting it fall onto the floor and walking off to his desk, letting you go. You cried as you turned back to look at him. "You-you monster!"

He opened a velvet box with a diamond and sapphire necklace, placing it around your neck, smiling. "My beautiful (y/n)..."

He gripped you arms tight, dragging you to the mirror in the study while putting the necklace together, smiling.

"We will be together forever and this necklace, is to symbolize your new life as Duchess."

You only looked at yourself wearing the necklace as Alaric's hands kept you still.

"You can never leave me now..." he said, as he kissed your cheek.

You in your wedding dress as he went out into the hall.

Walking down the aisle with your father.

The flower petals dancing around you.

The songbirds singing their songs.

And your once dream husband at the alter.

"Do you take Duke Caius's hand, in sickness and in health, in wealth and or none, in forever lasting love?

"...I do..."

The final words of your previous life.

A/N: A part 3 for married life or not?

Taglist

@sirenetheblogger @wickedace12 @cyzvx @mel-vaz @blobbythebigblob @loucyberv @nikosovercoat @wintercloudyweather @insomniac1345 @a-living-person @kitcatfullmoon @happy-smiley @springkuinn @sunflower19561904 @hayatslife @oneandonlydice @nanaluvv @imnotabot28 @resident-cryptid @fluffyduckzy @starsdotalk @helloimamistake @pinkwitchdeservesbeingpraised @moyazami @whocaresimnothere @your-average-potato @runawaymf @redchocolate-bunny @sweet-flowering @droaxa @angie2rjebesttt @ersharyzst @lovley-valentine7 @maskedvoyance @xiaopleasecomehome @cynoswife @barbara-228 @uninhibitedsworld-18 @bea-ginner @imsamilol @lithespidy @grassclippingssss @reni502 @forgottendreamer02 @haileybb123 @nourrr123 @strawberrylips-1211 @usagikookiejams @blisyxx @twismare @despuyuh @majestichugs @ayatosneakylink @vivyolite

[whimsyprinx]

my life is honestly so dull and boring and everyday feels meaningless

[comfortless]

Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

[kachowden]

The Farmer (prologue)

The smell of mold was thick, and permeated the room you had so dreadfully woken up in.

The back of your head ached in dull pain, that wouldn’t allow you to remember it’s origins. Your chest was heavy as if the wind had left you and your lungs had been squeezed empty.

Your skin felt greasy and stiff. You wanted to shower. You needed to shower. But you couldn’t move. You didn’t know where you were. Was there even a bathroom to shower in?

The rotting wood and rusted windows made it seem unlikely. Though you could hear the buzzing of flies and croaks of frogs from behind the wall. Most likely, wherever you were, was next to some kind of lake or pond.

The itch of your skin was making you want to jump in, regardless of what might be lurking inside.

When the door creaked open, it’s hinges scratching against each other unpleasantly, you only found the ability to glance up from where you head had slumped against your shoulder.

Dark, sunken eyes that looked ill fitting, like the skin sagged over a face that wasn’t meant to be there. Scratchy stubble littered his chin. Greasy, unkempt hair that looked to be self maintained, if the jagged edges weren’t telling enough.

His clothes looked like they needed a few washes. And the smell that followed him was…mostly unpleasant. Like stale water and must. Not the most offensive smell, but it made your nose scrunch just for a moment.

The man, who you could guess was a farmer of some kind, stepped forward into the room, nearing the faint light the spilled in from the filthy window panes. Just enough, to where you could see the odd grey hue of his skin.

“mornin’…”

Your shoulders scrunched involuntarily, folding the skin of your back as your ears took in his voice.

Deep, monotone and a bit gruff. Like the voice of a man who never slept a day in his life. But it echoed. Like two voices speaking as one, and it rang in your ear like a quiet siren.

You supposed your lack of response made this man uncomfortable, as his eyes darted to the side for a moment, and he stepped forward. Closer.

It was now you noticed the plate of food in his large, calloused hands. It was now, as he sat down beside you, that you noticed the stiff bed you had woken up on. It was now, as the memories flooded through, that you realized the predicament you were in.

Your car was busted. Your friends were missing. You, were stranded in the middle of nowhere, in the company of a stranger who offered to help you.

and a voice in the back of your mind told you, that you were being chased.

The shift of the bed and squeaking of old springs led your eyes back to the face of the farmer infront of you, who looked just as lost in thought as you were.

He mumbled incoherently to himself, brows narrowing as if he was in the midst of an argument. Fingers fiddled and curled around the saggy fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, it seemed as if this episode had ended.

Before he looked up at you. And suddenly his brows furrowed deeper and his lips set into a deep frown.

“Your car…’s not gonna start anytime soon. You might be stuck here…’a while.”

Your chapped lips pursed, uncomfortably. “Can’t you call some repair men?”

He mimicked you, glancing away almost guiltily. “Ain’t no-body around here for miles. No land lines neither.”

Of course there wasn’t. You seemed to remember having lost connection of your phone sometime before your car broke down.

“…what about my friends? I gotta find them.”

“If they passed through here…I don’t think you’ll have much luck…”

What a comforting response. The farmer acknowledged your glare with an embarrassed clearing of his throat. “I’ll…take care of ya’ till you can get back on the road…”

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

The way he looked at you made you sick. Like dread had been poured down your throat and was slowly filling you the brim. His gaze was intense and foreboding, warning you that you did not know what you were up against.

“It ain’t just the animals out there you gotta worry about…it’s best of you to stay here. At least for a while.”

And how long is a while?

-1-

You learned very quickly, that a while was more than three days. And you learned even quicker, that sometimes it was better to not ask questions.

That was one of the rules here.

1. Don’t go out at night

2. Don’t open the shed

3. Don’t ask questions.

That last rule kept you sane.

Don’t ask why you couldn’t go out at night. Don’t ask why you can’t go in the shed.

Don’t ask why the farmer talks to himself. Don’t ask why his bedroom is never used.

Don’t ask why the cattle go stalk still when he’s nearby. Don’t ask why the crickets stop singing and frogs stop croaking when he’s outside.

Don’t ask about the smell. Don’t ask about the lumps in the ground.

Don’t ask why your neck is wet and sticky every morning. Don’t ask about your car. Don’t ask about your friends.

Don’t ask how long you’ll be stuck here.

Live ignorant while you’re here. Don’t think. It’s safer, to stop thinking. You’ll lose yourself if you think too much.

Those weren’t your words. You weren’t sure who’s they were. But they worked. They were comforting.

So you didn’t think. You no longer wondered where your friends were. You no longer wondered how long you’d be stuck here, or how long it’d take to fix your car.

The farmer took care of you. He said he would, and he did. You ate well, you slept okay and you smelled better then you had when you first woke up.

You paid little mind to the lingering touches or intense stares.

Or the moments you swore you heard something growl when you passed by.

Nothing was perfect. But it was safe.

Because you followed the rules.

Until you didn’t.

The mistake of needing the toilet late at night. The mistake of leaving the farmhouse into the pitch dark land around you. The mistake of opening the shed, thinking that it had been the outhouse you were looking for.

The mistake of asking questions, when a dark mass of oil and flesh stared back at you.

“What the fuck is that?”

You didn’t feel so safe anymore.

[hoarder-of-dragons]

[When Aziraphale returns] Aziraphale: Oh Crowley I find that place completely unbearable. No plush armchairs, no old books, no sushi, no music, no plays, no tea, and most importantly, no YOU, Crowley. Oh, what a grave mistake I've made leaving you. It's dreadfully dull there with everything so white. Since I've left, my thoughts have been consumed by you, my dear. It's been a nightmare to endure, and I couldn't stand another second there. Crowley: Crowley: Angel you've been gone for two hours

[lacollectionneuse1967]

remembering you - bonus chapter

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: theseus comes to your rescue after you've had too much to drink, but will he be able to resist your drunken advances?

fem!reader. theseus x reader.

category: smut

warnings: 18+ smut scene. drunkenness. dirty talk. unprotected penetration. light mdom/fsub.

author's note: wasn't going to continue with this fic, but i made this "bonus chapter." it's more of a smutty resolution than a full-fledged chapter, no plot all vibes--hope you all enjoy!

part one / part two / bonus chapter

The realization of love feels fatal, plummets and plants itself at the bottom of your stomach like some small death. Your heart pounds dreadfully, like you’re in danger. The soar and the swoop.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Theseus. Loves. Me. 

It shatters your mind. You shuffle around in the shards to formulate sentences to offer up to Mr. Bragg’s probing, you tell yourself to blink. To focus. 

Mr. Bragg had shuffled you into his quiet office with a shaking anticipation, but asked you only silly, useless questions once alone. He was less talkative than you’d expected. Less forward.

It’s dim in his office. Impractically so. Only an oil lamp squats in the far corner, blooming dead orange light into the cigar-perfumed room. 

The bronze hinges on his display cabinet and the dull gold knobs and hardware on all his other furniture glint, dark rays of light. Yes, the dark winks at you in this way. He’s seated far across the room. You can’t see him well, he’s half-swallowed in a cushy upholstered chair opposite yours. 

“Might we turn on another lamp, sir?” You can’t see and you want to look around. You try not to shuffle in your seat. 

“No, no, I can see you just fine.”

You burn with something, you don’t know what. 

It’s not the general air of discomfort that’s bothering you, it’s the void, that gap of misunderstanding that you now feel between you and this man. Who is this man, really? 

You’d always dismissed Mr. Bragg as a bumbling, meat-fisted man. Sweat on his brow, voice booming through the Atrium most days, spittle flying. Heavy-handed and obvious in his jokemaking and friend-making and all other matters.

You don’t know why the wet shine of his teeth in the dark now reminds you of a wolf. Could he really be what they think he is? You search for any sign of Grindelwald, of extremism or betrayal on his face, but you see only darkness and the barest outlines of his features–eyes, mouth, nose–buried in that. 

“Whisky?” He smiles. You can’t see the whites of his eyes. 

“What about it?” 

“Ha!” It’s a dead noise in his throat. A huff. “Funny. Go on, girl. You’re allowed.”

He pours two inches of whisky into a thick French glass and has to stand to hand it to you.

You drink and try not to make a face. Crude drink, whisky. He stares unblinkingly at your throat as you swallow it, assessingly. When he stands and pours you another, you don’t protest. You gulp it down and speak quickly. 

“Mr. Bragg, can I ask, how long have you been this department’s head?”

“Are you enjoying your whisky?”

“Well, yes–Mr. Bragg I was just wondering how you’re-”

“It doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying it very much. You know Mr. Martin–Paul Martin from the Courts–he could down one of my bottles in, say, half an hour?” 

You breathe out a laugh and hope you don’t sound exasperated. This is going to be hard. He’s making it hard for you, and you don’t know why. 

“Well, I don’t believe that, Mr. Bragg.”

Paul Martin. A Ministry judge. Your mouth works faster than your mind. The whisky sears something like acid in your stomach. 

“Mr. Martin joined us around the same time you did, isn’t that right?”

A good quarter of Ministry workers had inexplicably quit sometime before last New Year. The new hires seemed to come out of thin air. You never thought of it as sinister before tonight.

The corner of Mr. Bragg’s mouth twitched. That was the wrong thing to say. You should’ve kept your cards close. The man across from you doesn’t move at all, but in your mind the alarm bells are screeching. You can’t tell if it’s just dark in the room or if the edges of your vision are smudging. Soft black curtains. 

“And what is it exactly that you wanted to speak with me about, Miss Y/L/N?” 

—----------------

“So, how did you do it?”

Theseus jerks irritably at the sound of Yuta’s voice to see who it is and then, once confirmed, goes back to ignoring him.

He’s still staring at the blank column of space between the pillars where you’d disappeared with the detestable Mr. Bragg, mouthing “sorry!” with this look of sweet apology on your face. Sweet. Everything you did was sweet to him. 

“Is it a secret? Bastard really won’t tell us.” George Ambani Kotak slings an arm around Yuta’s shoulders and delivers his line with a mischievous lilt. There’s a bit of stray confetti on his shoulder that strangely suits him–unkempt hair, ill-fitting suit and all. 

George and Yuta are the youngest Aurors in the department. Always poking fun at Theseus because they know that he was once the youngest Auror, and they know he usually likes their spirit of boyish rebellion. Keyword: Usually.

“What are you two going on about?” Theseus humors them with his attention, turning away from the space you left at last. He doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel good. It’s not about your unsaid response, he could give a damn if you loved him back. He loves you so absolutely he doesn’t want anything in return. No, it’s something else and he needs to be with you again to make it feel better. 

“You think we’re pesky, don’t you?” Yuta whines in mock accusation. The young Hufflepuff has a teasing manner about him that’s almost effeminate. 

“That’s because Theseus only likes hanging out with old men. Going down to the pub and talking about footy and the weather.”

“Piss off, George,” Theseus bites. He can’t quite suppress his smile. They make him feel young and old at the same time. 

The Armistice ceremony is over and discordant, broken streams of people are trickling out of the Atrium now, emerging from beneath pillars and around corners, sweaty and celebratory with relief, as if at the end of a concert or performance. Mourning and remembering were a sort of duty to be carried out, too. Theseus can understand that. 

When he thinks about your reticent angling away from him in the alcove, then your quiet omission, “I just wish that you would’ve remembered me,” he wants to shoot himself. Dramatics, yes, but the thought of letting you down felt worse than anything, was a shotgun blow to the chest in of itself. 

“Y/N fucking Y/L/N,” George groans. “How did you do it, man? I mean, actually, what did you do?!” 

“You sly fox,” Yuta mutters in agreement. 

Theseus frowns at Yuta then, taken aback, understanding the exchange at last.

“Do you fancy Y/N or something?” He still feels at a loss. They must have seen him talking to you earlier.

George looks at Theseus like he’s stupid. Then again, George looks at everyone like they’re stupid. Not a Ravenclaw thing, Theseus doesn’t like stereotypes, just a George thing. 

“Everyone likes Y/N, are you kidding me? But the girl is impenetrable.” 

“Office siren,” Yuta chirps in. 

“According to Ana, half the sports and games department has been trying to get at her all month. We came to the conclusion that she’s probably secretly engaged. Or maybe it’s an Unspeakable thing, who knows? Oh, Merlin, Rawlings is going to be fuming when he finds out about this, he’s been trying to chat her up at lunch for weeks–”

“So what’s your deal anyway? You and her?” Yuta interrupts, physically putting up a hand to silence George. George blinks at the appendage in offense. 

Theseus is stunned anew. Flustered, even.

“She… She’s just my friend,” he says firmly. Defensively, maybe. “I care about her a lot.”

There’s a beat before the two boys react. Theseus wants to give you the space to respond to his confession, to define this, before involving anyone else. He hopes Yuta and George can sense that. Or at least sense his protectiveness and uncertainty. 

“But why you?!” Yuta grimaces at last.

George bellows at that, heartily. “Oh, Yuta, young Romeo, you had your chance back when-”

Theseus drones out the two’s bickering, but the sound of it makes him inexplicably happy. The unease in his ribcage dissipates and lifts, though not completely. Theseus feels proud to love you. Grateful that, by some miracle, you let him.

He doesn’t care about any meeting you might have. He’s coming to see you, now. 

The conviction thumps in his chest like a second heart. 

He turns to leave without a farewell. 

—-------------

‘This is good,’ you’d told yourself courageously after the first swooning burn of drunkenness sailed through your body, hard and fast and seeping. ‘I feel more confident to ask him what I need to. I’m not unsettled anymore.’ 

But there was no coherent justification anymore. You were piteously, dangerously drunk.

All you could do was sway upright in the chair and try to aim your gaze towards that warm spot in the dark you were sure concealed his figure. 

Oh, god, he was talking about something. You hadn’t noticed, hoped he wasn’t asking you anything.

“-girl like you, no?”

