#After i scraped a fourth or a third of the floor I swept up the debris

[chartreuxcatz]

At work I spent... maybe a little less than an hour scraping gunk off a floor that hasn't been cleaned in god knows how long and now my body hurts.

And its not even done yetttt

[azureashes]

The Queen of Curses

As promised, the long awaited sequel! This is a gift fic for the awesome, amazing, epic, kind, lovely, warm, and all around makes the world a better place @xxdoncrazyxx. Happy belated birthday! <3

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18+ Minors DNI

Sukuna//Reader - a sequel to a Goddess for the King of Curses

TW: size kink, triple penetration (kinda), drowning, death, impalement (is that a word?), corruption, mindbreak, lots of blood, lots of cum, sexual slavery, violent death, dubcon I guess, (although reader is pretty into it... psycho XD), DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, also yandere

„Serve?“

Your voice barely reached your ears. It came out distant, as if someone else had spoken.

“Mm,” Sukuna dismissed with a casual wave of his hand, leaning back on someone else’s throne, one leg crossed over the other, crown and scepter tossed carelessly at his feet. Power was his crown. He had no use for the trinkets of weaker men.

 “They’ve served me well enough,” he frowned, displeased by your hesitation. “Now it’s your turn to serve them.”

You knew your voice would falter if you spoke, so you said nothing. Weakness did not arouse Sukuna’s pity – if he had such a thing – it merely provoked his sadism.

“Don’t tell me there’s a problem… goddess,” the last word was spoken on a sneer as he lifted his chin, the black markings on his face twisting along with his twisted expression.

You swallowed thickly and glanced up at where the cursed spirit sat, perched on the seat of power that only yesterday belonged to a man who had ruled at least a hundred miles in every direction. Today, his skull served as Sukuna’s soup bowl.

Two of Sukuna’s arms relaxed on the elaborately fashioned golden armrests, a third propped up his chin, while the fourth was held out towards you, a single finger beckoning you closer. You had consigned yourself to being his toy, and even after all these months of travelling