The clipped end of his sentence did nothing for you. You feel sick, want to keel over and hold your head between your knees until the room stops moving. Your skin is buzzing. Living takes on a liquid quality, you feel like you are slipping warmly and smoothly from one moment to the next.

“What? Sorry.” 

The dark shape of Mr. Bragg moves then, solidifies as he comes to sit next to you.

“Oh, ho!” He tuts. “Can’t handle your drink, Y/L/N?”

You squint up at him.

In truth, no. This is more than you can handle, and you didn’t really drink to begin with aside from the rare glass of wine paired with dinner. 

“It’s…” your retort trails off, you can’t remember why you’d opened your mouth in the first place.

You feel yourself careen towards his thigh, his lap, he is seated on the arm of your big chair now. You slump against him pitifully. You are hardly there. You don’t know if it’s natural, the sharp decline from bubbly and light and talkative to this–sleep. Losing control of your limbs.

Oh, god. Fuck. 

Some fucking investigation. You don’t know what would be worse, if he were really betraying the Ministry, an enemy agent, or if he just wanted to take advantage of you. 

“M’sorry,” you slur against him and strain to raise yourself back up, unsuccessfully. Everything tastes bad. Even the air that rushes out of your nostrils when you exhale is pricked with the astringent sweet-rot of alcohol. Bitter and syrupy. 

You want to jolt up at the feel of his hand on your back, petting you almost, but you can only manage a low judder. You don’t know how long it’s been or what time it is, but you’re going to pass out, you realize, and Mr. Bragg is touching you. 

“Don’t,” you hiss, with sudden clarity. “Don’t touch me-”

The bang bang of his office door being knocked on isn’t even enough to raise you. You’re slumped over the side of the chair. Mr. Bragg, however, stands, alertly. 

“Not now!” He shouts. 

Every second that passes you feel yourself slip away. Light and sound comes and goes. You’re going to be sick.

The doorknob clatters against its own deadbolt. 

“I said not now–”

The door clicks and crashes open, magicked unlocked no doubt.

You can only make out Mr. Bragg’s outline. He’s standing, his body conveniently angled in a feeble attempt to block you from the intruder’s view. You don’t need to see to know who it is. 

You’re too fucked to smile. 

Theseus just stares. Seethes. Burns, not like paper being eaten up, but without end.

“I cans–you have to-” Your nonsensical, drunken slur is enough to break his stillness.

“What’s going on here?!” 

Something bridles and puffs up in Mr. Bragg, he clenches his fists and goes red in the face. 

“You have no right to-”

Theseus pushes him to the floor with a single hard shove. Mr. Bragg topples over like a beetle. 

He doesn’t care about him. He’s an Auror, he’ll deal with Bragg later.

You feel his hands on you, your body sings with affection. He’s trying to help you up by the arm but you’re trying to fall into him. 

“Sweetheart, try and stand up,” he says, voice hushed and insistent. He seems like a real Auror now, authoritative and caring. “I think he put something in your cup.”

Your head lolls but you try to obey and make yourself helpful. Fuck, it’s hard. You thought it would help, standing up, but you feel more and more inebriated by the second. 

“No,” you shake your head and stumble out of the black office into humiliatingly bright light. The word comes out as a desperate moan, a heave. You feel sick again. You have to concentrate on not slurring your words. “It’s just. I-I don’t really drink, Theseus. Likeatall...”

You stare at your stumbling feet, so strange looking. How strange it is to be drunk and seeing the drab, red Ministry carpets. To be like this and at work. 

Theseus is looking around, concerned at the spectacle of the two of you, at how bad it looked, maybe, you don’t know. You just want him to stop looking around and look at you instead. You need his attention, in a babylike and indulgent way. Look at me, look at me.

“Let’s go, darling,” he mutters. “I’ll take you home.” 

You gather up words and intent, trying your hardest to formulate a response; it’s then that you black out completely. 

--------------------

Mercy, Theseus finds himself thinking, cursing, again. He doesn’t know how many times he’s thought this plea since you came into his life again. God, you made him think it the first night he met you, asking for a kiss, your eyes dark and bright at once, a star-shattered night.

 He knows he can’t hold anything you do against you now, though. You’re truly, shockingly, appallingly and hilariously drunk. Your eyes have that sheen, so he knows you won’t remember any of it, that you’re blacked out.

“Please,” he begs you. His arms burn, though he’d never let on. A block back you’d rolled your ankle, hard on the cobblestone, so he is carrying you now, which wouldn’t be difficult if you weren’t thrashing about so much. “Y/N, please tell me where you live.”

“Why?” You cry, frowning at him. Petulant. Bratty. But sweet, sweet like everything you did. He wants to give you what you want, like always. It’s half for show, but he puts on his policeman voice to deny you. 

“You’re in no state to be outside your house. I need to get you safe and home to your sister,” he explains dutifully.

The two of you had gotten enough disapproving stares from passing Muggles. 

The mention of your sister does seem to jog some essential parts of your brain into sluggish action. You furrow your brow, thinking over something. 

Cute.

“No, noooooo,” you whine. “My sister–oh, my landlady! They can’t see me like this, Theseus. I’ll be put out. Isn’t there some spell or-”

He shakes his head silently before realizing that you’re too drunk to notice, he has to speak aloud to get your attention.

“No, no,” he insists. “It’s too tricky a thing to remove alcohol from the bloodstream with a spell. Too dangerous. If I had a potion, maybe a bezoar elixir, I could do it, but this… It’s best to go to sleep.” 

“Nooooooo,” you cry again, throwing your head back. 

An old woman on the other side of the road frowns at you, openly.

“Fine! Fine,” he hisses, adjusting your flailing form in his aching arms. “I’ll take you to my flat.” 

You hiccup and then start babbling indistinctly again. His face burns at the feel of you in his arms, your cheek against his chest. 

This was not how he thought he’d find you today. Usually so put together all the time. So withheld and resilient.

Sedated complacency and confused, excitable thrashing seem to be your only two modes now, so this needy, talky drunkenness is something he welcomes–a middleground. Besides, half of what you mumble is nonsense. 

It is worse when he can make out the nonsense. It is worse when he kicks open the door to his apartment and deposits you onto his couch. 

Theseus drops down on the opposite end of the large couch, exhausted, legs spread, head thrown to the side. Carrying you all this way winded him. Nearly dislocated a shoulder.

It shocks him nearly upright when he sees you trying to crawl towards him.

“Y/N,” he grumbles. He pinches his eyes shut quickly to rid you from his vision, but it’s burned in his memory. You crawling towards him on all fours. Fucking hell.

“Go to sleep,” his eyes are still shut when he says it.

“Theseus,” you don’t sound drunk. Your lips are spit-slick. You sound sultry. Demanding. “I want.. I want-”

“See? You can’t even talk properly, love. Go to bed.” He conceals the panic well enough. He doesn’t want to deny you. If you wanna fall all over him, he wants to let you. But he knows this isn’t right, isn’t respectable. 

You stop descending on him like a beautiful punishment and sit back with your legs crossed, just a cushion away from him. You don’t look or sound as drunk as you did before but he knows you are, you’d never act like this if there wasn’t alcohol in your bloodstream. 

You tilt your head at him and, for him, it’s torturous. 

“Okay. Come to bed with me then?” You sing-song. There’s a ditzy, woozy quality to your voice that wasn’t there before. Hadn’t ever been there. If you didn’t still smell like whisky he wouldn’t be able to resist your advances at all.

“No, no, no,” Theseus stands suddenly, speaking more to himself than you. He paces back and forth across his living room, troubled. This was insane. He shouldn’t have brought you here. He couldn’t say no to you. He knew it wasn’t within his power to.

Clothes falling off your shoulders. Looking at him all dizzy and blissed out. Pupils blown, lips wet.

You hiccup. He wants to tease you for it, but the next words out of your mouth make him choke.

“I-I wish you wore glasses,” you laugh dreamily. “I wanna make you keep them on so I can see them go all crooked when I fuck you.”

His whole body reacts. Throbs. He hisses painfully through his teeth. Tries to shut his eyes again but it’s futile. He could hate you for what you’re doing to him, actually detest you.

“Y/N, please stop talking.”

“Mmm, I thought that-”

“Stop. Talking.”

You giggle again and roll over on the couch, delighted, throwing your arms up above you.

Then, mercy, mercy, you’re trying (clumsily, unsuccessfully, what should be unsexily but it’s not to him, it’s absolutely not) to take off your clothes, pull off your top and tug off your tights. You whine in frustration when you can’t manage it.

You fall back in defeat. He can see you’re past the point of proactivity now. So long as he stays across the room he isn’t in danger. You couldn’t stumble over to him if you tried.

“Help me.” You order with a pout.

“No,” he smiles now, corner of his mouth curling, feeling confident and safe. Settles into the wooden chair at his small, square dining table and looks at you, amused. He’s still hard. “You really should listen to me, Y/N.” He says, a bit hotly. 

There’s fondness, but also a sort of angry, disciplinarian edge to his tone.

“I know! I already knowwww,” you retort, grouchily despite the fact that you’re agreeing with him. Oh, the drunken mind…

He should leave. He should carry you to his bedroom and then lock you in there until you sober up or pass out. He flexes his hand at the thought. No, he doesn’t trust himself to touch you now. He hates this, not being able to touch you. He loves you and he hates it. 

He’s saying the words, spitefully, before he can stop himself. 

“Did you know that your voice gets all high pitched right before you come? It’s cute, actually.”

His voice is a flat line, hard and unforgiving. He’s snappy and harsh and, when you moan softly at his words, he gets up and leaves you alone in his apartment. 

“I need to go on a walk. Go to sleep. Don’t move.”

The front door slams shut before you can even attempt to crawl your way over to him.

—-----------------------

You’re awake for several minutes before you can bring yourself to crack open your eyelids. It’s all pounding blackness in your head–a nightclub full of dementors. You’d laugh at the thought if everything didn’t hurt. 

Your mouth tastes awful. You don’t know where you are. 

“Theseus?” you mutter, rolling over in the very large, very foreign bed, opening your eyes at last.

There’s a small, purple bottle that’s labeled J. Pippin’s Hangover Remedy on the bedside table but even that makes your stomach turn. The thought of drinking any flavored liquid sends a shudder down your spine. 

You sit up and force yourself to take a pitiful swig anyway and chase it with the glass of water set there for you. The more you take in the scenery–the neat, cozy room, the water and potion, the newly bought women’s clothes laid out for you at the end of the bed–the more humiliation colors your cheeks.

“Oh, no,” you whine aloud, burying your face in your hands. The last thing you remember is the Armistice ceremony and then Theseus helping you tumble out of Mr. Bragg’s dark office in a whisky-flavored haze. This had to be Theseus’s bedroom.

Which meant….

You’re only wearing your tights and a camisole. Braving the hallway in your half-undressed state, you slip into the bathroom. There’s a toothbrush there too, which you snatch up greedily, eager to rid your mouth of this foul, boozy taste. After a quick, sobering shower and five too-long minutes of scrutinizing your flushed face in the mirror you walk cautiously out into the living room. You put on one of his shirts and boxer shorts rather than the clothes he’d bought and laid out for you. Your hair is damp and dripping, but smells clean and like his soap, like him. 

Through the windows, it's a cool and silver morning, the earliest light of day has that nascent, colorless quality. The dark hardwood floors of his apartment are quiet underfoot, and all things are still. Today feels new and clean and you’re hopeful he’ll forgive you.

What did you do last night? What did you say to him? You were so embarrassed, you just hoped that he’d still want you. That he wouldn't take back what he said about loving you. 

Theseus looks so funny with his arm jutting out from under him, his bare legs hanging crooked over the edge of the couch. You stifle a laugh despite yourself. 

It’s then, smiling at his sleeping form fondly, that you know. You’ve always felt it before, but now you know it. The certainty resting in your heart strengthens and glows.

You stand before him and tug his extended hand. He opens his eyes in innocent confusion. 

“What–Y/N-”

“Come to bed with me.”

He stares up at you uncomprehendingly, gaze bleary but fond. He’s so handsome it hurts. 

“Come on,” you laugh. “It’s still early. We can still sleep well.”

His oversized form on the small couch sits up. You want to run your hands through his hair, press your hands against the hard expanse of his chest and push him back down again. 

“Are you sure?” He asks calmly. 

“Come,” you repeat. This time when you pull him by the hand he lets you lead him. 

You fall into his bed together and he brings you into him, so impossibly naturally, like muscle memory. You feel your face blush but pay it no attention, you feel so warm and safe in the cradle of his body at last.

You have to tell him. Have to tell him how you feel.

You turn to face Theseus, still cradled in his arms, but the sight of him stoppers your throat.

“I–” You make a noise like choking. There’s a bright red mark down the side of his neck. “Theseus, your neck! What happened?”

He smiles softly at your face, contented and amused.

“I’m sorry to break this to you Y/N, but you might have raked your teeth down the side of my neck last night while I was trying to carry you to my bed.” 

You are undisguisably mortified. You gawk at him.

“It’s okay, Y/N!” He laughs reassuringly. “It’s fine, really. Despite you torturing me all night trying to get me to sleep with you, I stood my ground. Nothing happened.”

“Torturing you?!” Your eyes are blown wide and you can’t seem to close your mouth, except to wince. “Oh, Theseus, my behavior–I’m so humiliated, you have to forgive me–” 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, all levity in his voice gone, only sincerity. He clasps your hands between your body and his, and you lean into the feeling.

When you still can’t look at him, red-faced and flustered, he leans forward so suddenly you nearly start back.

Theseus licks the column of your neck in a long line, punctuating it with a nip of his teeth that makes you gasp. 

“There,” he leans back and smirks at his handiwork. “Got you back. You can stop being sorry for antagonizing me now.”

Your heart is pounding, blood roaring in your ears. 

“Besides,” he adds, once it’s clear you’re done being mortified. “I admit that I even find your cruelty endearing. I’ve always hated meanness, but it doesn’t matter with you at all. That’s how I know I’ve been corrupted.”

You let yourself laugh at that. It’s so nice, being in bed with him. Wearing his clothes. Despite the context of how you got there, you feel at peace. 

“So,” he starts. “What do you remember?”

You shake your head and purse your lips.

“Mr. Bragg’s office. I tried to question him, it was a mission of mine. He’s not what he seems, Theseus. Mr. Bragg, Mr. Martin, I don’t know who else–they’re real threats to the Ministry.”

Theseus nods solemnly, taking it in.

“Okay, what else?”

You try to remember but the night comes back in fleeting scenes and flickering sensations. 

“You kept calling me sweet.” You whisper.

“That’s all then?” He doesn’t contest it.

“But I’m not sweet,” you insist, weakly. “Everyone says I’m not. I wish I was, but I’m not a sweet girl.”

“No,” Theseus grabs your hand again and rubs circles into it with his thumb. “You’re not sweet. You’re kind. It’s a stronger quality, Y/N. One with more conviction and spirit. Trust me.” 

You make a face at him, one meant to inspire pity.

“I’m not sweet?”

Theseus exhales through his nose in a huff, baffled, disarmed. Of course you would focus on that part of what he said. He flicks the tip of your nose with his finger and it makes you scrunch up your face. He’s staring at you so lovingly that it makes your teeth ache.

“You taste sweet enough to me.”

And then his mouth is on yours, hot and warm and wanting. Hungrier than you thought he was. You could never gauge how much he wanted you, how badly. It took you off-guard then, the first time you met him in his office, and it shocks you now. 

You’re racing to kiss him back with equal fervor. Your skin alights with pleasure every place that his skin meets yours, you come to life under those hands of his. 

Will it cease, this awestruck response he elicits? You want to one day get used to Theseus, to the wonder of him in front of you, so you can think straight around him. So you can enjoy him in a measured and rational way without praying on him like a star, without the winded pleasure of disbelief.

You whine when he pulls away from your mouth, but it’s quickly silenced by the feeling of his hands sliding under your shirt and over your breasts, squeezing and massaging them. Your nipples are so sensitive that his fingertips feel almost unbearably good. Painfully good.

“You have no idea the hell you put me through last night.”

“I’m sorry,” you moan.

“I’m not.” 

He takes your mouth with his again. The way he kisses you now feels like fucking in of itself, his tongue pressing in and in to your mouth, it feels like him showing what he wants to do to you. 

One of his hands drops from your chest and slips under the waistline of the pair of boxers you're wearing. His shirt, his boxers.

“Gonna make me fuck you while you wear my clothes, princess?”

You don’t know how he possesses the superpower of making you blush like a schoolgirl while his hands are quite literally down your pants. The display of shyness seems futile. 

He was so gentlemanly at work and in life. You didn’t know such words were capable of leaving his lips, but god they sounded good to you.

“Off,” you manage. “Take them off.” 

Theseus obliges you, hands big and warm as they gently lift the hem of your shirt over your head. He helps you shimmy out of the boxer shorts too. His hands move over all that bare skin with reverence, stroking and petting and grasping. 

“You’re beautiful-”

“I love you,” the words rush out at once, urgent. You need him to know, they need to be said. 

He looks stunned, leans back with a jerk and stares into your eyes with scrutiny and wonder. You don’t break his gaze. 

“Do you really?” He says, breathlessly.

“Yes,” and your eyes are welling with tears, you don’t know why. “I love you, Theseus.”

“God,” he groans, pressing you to him in an embrace so engulfing it makes you gasp. His hand snakes around the back of your head, his other arm wraps around your torso–a man, overcome. “I love you so much, Y/N.” 

It’s different when he starts to touch you again. Slower. Devout. He stares dead into your eyes with a concentration unmatched when he slips his fingers into you at last, his own eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and lust. It takes everything in you not to look away, the look in his eyes is so burning with desire it alone could be your ruin, make you come undone.

You feel yourself pulse around him, aching and squeezing around his hand. He curls his index slightly upwards so perfectly that every fuck of his fingers, every pump has you moaning raggedly. Your whole body saying yes, yes, yes to the tempo he’s set.

But you don’t want to come like this.

You start shaking your head before you can get any words out.

He’s watching you so intently he doesn’t need any words to read you.

“What is it?” There’s no teasing to his tone anymore, no condescension. He’s all caring dedication. When he slides his fingers out they’re soaked. “You want my cock?”

You nod, feeling strangely drunk again. 

He rolls his still-clothed hips against your bare, slick core experimentally and you moan loudly, inappropriately and unabashedly loudly. 

It makes him smile.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. So good. What do you want, baby? How do you want me?”

You can’t even think around him, you don’t know what possesses you to say what you do.

“From the back. I want you to take me from behind.”

Theseus’s eyes flash with something dark. His lips part and for a moment you think he’s going to deny you. He did like looking at your face, watching your reactions…

But then he’s getting up onto his knees and flipping you onto your stomach, roughly. The mattress heaves beneath the two of you.

You start to get up on all fours when his hand pushes you down hard, by the small of your back. Your body presses flat into the mattress with a gasp.

“Theseus-”

He straddles your thighs with his so you can’t even spread your legs when he presses his dick into your tight hole.

You whine and moan at the sensation of being stretched open by him. You can’t move at all trapped under his weight, you can’t even lift your hips–you can just bury your head and take it. He rocks his hips experimentally and, when you moan wantonly again, he leans down, bending his body over yours to nip the back of your ear with his teeth before pounding into you.

You know he just told you he loved you but, god, he was drilling you like he hated you, hand on the back of your neck, his pace relentless, pulling out completely before slamming back into you bruisingly. Your walls try to clamp down to slow his speed but it only makes it feel better, him splitting you open from behind.

You hear him groan at the feel of your walls constricting and fluttering around him. You orgasm suddenly and with a muffled whine, wishing you could roll your hips back into the feeling, but you’re still pinned beneath him, quivering and overstimulated. 

Dazed, you distantly remember last time you slept with him and cry brokenly. You don’t want that, him pulling out to come in his hand. 

“Theseus, I-” you know you’re incoherent, blabbering. Face half-shoved into his pillow. “Please come inside me. I-I want to feel it when-”

“Fuck,” he hisses. The sound of your voice has him coming hard, you feel it shoot warm into your pussy. His pace slows, rocking his half-hard cock a few more times into you before pulls out with a shaky breath at last. 

“Y/N,” Theseus turns you back over. His hands are searching, gentle. When he sees your expression, blissful and fucked-out, he smiles, stroking your face.

“God,” he groans, low, collapsing back down beside you. “I could stay in this bed with you forever.”

You hold onto his hand and bring it up to your mouth to kiss it, body still thrumming with pleasure.

After a while, he speaks again.

“Is.. Was that okay?” He asks, and it silences you, learns into something heavier like pain. “I just want to make sure that you’re not… inebriated anymore, not confused…”

“I was never confused,” you murmur, shaking your head softly. “I meant everything I said yesterday night, though I can’t remember what.” 

You realize with a start that you have to be honest now, or you’ll cry.

“It’s bad,” you continue. “I can’t ever pretend to feel something I don’t.”

“You pretended not to know me,” Theseus whispers the words into the pillow beside your head, like he’s setting them down next to you. His voice is too gentle and fond to be an accusation, but you still feel caught, like you’re in trouble.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me anyway. And… I was scared.”

“Of what, darling?”

Darling. This man would be the death of you. You’d give him anything he asked for. 

"Um," you bite your bottom lip hard, trying to ground yourself with the sharp reprimand of pain. Darling, he called you darling. "I guess, um, I was happy with how you see me now. That when I asked you to kiss me, you did this time. I didn't want to confuse you, I didn't want to do anything that might make it stop. You wanting me, I mean."

You don't feel terribly eloquent or coherent, but he's nodding encouragingly, understandingly.

He nudges your nose with his to get you to meet his eyes, and it makes you smile like you're just remembering how to. He reintroduces joy into your life like an old friend. Like a family member, it comes so naturally to him.

"I don't wanna scare you away either, Y/N. I told you I love you because I couldn't help it, the same way I touched you in my office because I couldn't help it. But I wanna make you mine in every way that I can."

You raise a brow, prompting him to clarify.

"Like what, you wanna...?" You can't finish the sentence, you need to hear him say it.

“I want to marry you, naturally.” Saying the words knocks something loose in him. The strength of his desire is deafening, like downed wine burning low in his stomach, roaring in his ears.

You laugh and he doesn’t understand or care why, he just knows the sound is angelic and smiles with stupid joy in response.

"Oh, you," you sigh. "Theseus, you could have anyone. Anyone." 

You don't mean to sound so bittersweet, so distant and reminiscing. He is handsome and strong and good, without even trying, he just is. He is charismatic and confident. The whole room falls into his orbit, is pulled into his gravity when he enters. 

It's not that you have nothing in common, but everything you love about him is everything that keeps him apart from you.

He shakes his head, dazed with happiness.

"There's only ever been you. It's always been you."

"I love you too," your eyes prick with tears. "I love you, Theseus. I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I was, that I hid from you, that I didn't say it earlier. But I've loved you since I was a girl, even if I can't believe that you love me, I can still-"

"Y/N," he interrupts you, hushed and urgent. "I feel like it was very hard for you to love me. You seemed so conflicted and confused and pained, especially at the beginning. But, for me, loving you has been like breathing. This,” he raises your clasped hands between you. “This is easy. It’s who I am.”

When you close your eyes and drift off into a light, midday sleep, there are no clouds in the horizon of your mind, no dreams of war, only a small but glowing peace. 

--

taglist: @hotwheelsenthusiasthic @milasmithsblog @msauthor @asyouwish-fromcabin3 @karashawsblog

[engie-ivy]

(Fic I didn't know I wanted to write! So thank you for the inspiration, @wolfstarmicrofic!)

28th: Dogwalker AU

673 words

Some good old mutual pining between a dogwalker and his client!

Date My Hooman?

“Has he been a good boy?” Sirius is sitting on his knees, scratching Padfoot’s ears (and making quite the sight while doing so).

Remus crosses his arms over his chest. “Now you're just fishing for compliments. You know damn well Padfoot’s always a good boy.”

Sirius grins up at him. “Guilty as charged.” He looks back at Padfoot who's thoroughly enjoying his ear scratches. “I know my dog is great, but I love hearing other people tell me that my dog is great also.”

“Right you are,” Remus chuckles. “How was your day at the office?”

“Dreadfully dull,” Sirius replies instantly. “Really, Remus, you made some good career choices that you now get to play with dogs all day.”

“Well, I don't get to live in a house like that.” Remus nods towards Sirius’ three-story mansion with the sprawling garden around it.

Sirius winks at him as he gets up to his feet. “Maybe if you play your cards right.”

Remus can feel his cheeks heating up.

Before, he was just amused by Sirius’ flirtatious banter, and he actually gave it as good as he got. But now, he suddenly feels flustered, at a loss for words, and wholly out of his depth whenever Sirius makes a comment like that.

After long conversations, with Sirius being the last stop on Remus’ afternoon route, and being subjected to Sirius’ sharp mind and disarming sense of humour, things have changed for Remus.

He used to think that the best part of his day would always be seeing the excitement on a dog’s face when he reaches out to unclip their leash to let them run around the park and play with their friends, but now, it's like nothing compares to seeing the excitement on Sirius’ face at the end of the day as he crouches down to greet his beloved dog after long hours the office. Remus’ days have started to revolve around the moments he brings Padfoot home, and it's becoming A Problem.

“And that's not even taking into account cold, rain, new regulations, demanding clients,” Remus continues, as if he didn't hear Sirius’ last comment.

Then Remus’ own dog, Moony, dashes forward and starts licking a tail-wagging Padfoot’s face, like he knows he has to say goodbye to his friend for now, and Remus’ heart just melts. “Oh, who am I kidding? It's bloody amazing.”

When the dogs have said their goodbyes, it's time for their owners to do so as well.

“See you tomorrow?” Sirius asks.

“Of course.”

“Great.” Sirius beams at him. “Looking forward to it.”

Remus’ heart skips a beat at those words. Yes, definitely A Problem.

Sirius has given Remus the key to the annex besides the main house, so he can pick up Padfoot, take him for a long walk, and then, by the time they return, Sirius will be back from the office and usually already waiting on them.

Sirius has actually turned the annex into a space especially for Padfoot, with water and food, several dog beds, toys, and a dog door, so he can go in and out to the yard whenever he wants. Sirius has even hung framed pictures on the walls of him and Padfoot together. A fuzzy feeling spreads across Remus’ chest upon seeing those pictures. A Problem indeed.

Padfoot immediately comes running, happily wagging his tail, brimming with excitement to go on his walk.

“Calm down, Pads,” Remus laughs, as the dog keeps circling his legs and jumping up and down. “Come on, I need to attach your leash, otherwise we can't go. Hey, what you've got there, buddy?” He spots a piece of paper neatly tucked underneath Padfoot’s collar and he plucks it out. As he unfolds it, he realizes it's a note.

And as he reads, a huge smile starts to spread across Remus’ face.

Dear Remus,

You might have noticed that my hooman has quite a crush on you.

Will you please save me from his desperate pining, and let my hooman take you out on a date?

[dante-mightdie]

Trailing off of dragon!price, princess!reader, and knight!gaz, why not add blacksmith!soap, and bandit!ghost ;))

-

Blacksmith!soap gets snatched by price the second he sees how beautiful his delicate metal works are, already daydreaming of his little pets in nothing but thin chains worth more than the average cost of a fine-breed horse,

Soap trys his hardest to fight against the territorial dragon, but once price decides he like something it's his, and he never lets go of what he instinctively knows is only his possession ;)

Bandit!Ghost and absolute thrill seeker of a theif, has stolen from the so called impossible, and Price's treasure is his next target and easy win, or so he thinks,

He gets rather far, filling a rough linen sack with valuables thousands of years old, and he almost gets away with it except for one small mistake, he spookes pretty princess reader and though he immediately muffled their growls and yells with a burly hand, the sound you did let out is enough to send price hot on your tail, and just like the rest ghost is scooped up unwillingly into the fold of price's wing like a mangy stray.

And believe me Ghost bites and thrashes trying every trick in the book, but price likes the sad/angry puppy look in his eyes and once again has picked up another stray for his hoard,

The first time all of price's hoard fuck together is during price's rut when he's absolutely insatiable and without tagging each other out, a couple of them woul definitely get severe dehydration among other things, not too say they all aren't a bunch of submissive puddles after being used by price,

All passed out in Price's warm silk nest, tucked under his wing, this is when price knows he's picked the perfect little pets to entertain him :))

-

Much love Sin <3

(p.s. praying Tumblr just ate the other puppy req I send in, and if you were in anyway uncomfortable with it don't hesitate to send me a dm about it :P)

not lost i just wanted didn't check my inbox until i finished work :)

content warning: dub-con, smut

price getting johnny to make pretty swords for his pretty knight! dull, of course. can't risk one of his pets hurting themselves!

gets you all matching velvet pillows so you dont scuff your knees when you kneel at his feet. makes him feel powerful. makes him feel in charge

and he is in charge, believe you me. only he could bring 3 big strong and a spoilt princess to their knees. turn them into moaning messes as he overstimulates them. soft rumbling purrs filling the dense cave when he reduces you to a whimpering puddle as you snuggle into him, desperate for aftercare from this grumpy ol' dragon...

I think he'd have a temper. start destroying things from his stash when one of you pisses him off, yelling at you and huffing fire from his nose whilst you and the rest of his hoard cower from him in the corner :(

it is nice having the boys around. it was dreadfully boring in the cave whenever price would go into hibernation, leaving you all alone to snoop through his belongings to find things to keep you busy

but now you have your boys to keep you entertained :) passing you around and taking their turn with you. simon wasting no time in throwing the pretty village princess onto her knees and having his way with you

his hard, thick cock drilling into your sopping hole, stretching you open as you squeal and bite down on your pillow to avoid waking price. listening to him tell you how he can't wait to escape this dragon and tell everyone that the village princess is really the village whore :(

soap goes next, telling himself that there's no reason why he shouldn't get to have his turn next. except he's a little nicer than simon, kneeling between your legs and lapping at your sore cunt :( spitting on it to keep you nice and wet as he slips his cock in you

fucking simon's load back inside your cunt and making the sloppy sound of him drilling into you echo throughout the cave, slinging your legs over his shoulder and forcing you into a mating-press

and lovely gaz :( who feels so bad about defiling the princess he swore to rescue but you just looked so pretty creaming around soap and simon's cock, tears slipping down your cheeks as you cum for the millionth time :(

goes in with the guise of comforting you before slipping his fingers down to drag between your sopping folds. kissing your forehead and cooing at you as he sits you on his cock, grabbing your hips and bouncing you in his lap

shushing you when price stirs in his slumber due to your loud squeals and cries. dumping another load in you before dropping you down next to price, letting the older man wrap his wings around you as he snores soundly <3

[fqreverwinter]

“enchanted”

— — — —

relationship: loki x fem!reader

summary: you meet loki in a chance encounter at the winter ball, and he absolutely steals your heart. but the encounter ended much too soon, leaving you wondering if he ever felt the same way.

warnings: none! :)

word count: 3.2k

notes: WOW has it been a while! i honestly lost interest in posting, but i never lost interest in writing. i finally had the energy to finish this short that i began after speak now (tv) was released last summer, and i couldn’t not share it. so please enjoy!!!! it is inspired by enchanted (tv) by taylor swift!!

masterlist

The grand ballroom of the Asgardian palace was aglow with warm lights and excited chatter. The golden walls radiated from the energy of the party. The floor was filled with men and women: talking, dancing, laughing, and drinking.

It was the annual winter celebration ball. Royalty, politicians, and socialites from all nine realms were invited to Asgard to celebrate the winter season and accomplishments from the past year. It was an exclusive yet highly-anticipated event. Everyone dreamed of an invite to the party. Ladies commissioned dresses months in advance, hoping to be the most beautiful girl there.

It was your first year in attendance. Your parents had gone ever since you were born. Your father was a consult to the Asgardian throne, hailing from Vanaheim. He traveled across the realms at least twice a year, always including this illustrious event. You dreamt of going since you were little. You constantly daydreamed of the dress you would wear, how you would do your makeup, and all the boys that you would dance with.

At sixteen, you were finally of age to come. Your mother helped you pick out the dress you were currently donning: a stunning dark green ball gown, draped in velvet and adorned with gold pearls. It was everything you could have ever dreamed of. You felt absolutely stunning.

However, the ball itself was dreadfully boring to you. You expected to be blown away by the crowd, having the most enriching conversations and dancing until dawn with a handful of young men. But you were stuck against a pillar, crossing your arms as you scanned the floor.

You were let down. In your mind, this ball was a scene for magic and ultimate grandeur. It was a fairytale - something you would have read in a book when you were little. But now that you were here, you realized it was nothing like that. It was a political scene, a show of wealth. There was nothing for you to do; no boys to whisk you away or girls to gossip with in the corner.

A few people spoke to you in the beginning when your parents were still by your side. They asked you about basic things, such as your studies and your interests. Nothing deeper than surface-level information. You faked smiles and laughs during these conversations, ignoring the pit of disappointment deep in your stomach. As your parents disappeared deeper into the party, so did your social interactions.

The golden walls once lit with excitement became dull. Everything seemed like a facade. There was no real beauty in this room. It was a show, an insincere display for you to judge others and for others to judge you. It no longer seemed like a privilege to be invited, more like a formality.

You sighed and leaned further into the pillar. You looked around, noticing others faking laughs and making faces at those they did not like. You wished you were home in bed with a book, not hiding in a corner in a dress that was feeling gradually more suffocating.

Suddenly, you saw him. A pair of striking blue eyes met yours from across the room. Your heart skipped a beat as you locked in on him. Unable to look away, you took in his features: those beautiful eyes, raven hair, pale skin, sharp cheekbones. He was tall, thin, and utterly graceful. But his eyes—oh, those eyes. They were bright yet broken, sparkling yet sad. You felt like you could see his whole life in his eyes. They were fixated on you, as you were fixated on them. He seemed to be searching his mind, perhaps wondering if he had seen you somewhere before.  Your mind began to race when you noticed his silhouette moving closer and closer to you, pushing past others in the crowd. His eyes were still focused on you.

He made his way up the steps, now just a few feet away from you. You reached for the emerald charm on your necklace and began to nervously fidget with it as he approached you.

"You don't seem too pleased to be here," he said with a smile.

Your mouth ran dry. His voice was smooth and deep, cutting through the chatter like a knife. It was so attractive and charming, but shocked you at the same time. And that smile. He seemed so sincere in a place filled with falsities. Yet, he still came off playful and fun. You cleared your throat and collected your thoughts.

"Yes, well, it's awfully dull if you don't get off on gloating."

He laughed, "Says the girl in the green gown that takes up half the room."

"I had different expectations for tonight," you muttered, looking down. He chuckled and extended his hand.

"Loki."

You looked back up at him, his hand still out but yours still gripping your necklace.

"Like the prince?"

"I suppose so," he replied. Your eyes widened as you finally took his hand, shaking it lightly as you said your name.

"To be quite frank, I am also bored out of my mind. What do you say we get out of here?" Loki asked with a mischievous grin.

You furrowed your eyebrows. "To where?"

"Not far. Just around the corner. We'll still be close enough to keep an eye on the party."

You nodded hesitantly. He tightened his grip on your hand and began to lead you out of the ballroom. He took you through a small door just on the other side of the wall. You were both outside now, the cold winter wind biting your skin. You tensed up in the chill.

"Are you cold?" he asked with a puzzled look.

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Honestly, I've never been bothered by the cold. But here, let me help you."

He dropped your hand and flicked his wrist. You suddenly felt a weight on your shoulders, followed by a warm sensation. You looked around and noticed that a cloak appeared out of nowhere and was wrapped around your body. Your jaw dropped in disbelief as you looked over at him.

"How did you do that?"

Loki smiled. "Just some light magic. Do you feel better?"

You nodded. Your stomach was filled with butterflies. How was this happening? Just a few minutes ago, you were facing the reality that there was no magic, no princes, no dreams coming true. Was this in fact a dream? Had you fallen asleep against that pillar?

Another cold breeze snapped you into reality. This wasn't a dream; this was really happening.

"Are you from Asgard?" he asked.

"No," you answered. "Vanaheim. My father is a consult to the throne. This is my first year at this ball."

"Ah. Well, it doesn't get any better. I can assure you that," Loki said, making you laugh.

He guided you to a golden bench in the middle of the gardens. It sat amidst all of the bushes and flowers that went without blooms in the winter. It also overlooked the windows of the ballroom, allowing you to peek in and see everyone still talking and drinking. It was the perfect place to escape the party.

You sat next to Loki as he began light conversation. You talked about basic things, but then you slowly realized how similar the both of you were. You shared a love of literature, of nature, of horses, of magic—though Loki practiced it while you were just fascinated by it. He showed you a few tricks, such as conjuring a butterfly or making the few falling snowflakes pause mid-air.

The conversation grew deeper and deeper. He confessed his feelings of self-doubt and disappointment from living in the shadow of his glorious older brother. You confessed your feelings of loneliness and longing from being an only child with two busy parents. You found solace in this conversation, finally knowing that there was someone out there who felt just as dissatisfied as you did. It was like you found your missing puzzle piece.

Loki was just absolutely charming. He made you feel wonderstruck; you were completely enthralled by him. From his quick quips to his heartfelt words, you hung on every sentence he spoke like it was the most beautiful thing you ever heard. You wanted nothing more to than just sit here forever listening to him talk while looking into his gorgeous blue eyes.

You lost track of time. You had no idea how long the ball lasted, but you honestly did not care. All you wanted was for this night to last forever. You did not want to stop talking to Loki.

"Hey, I think they're playing the waltz," Loki said mid-conversation. You both turned to look inside and noticed couples joining together. Soft music began to play. You smiled when you spotted your parents in the back, holding each other and spinning around.

Movement in your peripheral caught your attention. You looked up and saw Loki standing with his hand extended.

"May I have this dance?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

You laughed and took his hand. Before you even had a chance to stand, he pulled you out of your seat and into his arms. You gasped as you fell into him.

"Heavens, Loki!" you said through laughter.

"Oh, loosen up," he replied.

You got in position and began to dance together. The faint sound of the orchestra carried through the bitter cold wind. But you didn't mind.

Loki's blue eyes were once again locked with yours. Your heart was beating out of control. He was so charming, so beautiful, so perfect. No one ever listened to you like he did tonight. No one ever talked to you like he did tonight. He made you feel wanted, seen, and absolutely adored. It was hard to believe that you didn't even know him six hours ago. Now, your thoughts would be consumed by him for days to come.

It was a chance meeting, but it completely changed your life. This was the ball you dreamed of. You were so glad you finally found it.

The dance came to an end. The music was replaced by the sound of applause and the Allfather making an announcement. But the two of you didn't care. You stayed in his arms, gazing up at him. He was smiling down at you.

"It was so wonderful to meet you," he said softly.

"You too. Thank you for turning my night around."

"Of course. You made mine a million times better."

You smiled as he began to lean in. Your eyes fluttered shut as you began to feel his breath against your lips. You leaned in to finish the kiss, but were stopped by someone calling your name.

"There you are!" your father yelled as you stepped back from Loki's embrace.

"We've been looking for you!" your mother said. "The ball is over. We must be going home."

"Oh, well—," you began.

"No. Say goodbye before we miss our carriage back to the Bifrost."

You sighed and turned back to Loki. "Thank you, again."

"Surely. I hope to see you again soon."

He gave you a soft smile as your mother grabbed your wrist and quite literally dragged you away. You stumbled with her quick pace until you caught up, yanking your wrist back. You looked behind you one last time as the palace grew distant, trying to see if you could spot the beautiful prince. But unfortunately, you were too far away. Your heart sank as you sighed, following your parents into your carriage.

“Who was that? Was that one of the princes?” your father asked as the carriage began to drive away.

You nodded, “He and I were both bored, so we decided to go outside and talk.”

“Bored?” your mother said with a laugh. “Isn’t this the ball you’ve been looking forward to since you were a little girl?”

“I guess the actual event just wasn’t for me,” you shrugged.

Eventually, you reached the Bifrost and took your journey back to Vanaheim. When you got into bed that night, the memories replayed in your mind. Your heart warmed but longed for the prince that whisked you away so elegantly. He was handsome, charming, intelligent…. just simply enchanting. You fell asleep with the hope that you would actually see him again.

Over the next few months, Loki never left your mind. Though it was one small interaction, it left a lasting impression on you forever. You were completely enamored by him. His voice, his striking blue eyes haunted you in your sleep. So many nights did you fall asleep praying that he still felt the same way, that he wasn’t in love with anyone but you.

The spring came and went on Vanaheim. Since the realm was known for its exquisite nature, the outdoors were absolutely gorgeous. The trees were in full bloom; the hills were adorned with bright flowers and green grass; the lakes sparkled in the afternoon sun. You spent so much time sitting in the garden of your family’s cottage, just reading and daydreaming about the Asgardian boy that stole your heart. Everything was about him; you even read his name as the male protagonist in all of your romance books, picturing that those were your story that got the happy ending.

Your father went to Asgard again at the beginning of summer for a few days to deal with some business. You begged and begged for him to take you, but he repeatedly refused. It broke your heart to know that you were so close yet so far from seeing Loki again. You did not want to wait for the winter to finally have another dance with him.

When your father returned, he had a bright smile on his face. He sat you and your mother down at the kitchen table for a big announcement.

“Family,” he began, “we are moving to Asgard.”

Your mother’s face dropped as you gasped, a smile forcing its way onto your lips. Did he actually just say that?

“What do you mean, dear?” your mother asked him.

“Old Vidar has finally decided to retire as the live-in ambassador from Vanaheim. They have elected me as the replacement. In two weeks, we will start our lives in Asgard.”

You cheered and ran to give your father a big hug. He laughed and hugged you back, albeit a little confused by your reaction. You immediately ran to your room as you started to pack while your mother pried him for more information.

Two weeks later, you were loading up the carriage to travel to the Vanir palace to access the Bifrost. You were more than excited; you could not wait to finally see your prince again. As happy as you were, there was some sense of doubt still stuck in you—What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he had moved on? It had been nearly seven months since you last saw Loki. A lot can change in that time.

But you chose to remain hopeful as you began your journey to Asgard. You felt the warm sensation of the Bifrost and suddenly, you were back in the golden room of Heimdall. A carriage was already waiting on the rainbow bridge to drive your family to the palace, where a feast was to be held to honor both the outgoing ambassador and your father.

Once you had your luggage arranged in the carriage, you began the drive to the castle. It felt like the drive was taking ages. Your knee bounced with excitement. Your mother placed her hand on it, and you turned to look at her. “Sorry,” you muttered under your breath.

Finally, you arrived. Your heart was in your throat as you spotted the royal family on the golden steps of the palace. They came closer into view as your carriage approached the castle. Then, you saw him.

His raven hair was slightly longer, he was a little bit taller, and he stood with more confidence. Finally, his striking blue eyes locked with yours again. You saw right through him again—all the happiness and pain that he’s experienced. But you couldn’t quite get a read on how he was feeling. Did he move on? Was he still as infatuated with you as you are with him?

Your head hurt with anxiety. You prayed that he still thought about you as much as you thought about him.

The carriage slowed down and pulled alongside the steps. Your father stepped out first, offering his hand to help your mother out and then you. The three of you stood in front of the royal family. You nearly quivered underneath their intimidating stare.

“Welcome, Henrik and family. We are thrilled that you will be joining us in Asgard as diplomatic figures from Vanaheim. We look forward to working with you,” Odin declared.

The three of you bowed. Guards escorted you up the stairs as you began to follow the family inside the palace. You looked at Loki with a smile, but he remained stoic, turning around and following inside. Your heart shattered in your chest. Holding back tears, you looked down and kept walking.

Something grabbed your arm and pulled you back. You gasped as you fell right into a familiar pair of arms. You looked up, meeting the blue eyes you longed to see after nearly seven months.

“Loki,” you whispered, a small smile growing on your face.

“Did you think that I’ve forgotten about you?” he said with a playful grin. “How could I forget the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen?”

A heated blush rose to your cheeks as you giggled, shocked by his forwardness. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close, enjoying the feeling of being in his arms again.

“I was so scared that you had moved on,” you confessed. Your face vibrated against his chest as he let out a deep chuckle.

“I couldn’t possibly have moved on. Your name was the only one in my mind ever since that night.”

You pulled back, looking at him with disbelief. “Really?”

He laughed and nodded. “Really. I could not get your face out of my head. It drove me quite mad, honestly.”

You laughed, mostly still in disbelief. This couldn’t be real. How could this beautiful, charming prince—one that definitely could have any maiden he desired—be so infatuated with you?

“My parents will probably be taking yours on a tour of the palace before dinner, so that gives us about an hour to do whatever we want,” Loki said with a smile.

“A tour? Shouldn’t we join them?”

He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll give you a tour some other time. Why don’t we catch up first?”

You nodded with a big smile. He went to remove his hands from your waist, but you stopped him, placing your hands on top of his.

“Wait,” you said, moving your hands to cup his face. “I want to try something first.”

Loki grinned, then he leaned in and closed the gap between you. Finally, you felt your lips on his, and it was magical. You draped your arms around his neck as he deepens the kiss, moving his lips against yours. After a few moments, he pulled away, leaving you absolutely breathless. He smiled at your flushed face, then released his grip on you and grabbed your hand.

“Follow me, I want to show you the courtyard.”

With a smile, you let him lead you away from the steps. He talked to you, but you were still in a daze. You couldn’t believe that you got so lucky; you felt absolutely enchanted to meet him.

[matchavellichor]

Just This Once Pt. 2

dark!Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Angst - 3.4k words

Tags: !!Non-con!!, Pining, Obsession, Drugged Sex, Somnophilia, Cunnilingus

Part 1, Part 3 ☆ﾐ(o*･ω･)ﾉ

“You alright, Ominis?” 

“Fine,” Ominis forces a tight-lipped smile. He’s been nursing the same glass of firewhiskey for most of the evening, barely able to get it down. “Just tired.”

Sebastian gives a sigh as he stands, only wobbling slightly. He knows that look on his friend’s face, the familiar I don’t want to be here, but I’m too polite to leave. 

“Why don’t you help her back to Slytherin then? I’m gonna stay a while and she’s clearly had enough.” He nods to where their friend is warring against a black-out, slumped against the garrish scarlet cushions of one of the common room couches.

Sebastian chuckles as he helps her from her seat, stilling her wrists when she playfully swats at him and insists she’s fine. She’s deposited in Ominis’ arms before he can get a word in.

She stops her grumbling when she realizes who’s holding her up, blinking up at him for a moment before her lips curl into a pleased smile. “You’re still here, Omi?”

“Still here,” he murmurs, trying to keep his breathing even when she loops her arm with his to steady herself.

He meanders the both of them through the noisy Gryffindor common room, out into the cool, dimly-lit hallway. She hums one of the old tavern tunes the Gryffindors have been belting the entire night, slurring all the words the entire journey towards the dungeons. He bites the inside of his cheek, pretending he isn’t amused.

She leans on him, her fingers curling around his bicep for support, as she stumbles through the coiling serpent door, and that familiar ache manifests itself in his gut. 

He ignores it. He’s done a good job of ignoring it so far, hasn’t laid a finger on her—just like he promised. He isn’t a bad person, after all. He won’t do what he did to her again. It was a one-time thing, just to scratch an itch, and he’s more than capable of suffering in silence from now on, the same way he always has. 

By the time they finally cut through the Slytherin common room, he’s practically carrying her. She’s dozing off with her head on his shoulder, soft and pliant in his arms, and he feels this strange sort of tightening feeling in his chest.

He’s felt that dull, longing pain for a while. This is exponentially worse, as if his pining has finally culminated into something unbearable. He grinds his teeth and holds his breath and pretends he doesn’t feel tempted to bury his nose in her hair, to inhale until his inhibitions melt away and he does something stupid.

He sets her down on her feet when he reaches the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, but has to hold her up to keep her from falling over. Her words are stumbled over, soft and broken by yawns. “D’you think…you could bring me up?”

“You know I can’t,” he sighs. “Wards.”

She frowns, looking up at him. “Then…bring me to yours?” 

He immediately shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea—”

“Oh, come on,” her fingers curl into the front of his shirt and he’s suddenly acutely aware of just how close she is. It’s suffocating, in a dreadfully pleasant way. He never thought he could find asphyxiation appealing, but he’s learned by now to not put anything past her. “Please?” 

She pleads so pretty. He thinks of how she sounded back in the Undercroft, when he had her body pinned underneath his. Heat pools in that spot just below his navel and he suppresses a shudder. He runs a hand down his face to disperse the memory, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, al-alright. Fine.”

He shouldn’t give in so easily. He finds himself in possession of very little faculties to refuse her absolutely anything.

//

Ominis mutters a few locking charms as soon as he carries her into the quiet of his empty dorm. For her privacy, he tells himself, and ignores that contrite little voice in his head that knows it’s for something more. He pretends he doesn’t feel some sick satisfaction in knowing he has her all to himself.

It’d be easy to do it all again, he thinks. Perhaps even easier than the first time, with her state.

The thought leaves his head as quickly as it comes. He won’t. He has control over this. He has control over himself, most importantly. However, the longer he’s around her, the more she presses her body into his, the less convinced he is of the fact.

He takes a sharp breath and sits her down on the edge of his bed to unlace her boots for her. Her calves are small in his hands, delicate. There’s something appealing about that realization that he doesn’t stop to dwell on. 

When he’s done, he helps her brush her teeth and comb her hair. It’s strangely domestic. Once again, he tries not to think about the warm, fuzzy feeling it gives him. He knows by now he has no right to crave such things. Wholesomeness isn’t for people who imperius and molest their friends.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth when she flops down onto his bed, tangling herself in silky emerald sheets. “Smells nice,” she murmurs, voice muffled with her face buried in his pillow.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever wash those sheets again.

He hovers near the foot of the bed, hands tucked chastely in his pockets, posture awkwardly stiff. He clears his throat. “You—uh, you should probably take a sober-up.”

She props herself up on her elbows to look at him, tilting her head with a pout. “That’s no fun.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I think you’ve had enough fun for one night.”

She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “Fine.”

He kneels in front of the bedside table he shares with Sebastian, rummaging through the drawers in search of a sober-up he’s sure the brunette certainly keeps in store.

His hand brushes a familiar vial, and for a brief moment he forgets about the potion he’s supposed to be looking for, in favor of thumbing over the worn label he knows too well.

He used to take it whenever his anxiety got too bad, when sleep was scarce because of nightmares. He’s more than familiar with the side-effects—only a bit more potent than a calming draught, really. Makes him drowsy, helps him sleep.

A thought passes through his head, but this time it lingers.

He closes the drawer with his knee and hovers over where she’s still curled on his bed, the dull edges of the vial biting into his skin where he’s tightened his fist around it.

It isn’t like he’s drugging her. He takes the potion himself. He’s just helping her relax a bit, that’s all.

“Here,” he brushes a hand over her shoulder to get her attention, her warmth seeping through the linen of her blouse to his palm. He resists the urge to dip his hand under the hem of her collar, skin-to-skin. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

He pretends he doesn’t feel the little flicker of heat that manifests in his stomach when she obeys, parted lips brushing his fingertips, looking up at him through her lashes. 

He uncorks the dropper from the vial and drips a few more drops than the recommended dose on her tongue, and then a couple more. Her nose wrinkles from the bitter taste, but she swallows nonetheless. “Gross.”

He huffs a laugh, helping her lay back down. “A bit.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, eyes half-lidded. He finds he likes the dazed quality of her voice a bit too much. “You’re a savior, Omi.”

He forces a smile and swallows down the guilt he feels burrowed in his chest. His mouth tastes bitter. “It’s no problem, really.” 

He goes to tug the comforter over her body but she protests, limbs feeling too heavy to use properly. He gets a strange sort of thrill when he feels how weakly she pushes at his wrists. 

“Need—need to take this off first,” she murmurs, voice already softened.

She tugs at the laces of her bodice, but her fingers are languid and clumsy, lacking too much dexterity to untie them. The potion is fast-acting, he notes with a disgusting amount of satisfaction. She looks up at him for help, guiding his hands to the front of her blouse. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Right—uh, sure.”

He tries to still the trembling in his fingers as he unworks the latticework of ribbons, but he supposes she’s too bleary now to even notice. He helps her shrug off the garment, her arms limp when he holds them up to pull the fabric over her head. That little flickering heat in his gut is stoked higher when he notes how perfectly her two wrists fit in just one of his hands. 

He likes her like this, maybe to an alarming degree. Weak and pliant. It reminds him of her state under the Imperius, trance-like, bending to his will because she lacks the capacity to do much else.

He helps her shimmy out of her skirt as well, even though she never asks him to. She doesn’t protest. Just lets his hands adjust her as he sees fit. He doesn’t linger on the fact that she’s only letting him because she doesn’t have the power to voice any objections, much less stop him.

That tiny, wanton flame inside him has been fed into an all-consuming fire, far too zealous to allow even a shadow of guilt to hinder his actions. 

The chemise she wears underneath her clothes is sheer, barely reaching the tops of her knees. Easy to tear, he thinks as he smooths his hand down her hip, only briefly. She lets out a soft sigh and he pulls back. Still too lucid.

Temptation is a pretty thing tangled in his sheets, donned in thin, satiny fabrics.

It’d be so easy to take. The thought comes and sticks, even as he tries to rid himself of it. It’s tacky, enticing, gluing itself to the walls of his brain.

He wouldn’t even need to use an Unforgivable again, not like last time. No breaking any promises—though he notes that the thought of doing so is less nausea-inducing now than the first time. The idea more digestible. He doesn’t dwell on the implications behind that.

He unclasps the first few buttons of his shirt as he waits for her breathing to finally steady out. It isn’t long before she’s out like a light.

He sits on the adjacent bed, but only for a moment before his anxiety makes him pace the room. His thoughts are a mess, alternating between staying as far away from her as possible and sinking into her very skin. He chews on his nails while the latter begins to take dominance, until he ultimately finds himself hovering over the side of his bed.

It’s not like he hasn’t touched her before while she’s sleeping. He’s traced her features a couple times, gently, just to get an idea of what she looks like. This isn’t any different. He won’t do anything terrible.

He knows with certainty that Sebastian and their other dorm mate won’t be in until dawn breaks, he’s more than accustomed with their party habits by now. The situation is almost too perfect. When will he ever have her like this again? Drowsy and willing, all to himself, in his bed.

The mattress creaks as he sits himself on the edge. She doesn’t move an inch. His heart hammers in his chest, but he reaches a hand out anyway, tentatively running his hand down the soft outline of her figure, bathed in silk. He wants to feel her, though, so he brushes his fingertips, feather-light, where her shoulder is peeking out from under the covers.

It’s easy to not feel guilty when this is something familiar. 

Tentatively, he pulls the covers down to her waist. When she doesn’t stir, he pulls them back the rest of the way, exposing her to him. Gooseflesh prickles over her skin as it comes in contact with the cool air of the room and he runs his hands down her arms to soothe it. She’s somehow softer than he remembers, sensitive and sleep-warm.

She shifts in her sleep, but he isn’t deterred like he usually is. He knows that with the effects of the potion she won’t wake, at least not fully. That familiar course of adrenaline courses through his veins at the thought of not having to be as cautious as he usually is. Being able to touch at will. It’s exhilarating, in the most terrible way possible. 

He bunches her chemise over her waist in one pull. The material glides over her skin with ease, and she gives little protest, nothing more in the way of a soft exhale, a gentle murmur. The sound courses through his very core, all the way south. He’s sick with curiosity about what other sounds he can coax from her, fingers hovering over the bare expanse of her midriff.

He’s filled with the urge to know her in all the ways he hasn’t yet, having kept all his prior explorations strictly above-belt. The unknown beckons to him, every inch of her he hasn’t touched or tasted, teeming under his skin until it aches. 

He runs a thumb across the hem of her knickers, gentle, patient—even if at the moment it’s like he hasn’t the faintest idea of the definition of the world. It doesn’t take very long for him to exhaust the small amount of hesitation he does possess.

He shifts over her on the bed, climbing down her body, hands trailing adoration on her skin with exploratory curiosity. He digs his fingers a little too hard into her hips and she lets out a whimper, soft and barely audible. He finds he quite likes the sound.

She squirms in place, hips shying away from him in her sleep and he hushes her, soothing the skin with soft, little circles stroked by his thumb.

He presses his lips right above her navel, trailing kisses down her stomach, and she keens under the sensation, stretching like a purring kitten. He smirks against her skin. So receptive, even unconscious. 

As he trails down to his destination, he noses softly at every curve and bow he can reach, slow and appreciative. She’s gorgeous, all soft features and gentle silhouettes. He finds himself wanting to run his tongue over every contour until he memorizes her with his mouth.

He treats her as if he’s at an altar, kneeled in not only solemn adoration, but grave penitence for what he knows he plans to do with her. He supposes it’s always best to pray for forgiveness, then ask for permission. 

When he gets to the hem of her knickers, he plies her legs wider to accommodate him, pinning one of her thighs to the mattress. She obliges so easily, limbs loose and limp, so he tugs the other over his shoulder. 

His breath hovers over her clothed core and that familiar contrite little voice murmurs a flurry in his head. He finds it’s so much easier to tune it out now, especially as he presses his mouth to the gusset of her knickers for the first time and his brain whites out in bliss.

He wouldn’t be able to suppress the groan he lets out if he had all the willpower in the world.

It isn’t long before he’s hastily pulling the thin cotton down her thighs, any sort of barrier between them a personal affront to his sanity. Something tears but he finds himself in no capacity to care. She does little to stop him, only shifting futilely in her sleep, but he has his arm anchored across her thigh to still her squirming.

He licks a stripe with the flat of his tongue, just to finally taste her, to acquiesce the pounding in his ears and that familiar rush of blood south. She tastes like heaven, and he knows that after all he’s done it’s the closest he’ll ever get.

His fingers dig into tender flesh so hard he’s sure he’ll leave marks as he starts to lap at her in earnest, unable to stop himself. Breathy little sighs hitch in her throat, turning into soft moans as he takes his time, exploring every millimeter his tongue can reach.

“S’gorgeous,” he slurs, lips sticky against her cunt. “Gods, you taste so good.”

He wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, and the noise she lets out is almost enough to make him finish in his pants. He can tell her brain’s struggling to breach consciousness, hips rocking languidly against his mouth, the softest murmurs escaping her lips. He pays little mind to them, continuing to devote himself to tasting her fully.

He takes one of her hands that are pawing weakly at the sheet beneath her, placing it on top of his head. Her fingers immediately find purchase in his hair, eliciting a groan from him as he circles her clit with his tongue in tight little circles.

Her breathing is stuttered, uneven. “Om–Omin–”

“That’s it, angel, say my name,” he hums, her voice making him throb in his pants where he’s been rutting mindlessly against the mattress. “You sound so pretty. Fuck, my sweet, sweet girl.”

Her fingers tighten in his hair, a bit too softly for his tastes due to her semi-lucid state, but enough to earn a moan from him nonetheless. He feels the muscles in her abdomen tighten when he braces a forearm across her middle to pin her to the bed, stilling her helpless writhing, and he knows she’s close. He doesn’t plan on stopping until she’s coming on his tongue, no matter how much she begs.

Feeling her try to resist him makes him ache in his trousers, her hands pushing weakly at his head. He latches his mouth to her clit and sucks until he feels her heels dig into his back and a sob is torn from her throat as she’s pushed over the edge. 

He grinds his hips into the mattress as he rides her through her climax, grunting expletives against her skin. Her chest heaves, arms loose at her sides as she hiccups through tears, coming down from her high.

Her legs tremble around his head and he kisses the insides of her thighs, listening to her breathless, incoherent little murmurs that he can’t quite make out. He can’t help the blissed satisfaction he feels, thumbs rubbing soft circles on her hip bones. 

He climbs over her, chin sticky as he leaves kisses in his ascent. “I know, baby, I know,” he hushes when she squirms, voice hoarse. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

He wipes the wetness from her cheeks, damp lashes fluttering in her attempts to gain some viable form of consciousness. He smiles to himself knowing the effects of the potion will keep her perfectly limp and drowsy for him.

He noses at her temple, stroking her hair while he waits for her breathing to steady out again. “Was that good, angel? Did I make you feel good?”

She doesn’t respond, and he knows her brain is too addled with sleep and endorphins to even hear him. He rambles praises anyway, lips pressed to her forehead, his heart so full in his chest it might burst.

“I love you,” he whispers, collecting her in his arms and tucking her into his side, even if the rational part of his brain advises against it. He can’t help but want her close. “I love you so much, it hurts.”

The inside of his trousers is sticky with the evidence of his own climax, but he can’t be bothered to feel the shame he normally feels, too caught up in the feeling of her body against his. He plants kisses to the crown of her head and pretends he’s holding her because she wants to be held.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs sometime after into the stillness of her soft breathing, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He isn’t, not really. Being sorry implies he won’t do it again. Something he’s able to admit by now he knows isn’t true. “I’m so sorry.” 

He closes his eyes and pretends he is. 

[megamindsecretlair]

All of Me

Pairing: Kane x Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Use of n-word. Phone Smut, mutual masturbation (fem and male) cursing, hella dirty talk, begging, possession kink, Daddy kink, teasing, all consensual. Established relationship. Brief mention of violence and murder. No spoilers for the show!

Summary: You were so dreadfully needy and Kane wasn't there to fix it. You decide to call him and tease him a little.

Word Count: 2,366k

A/N: Wanted to do a little sum'n for Thanksgiving while we all winding down from the itis. If I did Tyrone, I'd still be writing! LOL. Ya'll can thank @planetblaque for this! Kane's voice makes me so irrationally feral. Enjoy my rotten brain! Please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! I block ageless blogs.

Taglist: @browngirldominion @dayjlovesromance @flydotty @eggnox @blackerthings @hopelessdisasterr @sevikasblackgf @wide-nose-and-wonderful @monaeesstuff @notapradagurl7 @lovedlover @darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl @soft-persephone

This was so unfair. You tossed and turned. The cold sheet beside you felt like it was mocking you. You were horny and he wasn’t here. Your feverish skin made sweat gather everywhere. 

Your fingers desperately rubbed at your clit, getting wetter by the minute. But something was missing. Or someone. Kane had been gone more often than being there with you. And it fucking sucked. But any time you brought it up, he started in with that smile. That head tilt. He’d simply follow you into the room and work out whatever your attitude was.

You pictured yourself riding him. His hands on your hips, effortlessly lifting you up and down on his dick. You wouldn’t be able to tell who was in charge, him directing your pace or you slamming down on his dick. Gripping him tight inside of you as if you meant to keep him there.

A low, ragged moan escaped you. Your orgasm steadily built higher and higher. You pictured that teardrop on his face. Pictured leaning down and licking it. You knew what it meant. You knew that he was a dangerous man. But then you imagined his voice saying dirty things. 

Oh, almost there. Almost there. And…it was gone. “What the fuck!” You screamed into the empty room. That fucking bastard. You were so used to him filling you up that you couldn’t even get off by yourself anymore.

Randomly while taking a bath or shower, you could maybe get there on your own. But nothing else worked. He invaded every part of you. He commanded you, body and soul. And you fucking hated it.

You sat up in bed and cold air hit your damp back. That did little to dull your senses. Your clit was throbbing. You were needy. And he wasn’t here to work it out.

You grabbed the receiver on the nightstand beside you. As you dialed the warehouse’s number, you turned on the light. Your foot dangled off the side of the bed, bouncing as you waited for one of his stupid friends to answer. 

“Put Kane on the mu’fucking phone right now,” you demanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” the little boy said.

You waited, chewing on your nail. You rubbed your forehead. Your fingers came away wet with sweat. This shit was embarrassing. 

“Yeah, baby?” Kane’s deep, raspy voice came over the line and your pusy throbbed in response. Down girl. 

“You need to come home, now,” you said.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. 

“Can’t come home just because I said?” 

“We talked about this, mama. I was gon’ have to be gone for a while while I deal with business,” he said.

So fucking nonchalant. Kane hardly raised his voice. It was infuriating. Sometimes, you wanted to see what he looked like when mad. What it would take to make him react or do something out of character. It was toxic but you didn’t give a shit. 

You refused to beg. You weren't some weak ass bitch begging for dick. And yet, you called. He was on the phone. You sighed, realizing how fucking stupid you looked sitting in the house by yourself all the time. You liked the solitude in the day time. You didn’t have to deal with anyone but your own company, just the way you liked. But at night, when you couldn’t sleep in the middle of the bed no matter how hard you tried, it was lonely. It hit you all over again just how dangerous Kane’s life was. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this Kane,” you said.

Kane sighed on the other end. “You trynna tell me somethin’?” 

You rolled your eyes. Your fever was starting to cool. You were still incredibly horny. But you weren’t going to beg.

“Naw. Bye,” you said.

“Wait, you called me. What’s up, for real? Talk to me, baby,” he said.

You listened to the rhythm of his voice. Listening to it, you were starting to get worked up all over again. With a word, he could light a fire under you. With a sentence…

“How long are you gonna be at the warehouse?” You asked. A kernel of an idea wormed its way into your brain. 

“Not sure. Why?” 

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. You lay back against the pillows and got comfortable. 

“Just wondering…” you said. You played with the coil of the phone. 

Kane chuckled. “I know when you up to somethin’.” 

“Me?” You asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just wondering how long I got to play with myself,” you said. 

It was silent on his side. If it weren’t for the open air, you would have thought he hung up the phone. You trailed your hand over your tummy. Kane liked to place extra kisses there. You pictured him kneeling over you, placing soft kisses and watching how your belly dipped. He’d lick certain spots, guaranteeing a laugh from you.

“Are you touching yourself now?” Kane asked. He was deceptively calm. 

“Mhm,” you said. Your hand went lower, slipping beneath your panties. “Wearing your shirt. The long sleeved blue one. And my panties,” you said. Your hand played with your curls and you tried to control your breathing. But this teasing was exactly what you needed. If his punk ass wanted to spend all his time at the warehouse, he ought to know what he was missing out on.

“Where’s your hand at?” Kane asked. You heard shuffling. A creak. 

“Hm, over my pussy. Finna play with my clit the way I like,” you said.

“The way you like, huh,” he said.

You gasped as you moved your fingers through your folds. You were soaked. “Ohh,” you cooed. “I’m soooo wet right now.” 

Kane sighed. “I’m gonna get yo ass for this, I hope you know that. Touching my shit without me,” he said. 

“Oh, I’m so scared. If only I wasn’t so busy takin’ care of business,” you said.

Kane chuckled. He cleared his throat but it did nothing to soften his raspy voice. “You try to talk so tough. It’s kind of cute. But you forget that I know yo ass. You called ‘cause you couldn’t get yourself off, could you?” 

You bit your lip, irritation flaring up. His ass would guess on the first try. Oh well, didn’t matter. You were getting what you wanted and that was all that mattered. 

“Actually, I came before I called. Thought you might want to hear me cum again,” you said. You started to moan as you pictured whatever retribution he was thinking of. If he would spank you. Bend you over his knee. If he would fuck you in his recliner in the living room. If he would play you like a fiddle. If he would get straight to the point and fuck you stupid, not caring if you were wet enough for his big dick. 

“You rubbing your pussy?” Kane asked. His voice went lower, more strained.

“Yes,” you moaned. 

“Slow it down then.” 

“I need to cum,” you said. It had been a horrible night. After you smoked, you got so fuckin’ horny you were bouncing off of the walls. Kane didn’t like you driving by yourself. And he didn’t want you around the warehouse. He didn’t want to have to kill all them niggas for lookin’ sideways at your ass.

You hissed. Murder shouldn’t turn you on. But well, there was something so hot about the way Kane treated you. Like you were the lost City of Atlantis and he guarded the secret with his life. 

“Listen to me, mama. I’ma do you this kindness ‘cause I know Daddy ain’t been around. You’re lucky you caught me in a good mood. So slow it down for me. Go slow, them little circles I know you like,” he said.

You listened. Damn him, but you listened. You slowed down, rubbing large circles around your clit. Your legs shook as the pleasure increased. Your breathing slowed with it. 

“That’s it. Don’t that feel good?” He asked.

“Yes,” you whispered. Your head fell back against the pillow, your eyes rolling back to the ceiling. 

“When I get home, I’m gon’ lick that sweet pussy of yours. Nice and slow, just like you rubbing,” Kane said.

“Oh shit,” you gasped.

“Gon’ push those thighs to the bed. You won’t be able to close ‘em, no matter how much you want me to,” he continued. “Hmm, run my tongue along your pussy. Fuck you with it.”

“Shit,” you said. You could picture that. His tongue fucking into you. His big hands palming your thighs. Your legs dropped open further, as far as they would go. Your hips moved, wanting him there right now. 

“Mhm, slow it back down, mama,” he said. 

“Kane, please,” you said. If you admitted that you lied earlier, you’d never live it down. He’d lord it over you until he found something else to mock you with. Your belly tightened, cramping with the need to cum. 

“Listen to me, mama. You making me so fuckin’ hard over here,” he said.

“Really?” Your pussy clenched. You loved that you affected him just as much he affected you. That you weren’t alone in this obsession. You did as he said, slowing down again. Your fingers were drenched.

“I’m so wet, Kane. I’m gon’ have to wash these sheets,” you said. You chuckled, your voice breathy. 

“Let me hear it then,” Kane said. 

You held in a smile, your cheeks scrunching with the effort. You moved the phone from your ear and held it to your pussy. You played with yourself, nice and slow like he wanted. It was quiet in the room. So you heard how wet you were. You paid attention to the sound. It made you wetter. 

Your ragged moans were dragged from your throat. You were so close.

You brought the phone back to your ear. Kane sighed and groaned. “Damn, little mama. All that for me?” He asked.

“Yes, baby,” you said.

“Mhm, what you ‘sposed to say?” He asked.

“Yes, Daddy,” you moaned.

“There you go. You get that shit right. I shouldn’t have to correct you, right?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you moaned. 

“Now I want you to taste yourself. Taste how I’m getting that pussy screaming for me,” he said.

“Fuck.” You did what he said. Dragging your fingers past your lips and tasting your arousal. You moaned. 

“I know it’s been a minute since you had this dick, you miss it, huh?” Kane asked.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” you admitted.

“Was that so hard to say?” Kane asked.

“Boy, fuck you,” you said. But there was no heat in your words. He was absolutely right and there was no way that you could deny it. You needed this man. Needed. It should scare you to give so much of yourself to one person. To trust that he’d always be there when you fell. And he had never let you down.

True, moving here was not what you were expecting. You were just happy to have him out of prison and in your arms again. You waited. You deserved his time. Didn’t you? Didn’t you hold it down for him? Weren’t you strong for him? Didn’t you get by, day after day, living with the pain of not having the love of your life in your arms? 

His side of the bed was always so painfully icy. Your hand would accidentally brush it and you’d yank it back as if it scalded you. It reinforced how empty your life had been without him. You could survive without Kane. It would hurt like hell, but you believed you could. You didn’t want to have to. 

You wanted him here, beside you. Holding you. Kissing you. Making you laugh. Fucking you until you both couldn’t breathe. Until the rays of the sunrise poked through the curtains and illuminated his beautiful face.

“Put them fingers inside you, mama,” he said. 

You did as ordered, pushing two fingers inside of you. You gasped. Your voice stuttered. Your fingers were a poor substitute for his thick dick. For the rock of his hips. For his hand on your throat. For his gorgeous eyes closed as he slammed inside of you. Like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. Like you were heaven and he was floating above the clouds.

You sighed and moaned. Kane encouraged you, wanting to hear every sound you made. You listened to his own uneven breathing as he jerked himself off. You pictured him sitting, rubbing his dick. Hard at the thought of you.

“I think…I’m cumming,” you moaned.

“That’s okay, mama. Let it go. You been doing so good. Let that shit go and cum for me,” he said.

You screamed his name as you finally came. The wild force of it knocked the breath from you. You felt like you were in the eye of the storm. Everything was still around you, but inside, you were twisting and turning. Roiling with the intensity of the storm. Your body bowed on the bed as your climax surged through you.

Kane groaned as he came. “Goddammit,” he muttered. He panted as he calmed down. You matched his breaths. 

You felt so much better. You relaxed against the damp pillowcases beneath you. Your skin turned cold as that phantom fever left you with the orgasm. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you recovered.

Kane took in a deep breath and chuckled. “That’s all you get. I’ll come home and we gon’ talk about you on that bullshit again,” he said.

You giggled. “I’m gonna have to clean myself up. I’m thinkin’...bath. Candles. Definitely gon’ have to touch my pussy again,” you teased. 

Kane was silent once more. You heard shuffling and random shifts from him. “What are you doing?” You asked.

“I’m gon’ be home in twenty minutes and yo ass better be right fuckin’ there,” he said.

“If I’m not?” You asked.

“Don’t push me, little mama,” he said.

“Yes, Daddy,” you said. You tried to sound contrite but you both knew that you were happy as hell to finally get some dick. Twenty minutes wasn’t too long was it?

If you enjoyed this, there is more! The Secret Kane Files

[sweetbuckybarnes]

No One Would Miss Me

Pairings: Colin Bridgerton + Penelope Featherington, platonic Benedict Bridgerton + Penelope Featherington

Summary: Benedict finds out Penelope’s big secret.

"Would you excuse me, Lord Debling? I require some fresh air."

"Would you like me to come with you, Miss Featherington?"

"No, thank you, I would like a moment to myself."

Penelope curtsied to Lord Debling and made her way out of the Bridgerton's ballroom and out into the garden. Like previous years, the Bridgerton's Hearts and Flowers ball was a raving success - however, this year it was hosted by the new Viscountess Katharine Bridgerton.

Stepping out into the garden, she looked around at the decorations, before making her way over to where the swings she and Eloise once played on were. Only to see they were currently occupied by the second Bridgerton son.

"Oh, I wasn't expecting to see you, Benedict, I'll come back later," she says, turning around and just as she was about to go running away, Benedict spoke up.

"I don't mind, Penelope. You can keep me company." Penelope sighed and took the free seat next to Benedict. "Are you alright?"

Penelope shut her eyes for a moment, then looked over at him. "If I find myself marrying Lord Debling, I believe I may end up killing him not long after our wedding."

"Not well then?"

She shakes her head. "If I am to be honest with you?" Benedict nods his head. "He is dreadfully boring and rather dull. He cannot hold a conversation, he brushes off every single word I say and, surprisingly, he has more of an appetite than Colin of all people!"

Benedict watches as Penelope reaches over, swipes the cigarette he has hanging between his fingers and takes a drag. "Would not have put you down for a smoker."

"Only when Eloise stole them from you."

"I knew it was her!"

His five-word statement got a giggle out of Penelope, as Benedict looked over at the youngest Featherington daughter, he was surprised with how much he had missed her spending time with them - she and Eloise were always joined at the hip, you would never find one without the other.

"I don't mean to seem like I am prying, but whatever happened between you and Eloise?" He asks, reaching over and taking the cigarette back.

Penelope looked down at the ground. "I kept a secret from her. A very big secret, so much so she refuses to speak to me."

"What was the secret, if I am permitted to know?"

Penelope looked over her shoulder, her auburn curls fanning around her shoulders as her head looked around them - as soon as she deemed them safe from her secret, she looked over at Benedict. "I'm Whistledown," she whispered, loud enough for Benedict to hear, but quiet enough that it would be missed.

They fell into silence for a moment, as Benedict looked at Penelope in surprise. "You? You're Whistledown?" She nodded her head. "Wow, I would not have guessed it was you. Not in a million lifetimes!"

Penelope chuckled a little before the smile fell off her face.

"What I don't understand is why you and Eloise fell out? She practically worshipped Whistledown."

"She somehow worked it out. She went on a tirade about how she never believed I could do something like this, we both said some horrible things, but I knew she wouldn't believe me if I told her the whole truth, so I let her believe I am this vindictive and spiteful woman who only sees the worst in people."

"What is the truth?"

Penelope looks out into the garden, the pair haven't realised that hiding behind a tree is two of Benedict's siblings (Colin and Eloise). "The Queen was suspicious of her. She believed Eloise was Whistledown, I had to do something so she would stop looking at Eloise. If I didn't, I think Eloise would have been beheaded by now."

Benedict's eyes widen. "That might happen to you!"

"No one would miss me."

The three Bridgerton's felt their hearts break in their chests. No more than the third son, Colin Bridgerton. Penelope deemed herself so unworthy of love and happiness, that she was prepared to die alone.

"We would, all the Bridgerton's would," Benedict says, getting off his swing and crouching in front of Penelope.

Penelope shakes her head. "You might for a time, but you would all move on. You'd move away and get married, and so would little Gregory."

"What about Colin?"

"Colin made his feelings known last season," Penelope states. Colin peeks his head around the edge of the tree, seeing his older brother wiping away Penelope's tears with a handkerchief.

"Is that why you plan on getting married this season?"

"If I marry Lord Debling, I will have a title, and I'll be protected."

Benedict tilts his head, having seen the look in his brother's eyes when he poked his head around the side of the tree. "What if you marry a Bridgerton?"

Penelope looked down at Benedict, as it looked like a was currently down on one knee. "Not me!" Benedict laughs.

"If you asked, I would say yes. After your mama and Gregory, you are my third favourite Bridgerton."

Colin and Eloise share a look, they were once Penelope's favourite people, and now they are no better than her mother.

"You know which Bridgerton I am talking about."

"Gregory is far too young, I don't even know if I would be still alive when Gregory enters society."

"You know I mean Colin."

Colin lets go of the tree and stands to the side of the tree, looking between his older brother and the young woman he didn't know he adored. He watched as Penelope shook her head.

"I told you Colin made his feelings known and I have made peace with it." Benedict's confused face must have prompted Penelope to explain. "At my family's ball at the end of last season, I overheard Colin stating to half of the men of the ton, that he would not court me in his wildest fantasies. Which is odd, because I never asked him to court me."

Colin felt all the blood drain from his face. He doesn't remember much from the Featherington's ball last season, other than confronting Penelope's Uncle Jack. They always said a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts. Not this sober man.

"That's not true, Pen," Colin made himself known, as his brother got up from the floor and Penelope looked over her shoulder at him, there were tear marks on her face. It broke Colin all the more that his stupid drunk words caused this.

Penelope shook her head and looked away from him. "You do not need to excuse your actions, Mr. Bridgerton."

"Pen, will you please stop calling me Mr. Bridgerton?" Colin crouched down in front of her, watching over her shoulder for a second as Benedict walked over to where tears were silently falling down Eloise's face. "I am Colin. I have always been Colin to you."

"We need not act so familiar with each other, Mr. Bridgerton. Especially if I am to marry Lord Debling at the end of the season."

Colin watched Penelope for a moment. "You know there is a name which holds more protection than that of Lord Debling?"

"Who's?"

"Mine."

[adore-laur]

SKIN

— a blurb from the dadrry universe 🤍

——

Harry's skin must be woven with threads of magic. There has to be an otherworldly magnetism entwined in his veins, bestowing captivating warmth on anyone who touches him. Or perhaps there's an underlying spell coursing through his bloodstream, effortlessly soothing deep-rooted aches and vociferating cries. 

It's been said before, but it bears repeating: Harry is a natural when it comes to being a lover. He has been by your side through every trial and tribulation life has cruelly thrown at you. He has willingly taken your pain during grief-stricken times and selflessly shared the burden. You've navigated the rollercoaster years of dating, marriage, and parenthood with him, all the while watching him adapt to each role with unwavering patience and grace. 

Witnessing him be a dad makes you firmly believe it's what he was made to do. It was written in the stars.

When you wake from a deep slumber—a long and uninterrupted one at that—the house smells like blueberries and homemade bread. Well, if four hours of sleep count as uninterrupted. You'll be the first to admit that you haven't missed the lack of sleep involved in caring for a newborn. 

You slowly make your way to the kitchen, surprised by how quiet it is except for the sizzling sounds of breakfast being cooked. Your tired eyes regard Harry swaying by the stovetop, a spatula in his grasp, and his one-week-old baby girl cradled in his opposite arm. She's wide awake, her swaddled body cuddled perfectly in the crook of his elbow as she mesmerizingly stares at her dad skillfully take a loaf of bread out of the oven. He has on his favorite fleece robe with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair— that's getting quite long—is flatly pushed back due to him restlessly tossing and turning all night. 

It's baffling how whenever Harry holds his daughter, she's completely content as long as her skin touches his. You don't quite understand it. You're well aware that skin-to-skin contact is essential, but it's wondrous how much she loves it with him already. 

You stand still and watch him for a few more moments, thinking about how, nine months ago, you observed him from the same spot as he made pancakes with his eldest daughter. Back when the baby he's holding now was just a tiny bump he would fawn over, growing rounder each month and getting plenty of kisses each day. 

Eventually, you refocus on the present and shuffle over to where your sleep-deprived husband is yawning and shutting the oven door with his hip. The both of you got a dreadfully short amount of sleep last night, but you think it isn't so bad when mornings look like they do with him. 

"Hello," you say, making your presence known before appearing next to him.

Harry loosens a golden-brown blueberry crepe with the spatula and sets it on one of three plates. "Morning, sweetheart." 

"When did she wake up?"

"'Bout an hour ago," he replies, his voice hoarse. "Just little whimpers, so I took her to the backyard for fresh air. She told me she wanted to make breakfast with me." 

You amusedly tilt your head to the side. "Oh, she told you that? I didn't know you could translate her baby sounds." 

"I can, actually. She also told me she wanted milk." He looks over at you and raises his eyebrows. "Pronto, preferably." 

"Here, give me her. She's definitely hungry." You take her from him and kiss her soft, munchable cheeks. "Thank you for making food, by the way." 

"That's my job," he says melodically as you walk over to the couch. You sit and slide the strap of your silk pajama top down, then remove the white swaddle from the baby's body. She instantly latches onto your nipple, causing you to wince as a dull ache initiates. 

As you feed her and zone out, you hear Harry plate the food and open the fridge several times before you sense him coming up behind you. He leans his torso over the back of the couch and rests his chin on your head. Breastfeeding has never been uncomfortable around him since you know he's appreciative of what a woman's body can supply and how draining it is to be the supplier. Often, like right now, he will silently observe his daughter fall into a state of tranquility as she suckles. It's beautiful to nurture another human using your body, and even though it's terribly time-consuming, the special bond formed during it is always worth it. 

"I'm going to get dressed," Harry says after a while, squeezing your arm.

You turn your head and pucker your lips for the first kiss of the day. He grants you several soft pecks that taste like blueberries, each with a satisfied hum, before leaving a long, dramatic kiss on his daughter's head.

A few minutes later, he comes back just as you finish breastfeeding. He's wearing a patterned jacquard-knit sweater and loose denim jeans with ripped holes near his knees. He stands before you and takes his baby girl from your arms, kissing and blowing raspberries on her full belly until she's screeching happily. 

"Who's ready for tummy time, hmm? Is it you?" She coos with a toothless smile, and Harry pretends to eat her cheeks. "I think it's you." 

He gently sets her on the blanket on the living room floor, then lies on his stomach next to her. You grab your phone from the coffee table and snap a quick picture of the sweet memory. 

After five minutes of encouragement and tracing every feature of her face, Harry picks her up and burps her. Meanwhile, you wander into the kitchen, grab the plates, and then slide the patio door open with your shoulder. You head out to the backyard, with Harry following closely behind. You're not too worried about your other daughter since she'll definitely be cranky if you wake her up this early. 

As you set the plates down and sit in the wicker lounge chair, Harry passes the baby over and settles beside you, chewing and swallowing a bite of bread. He says, "I was thinking of going to the beach later and swimming with the girls. The water is pretty calm today." 

You nod and pick at your crêpe. "Yeah, go ahead. I'll probably take a nap or something." 

"You don't want to come with us?" he asks, scrunching his eyebrows. It's gorgeous out." 

"I don't really feel like swimming. I'm not feeling my best." 

He leans closer to you and places his palm on your forehead. "What do you mean, love? You feelin' okay?" 

"I'm just tired," you lie partially. "Don't worry about me." 

"Hey, look at me." He takes your hand in his. "I'm going to worry about you. You just gave birth a week ago. Gotta tell me how you're feeling mentally and physically. Otherwise, I don't know how to help you." 

"I know, but I swear I'm—" A fussy cry cuts you off, and you sigh as you start rocking the baby. Harry soothingly massages the back of your neck, leaving a comforting kiss behind your ear. 

"We'll talk about it later, okay?" he murmurs. 

You just weakly smile and hope he'll forget about it. 

——

The sun has just begun to set, and the evening sky is a bright, beautiful orange that makes the ocean glimmer. All of you are on the beach to spend time together before an early bedtime. Harry had made dinner and is now shaking out a blanket so the both of you can sit on the sand. Your eldest daughter is distracted with her beach toys, talking to herself as she toddles along the shoreline in her swimsuit and floaties.

There's no time for peaceful watching, however, because once you plop down on the blanket with the baby snuggled to your chest, Harry sits right by you and clasps his hands over his bent knee like he's about to give a lecture. He jerks his chin and says, "You know what I'm going to say." 

It's impossible not to roll your eyes. "Do I have to?" you mutter with a sheepish grin. 

"Yes. You're legally required to talk to your husband and baby daddy." 

You just groan and prepare yourself to vent about all the postpartum feelings that have been swirling in your pessimistic brain over the past seven days.

"I'm scared of losing myself," you say, exhaling heavily. "I remember the first time I became a mom and how I didn't even recognize myself some days. It took so much energy out of me, you know? With breastfeeding, being up all night, and trying to get my body back to normal, I guess I just don't want to fall into that dark mindset again." 

Harry nods understandingly. "Do you recognize yourself right now?" 

"A lot more than last time," you reply quietly. "I mean, we're both more experienced with how to handle a newborn. That definitely helps." 

He swallows, and his serious expression reveals that he sees right through you. "Can I know the real reason why you didn't want to go swimming earlier?" he asks with a gentleness that could break you if you dwell on it for long enough. 

You sometimes wonder if your skin is made of glass or if he knows you well enough to notice all the cracks. 

"If I talk about it, I'll start crying." 

He tuts and nudges your foot with his. "And what's wrong with crying?" 

Shrugging, you defeatedly mumble, "It makes me feel like a little kid." 

"You're my wife, not some stranger to me," he stresses with a soft laugh. "I hate that you think crying in front of me will put me off. Please be vulnerable with me. I don't want you to keep your feelings bottled up." 

Your lips wobble, and a teardrop escapes as you look downward. "I don't feel good when I look at my body. I don't think I could put on a swimsuit and have you see me." Harry scoots closer and wipes your tears away, a sympathetic frown on his lips. "And I spent so long trying to accept it last time I gave birth," you add, "and now having to bounce back again seems exhausting." 

"I don't expect you to bounce back," Harry says gently. "I don't expect anything of you that involves changing your body. It's your body. Do whatever you need to make you feel good, and do it at your own pace, all right?" 

Your heart lovingly falters at his statement. "Once we can finally have sex in five weeks, it's going to be terrible. I'll probably cry." 

He laughs, and you let one out too. "Is that really what you're worried about?" 

"No." He gives you an unamused look with a hint of a smirk. "Okay, maybe. I just don't want you to look at me. I could blindfold you or something." 

"Can you look at me right now for a second?" Harry asks earnestly. You adjust the baby in your arms and meet his eyes, which sparkle in the sunlight. I look at you and see a goddess," he says, holding your free hand. "A mother to two beautiful girls who make me smile every single day. You're my safety blanket. The body you think I don't want to see is the one that grew life. That is so precious to me." 

He begins tracing his fingertips across the light striations on your thigh as he continues, "The stretch marks on your skin are there because you grew two humans, which to me is the most powerful goddamn thing I could ever watch you do. And you've done it so effortlessly that I can't help but fall in love with you more and more each day." 

In that moment, you wonder why you were ever doubtful in the first place and how the man sitting next to you can always easily drag you out of any momentary insecurity. 

Harry suddenly stands and carefully pulls you up with him. He then kneels on the blanket and spreads his arms out. "Look at you," he says over the crashing waves. "You're literally glowing in front of me, holding our baby girl that you brought into this world all by yourself, and making my heart pound just as hard as the first day I met you." 

"Stop, Harry," you tell him, heat expanding across your face. 

"No, because look at you!" He exhales sharply and lowers his arms. "I worship you. Everything you do or say, every smile and laugh, every time you look at me... I'm hooked for eternity."

You kneel in front of him with tears threatening to spill over. He cradles your cheeks and kisses you with an intensity similar to the evening waves pelting the shore. Is there a way to thank the ocean for bringing him to you? 

As the sun says its routine farewell, you bask in Harry's glow that cascades from the solicitous words he speaks and the tender touches he gives. Skin that's unquestionably loved by him, and skin that you will love at your own pace. 

——

[letaliabane]

Loving Hands

The youngest daughter of King Viserys falls seriously ill. Perhaps the loving hand of the Commander can do so much to help.

genre: a bit of angst, mostly fluff. mention of minor character death. 

a/n: this was inspired by my mum who took care of me recently. I was very ill with a migraine, cramps and an uneasy stomach and she stayed by my side through it all. Made me think how ser harwin would take care of his lover! Enjoy!

word count: 4K

A violent cough escaped your lips before you could bring up your handkerchief to your mouth, it felt as if your chest was rattling shaking your whole entire body from the inside.

What once started out as a small cough and a simple cold had turned into something dreadfully worse but being as stubborn as you were, you never wanted to admit it. 

However, you began to feel weaker as the days drew on, your body sore as if you had gone horse riding for days on end, skin cold even as the sun beat down upon you. 

‘Are you well my lady?’ 

The gentle, but deep rumbling voice of your personal guard, Ser Harwin Strong, caught your attention as your cough finally eased. You waved him away with a small smile. 

‘I’m fine, Commander. Just a little cough is all, it will pass,’ You barely gasped out, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible.

He came to your side, a shiver running down your spine as his eyes roamed your face. ‘I’ve heard and seen much sickness princess. If I may speak plainly, that does not sound like a normal cough.’

You scoffed but with a chuckle. 

Taking a brief look around for any stragglers that wondered the gardens, you clasped the Commander’s gloved hand into yours, squeezing it as you gave him your best smile. 

‘I’m perfectly alright Harwin, I promise.’ 

In the past few months, you and the heir to Harrenhal had become incredibly close. From childhood friends to something you couldn’t really put your finger on. 

His embrace was where you felt safest in the privacy of his chambers, his hands holding you as if you were made of glass, your own mapping out the scars that decorated his skin, memories left behind of the battles he had fought. 

Your titles would be forgotten and conversation would flow freely. Sometimes a kiss or two was shared but nothing more. And yet, you knew it was most definitely more than friends. 

He sighed heavily before smiling down you, letting his knuckles caress your cheek, ‘I only worry for you princess. That is all.’

‘But, I think I may call for the Maester once I have a nap. I’m feeling rather tired suddenly.’ 

‘As you wish my lady.’ 

His arm was out for you before you could ready yourself to stand up, gripping his forearm as you stood to your feet, his hand settling briefly on the small of your back to make sure you were steady before letting you go ahead. 

But as you made your way back towards the Red Keep, you knew something was amiss. You felt light, your sight fogged as if tears glazed your eyes. You let your head fall back and looked up through your lashes, the sky a smear of blues and clouds like a child’s painting. 

And then your world began to spin. 

‘H-Harwin?’ 

You were unconscious before your legs gave way, too far gone to feel a pair of arms wrap around you as you crumpled to the ground. 

Even in his condition, Viserys was fast as he limped down the corridor, Rhaenyra running ahead as the guards hurried to catch up to them. 

They burst through the doors of your room, coming upon the sight of the maids bustling around the bed, a Maester standing over you as you lay in bed.

‘Y/N?!’ 

Rhaenyra rushed to your side, ignoring the cries of the maids and Maester to stay away as she sat close to your side. The breath left her as she took in the sight of you. 

Your skin had paled from its beautiful glow to a dull grey, sweat glistening across your skin. The soft wheeze that left your lips every so often caught her attention, watching the low rise and fall of your chest. Even your hair had darkened from a beautiful white to ash. 

She gripped your hand in hers, pressing a kiss to it as Viserys hobbled to your bedside, a cloth held up to his mouth. ‘What is the matter with my daughter? I want an answer now!’ 

‘The Princess is down with influenza my King.’ The Maester was brave enough to speak up, coming to his side. Viserys looked at him in horror. 

‘How did this happen? She was perfectly healthy this morning at breakfast!’ 

The old man sighed. ‘Unfortunately, it is a wicked sickness that can turn fatal very quickly if not treated properly.’

‘Is there anything we can do for her now?’ Rhaenrya, who had been quietly listening to the Maester, asked, unable to tear her eyes away from her sister. 

‘I have given her the necessary medicines needed to treat such a sickness your Highness. For now we watch and pray that she makes it through the night, only then will we be able to tell how severe this really is.’ 

She nodded before Viserys looked around the room. ‘Who found Y/N? She was in the gardens this morning when I last saw her.’

‘She was your Majesty. The Commander was the one who was with her. He who brought her here and took care of her before I arrived.’ 

It was only then that the King and Rhaenyra finally caught sight of the man in the corner of the room, stock still as a statue, his eyes trained on the young woman now lying in bed barely moving. 

For how big he was, Harwin had moved like lighting through the Red Keep after you had collapsed, carrying your limp body in his arms and ignoring those who whispered and gasped.  

Had barked orders at the maids who had been moving about your room, ordering for the Maester and for the King and Princess be notified of your current state. 

He had immediately moved you to the bed, and with caution to thrown to the wind, removed the thick layers of your dress to leave you in your shift. Only when the Maester arrived had he backed off, fading into the corner of the room to observe. 

The King gave a nod to the Commander, words failing him as he looked to his youngest daughter once more. Pressing the cloth firmly over his mouth, he leant down, pressing his forehead against yours. 

‘Oh my darling girl, my sweet little one …’ 

Tears immediately filled Rhaenyra’s eyes as a mere whimper left your lips, gripping her father’s hand where it rested over yours. 

After their mother had passed, the two sisters made it their duty to remain close with their father, making the most of every day as his own sickness worsened. 

Losing mother was the greatest heartbreak, Rhaenyra knew if her father lost you too, it would surely be the death of him, and her too. 

The Maester shepherded everyone out of the room, looking towards the Commander who remained. He placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘Come now Ser Harwin. All we can do for now is let her rest and pray she makes it through the night.’ 

With a small push to his back, Harwin was led out of the room, his eyes remaining on you surrounded by your family, even as the door shut. 

The light had long faded from the skies as Harwin found himself pacing his room. It had been a few days since you had fainted in his arms, and still no word came with any improvements. 

He tried to distract himself; tried training, reading a book, visiting the garrison.

Yet all he could think of was you, laying in your bed and barely breathing. 

It brought memories of his own mother to mind, how as a young boy had stood in the doorway of his parents room. 

He had watched as his father tearfully whispered sweet words of goodbyes to his mother who lay cradled in his arms, her breath rattling and then fading into silence. 

Harwin couldn’t bare to watch another woman he loved so dearly perish the same way. 

First he visited the kitchens brightly lit by the torches alight, the fire dancing across the walls. The cooks and kitchen maids giving him a smile before returning to their duties. 

The head cook, Mrs Crooke, who had been in the midst of mixing a bowl of some sort of sauce, cheered at the sight of him, ambandoning her tools to embrace him heartily.  

‘My dear laddy look at you! Commander of the City Watch visiting little old me.’ She cried, cupping his cheek with a large grin. 

Harwin smiled, placing his hand over the woman’s. ‘Its good to see you again Mrs Crooke but I must ask you a favour. The Princess Y/N is incapacitated at the moment.’

Her hand fell to her heart, nodding, ‘Aye, we’ve heard she’s been taken ill the poor Lass.’ 

‘Well, that’s exactly why I’ve come to you.’ 

She raised her eyebrow in question and he continued, ‘I was wondering perhaps your broth would be able to help. I know she wouldn’t be able to eat anything heavy she wouldn’t be able to keep it down, so something light may at least keep her well for the time being.’ 

The old woman couldn’t help but smile, taking in the mistiness of the Commander’s eyes and worry written in his expression. She took his hand in hers. ‘You care for her don’t you lad?’

Harwin wanted to deny it. 

If anyone found out it would be seen as incredibly out of line, even treasonous. He didn’t care what happened to him, he just didn’t want to see Y/N hurt or unhappy. And yet, in that moment, he couldn’t help but nod. 

Mrs Crooke nodded, immediately turning to the other kitchen maids with a clap of her hands. 

‘Take over here ladies, a special order is needed for the Princess Y/N!’ 

Harwin made his way to Y/N’s chambers, armour now removed, carefully holding a marble bowl of cold water, a cloth thrown over his arm. The guard that stood at your chambers briefly looked at him, Harwin recognising him as one of his own men, he nodded to him. 

‘I’m here to attend to the Princess.’ 

For a moment the guard hesitated, and fear brewed within the Commander’s belly. 

He trusted his men, however he knew that no matter how loyal a man could be to his duty, a price could always overturn it. There were spies and traitors working for the corrupt within Kings Landing, they easily could spin this mere event into something far worse. 

However, the fear ebbed away as soon as the guard nodded to him, opening the door for him. 

Harwin quickly made his way over to the bedside, placing the bowl down. His glanced nervously over to you. 

Sweat drenched your shift, hair matted against your face. The rasp in your lungs had worsened, and it made his heart clench as you gasped for air, groaning deliriously. 

‘Oh my love,’ He whispered, pushing your hair away from your face, pressing his palm to your cheek. Your eyes briefly flickered towards him, sighing before falling quiet once more. 

Harwin couldn’t help but press his lips to your temple in comfort, heart clenching at the warmth that prickled beneath his lips. 

Quickly he picked up the cloth he had brought, folding it before dipping it into the water, letting it soak for a moment before bringing it to your skin. A whimper left your lips but he pressed on, wiping away any trace of sweat that he could see.

Leave the cloth to rest on your head, he reached into the pouch on his belt pulling out a small vial of oil. Pouring a generous amount into the centre of his palm, rubbing his hands together, eyes never leaving your face as you rested. 

Harwin leant over you letting his hands rest against your neck, unable to hold back his smile as you keened beneath his touch. He began to massage around your jaw, your neck and just above your collarbones. 

His hands wondered down your arms to your hands, taking one in his grasp and letting his thumb follow the lines that were etched into your palm before taking the other and doing the same. 

‘Ser Harwin!’ He turned to find one of the young maids at the door, ‘i’m sorry I didn’t think anyone would be here Commander! I just came to check in on the Princess.’

He gave her a nod in greeting, standing to his feet. 

‘At ease Maisley, it’s okay. I’m seeing to that the Princess is well looked after. Her fever has gone down considerably since I arrived. I would suggest helping her change into a new shift, she may grow uncomfortable when she awakens.’

She nodded, hurrying around the room. Even when she brought over the partition to obscure the bed from sight, Harwin turned his back to it, not wanting to make either of the ladies uncomfortable. 

When a cough disrupted the silence, he looked up at the sight of one of the kitchen hands carrying a tray in the doorway.

‘The broth you requested Commander,’ The young boy announced, nodding to the black pot that sat beside the bowl of steaming broth, ‘Mrs Crooke also thought it best to also give some mint ginger tea, said it would help get her back to health in no time.’ 

‘Thank you, and give my thanks to Mrs Crooke once more. Let her know I will visit as soon as the moment arises,’ He said as he took it with a smile, the boy bowed to him before making his way out of the room. 

Harwin placed the tray down on the bedside table once Maisley began to move the partition away to reveal you adorning a new shift, replacing the old one which she held in her grasp. She turned to the Commander.

‘Will that be all Ser Harwin? Anything else you may need?’ 

He smiled towards her. ‘Not at the moment thank you Maisley, go get some rest.’  

The young maid bowed to him before also taking her leave, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

‘Harwin?’ 

Whipping around, he found you staring up at him sluggishly, eyes barely open, a hand reaching out to him. 

‘I’m here my love, I’m right here,’ He caressed your cheek, eyes softening as you even in your sickened state, leant into his touch. 

You smiled up at him, but it faded as you took in your shift, the heaviness of your chest evident, glancing around to recognise your own chambers.  

‘What happened? I-I remember us in the gardens and—’

‘It’s okay Y/N, you're safe.’ He hushed you, turning your face towards his, keeping his hand on your neck to keep you steady. ‘You were ill and fainted, I brought you to your room and the Maester took a look at you.’

Slowly the panic eased from your body, leaning back into the warmth of your bed, watching as Harwin picked up the steaming bowl from your bedside table. 

‘You must eat, you need to keep your strength up.’

‘I’m not hungry Harwin, I’m just so sleepy …’ 

‘How about you eat just a little, then you can get some more rest? For my sake?’ 

You chuckled quietly at his child-like request, carefully trying to sit up. Harwin was quick to assist, a brief squeak leaving you as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you up to lean against the headboard and adjusting the pillow to accomodate you. 

When you reached for the spoon, he was quick to pull away with a shake of his head and wearing a smirk, bringing the warm spoon to your lips. 

‘I may be sick, Harwin, but I am not lame,’ You croaked only for your words to splutter as you coughed roughly, feeling his hand rub soothingly across your back. 

When the coughing lessened, and your wheezing quietened, Harwin gently said as he brushed your hair back, ‘That may be so, but let me take care of you my love.’ 

Too tired to resist, you allowed him to feed a few spoons of broth. Even with your mouth feeling dry and tastebuds dulled, you enjoyed the rich chicken, rosemary and thyme that broke through; munching quietly on some of the carrots, potatoes and onion as he watched attentively. 

Soon enough the bowl was empty, and Harwin was setting it aside before easing you back against the bed, your eyes now drooping sleepily. As he pulled back, your hand shot to his, gripping his fingertips weakly. 

‘Please don’t go Harwin …’ You gasped, ‘I-I don’t want to be alone.’

Harwin’s heart broke, bending so he was looking into your eyes. ‘I’ll be only a moment darling, I just want to stoke the fire.’

‘Hmm, it is cold ...’ You whimpered. Harwin’s brow furrowed quickly placing the back of his hands against your forehead only to curse. Your fever had returned, and worse it seemed. 

Quickly, he rushed around the room. Tossing a few new logs and kindling into the grand fireplace, he stoked at the flames until it was roaring and heat swarmed the room. 

Returning to kneel at your side, he grabbed the soaking cloth once more, gently dabbing it across your face. A trembling cry left your lips, a tear slipping down your cheek. 

‘Please don’t leave me ...’

‘I’ll be here beloved,’ He whispered shakily against your cheek where he laid a soft kiss, running his fingertips through your hair. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Leaning his forehead against yours, he silently prayed, asking the seven—or whatever force was present—to stay their hand and leave you be. He wouldn’t allow them to take you so easily.

The next morning after yet another restless night of anxious thoughts, Rhaenyra accompanied her father towards her sisters room like she had for the last few days. 

When she had tried to get closer to aid Y/N where she could, the Maesters and maids held her back, not wanting the heir to the throne to avoid potentially catching the sickness. 

It had angered her that she could not help her sister, instead ordering those who were present to do all they could for her. She could only hope that her sister had made improvement. 

When the door to your chambers opened, a gasp left Rhaenyra’s lips, but this time out of shocked delight. 

You were now sitting up in bed with your hair tied back sipping at what she presumed to be tea, revealing the colour that had returned to your cheeks, wearing a smile at the sight of your father and sister. 

Just like days previous, Rhaenyra ran to her sister ignoring the cries of the maids and Maesters, jumping across the bed to pull you into a fierce, tight hug. You couldn’t help but chuckle, leaning your cheek against her head. 

‘Sister you are fool to let yourself get ill so easily!’ Your sister cried, shaking you as if to bring clarity to your mind.

Smiling, you pulled away to look at her, only to sigh at the tears evident in her eyes. You pressed your hands to her cheeks. ‘I am sorry I worried you Nyra. You know how stubborn I can get in my own ways.’ 

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but shake with quiet laughter before pressing her lips to your forehead, letting your head rest on her shoulder. 

At the sound of a familiar cane striking against stone, you looked up to see your father at your side, tears streaming down his face. 

‘Oh father!’ 

Pulling away once more from your sister, you embraced your father, tears of your own springing to your eyes as his hand came up to run through your hair, also pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

‘My dear sweet girl,’ He whispered to you, ‘thank the gods that you are okay!’

‘There is someone you should thank though father.’ 

When your father pulled away in confusion, you nodded with a smile towards the man that once more stood in the far corner,  hands clasped in front of him as he observed the room. 

‘The Commander nursed me back to health. Had broth made and brought to me, eased my fever, and watched over me during the night.’

Harwin gave a nod to you, deep shadows sat beneath his eyes, tiredness straining at his limbs, but he would do it all over again just to see the way you smiled at him. 

‘Ser Harwin,’ Viserys limps towards the Commander, leaning heavily on his cane as his hand came down on the man’s shoulder, ‘Thank you my boy. I will forever be in your debt for taking such care of my daughter.’ 

Harwin smiled briefly, bowing to the King. ‘Not at all your majesty, I only do what is best to keep the Princess safe as it is my duty. I’ve dealt with a lot of sickness in my life, I did not want to see her go through the same suffering that I’ve seen others go through. I must say, the Princess has an enduring spirit, she fought hard.’ 

You ducked your head with a shy smile, feeling a sudden nudge to look up at Rhaenyra who raised her eyebrow with a small smirk and you couldn’t help but giggle, hiding your face against her shoulder. 

It was a day later you found yourself fully recovered, out of bed and dressed in a stunning blue dress, you left the confines of your room. 

After some business had been attended to, you rushed out of your father’s room with excitement. Harwin stood in the corridor, his head turning towards you as you rushed towards him. 

‘Ser Harwin, it is good to see you on such a beautiful day.’ 

‘Princess,’ He bowed his head in greeting to you with a smile, ‘I’m happy to see you doing so well.’

Quickly looking around, you took his hand, pulling him along with you. At first he was hesitant, looking around once more before following you into a small alcove, dimly lit by the sunshine that fell through from the corridor. 

You turned to him, nervously picking at your nails as you glance up at him. ‘I wanted to thank you for taking care of me Harwin.’ 

‘Princess—‘ At your raised eyebrow, he corrected himself, ‘Y/N you do not need to thank me.’ 

‘But I do, because I know you didn’t need to take care of me the way you did. I need to know ... why you did it.’ 

For a moment he stared at you silently before sighing. Stepping forward slowly he removed his gloves tucking them into his belt, taking your hand into his. 

‘Seeing you in that bed brought back memories I never want to see again. My mother s-she,’ He closed his eyes briefly before looking down at you, ‘She died of influenza. I watched her leave us in the arms of my father, the one woman able to ease his heart gone in a matter of days. And I couldn’t let you go.’ 

You felt his thumb trace the lines of your palm, but your eyes did not stray from his, your hand immediately reaching for his cheek to wipe away the tears that fell. 

Leaning into your touch, he tipped your chin up as he brought his forehead to yours. ‘I couldn’t lose the woman I love to that, not again. You are the one thing that gives me meaning and purpose. Upon my vow, I will do everything in my power to ensure you are safe and loved.’

A small gasp left your lips after hearing his words, his breath batting against your skin. Without hesitating, you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, your hand still resting against his cheek.

Sighing against your lips, Harwin’s hand fell from your chin to rest against your waist pulling you even closer. When you parted, his nuzzled his nose against yours affectionately making you laugh. 

‘Oh how I missed that sound.’ 

You smiled sweetly up at him, pushing away the wild curls that obscured his beautiful eyes from your sight. 

‘I went to see my father today, told him of my desire to marry you,’ You whispered against his lips, smiling as he pulled away in shock, ‘I must warn you, Rhaenyra also has put in a good word for you to him. She believes you’ve already proved yourself enough.’

Harwin felt as if he was in a dream, the blood thumping in his veins fuelled by the happiness that wrapped around his heart. 

‘Have I ever told you how I love you?’ 

You laughed, gripping his hand between you. ‘You showed with your actions, they spoke so loudly and showed me how incredible of a man you are. One that I would like to have as my husband.’

Harwin smiled widely, letting his head fall to your neck. You couldn’t help but giggle as his nose brushed your skin, lips pressing against below your collarbone where he felt the pulse of your heartbeat. 

A loud squeal left your lips as his arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you off your feet, spinning you around laughing heartily.

As history came to pass, people would know how Harwin Strong’s greatest honour was the love he held for his wife, Princess Y/N Targaryen and their children. And from that day onward, as he had vowed, Harwin protected, loved and ensured your happiness for the rest of your days. 

harwin masterlist  -  masterlist

a/n: this turned out SO much longer than I expected it to. 

tagged (if your tag isn't working DM me and we'll try and fix it up!): @thesithdiaries @dazecrea @ppeuppeuppeu @a-sunflower-in-bloom @ladystrongofharrenhall @ccallistata @agoldin @vivilingme-blog @my-dark-prince @derzauberermitlilabademantel @blooomsstuff @starxdame @alexslittlegirl  @budugu @piper570 @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @words-way-of-life  @m1tzifa1ry @gibbsgirl7 @b0xfullofdarkness @hueanhdang @criesinsagitarius @nicolewithanee @starxqt @ateliefloresdaprimavera @akilababs @lakamaa12 @iwillboilyourteeth @littlebirdgot @venus2eros @akinatrix @rainazinha @missusnora @hadesismybaby-reacts ​ @lucyysthings ​ @whiterosesblackroses ​​ @b3nzeynep @rosemalachi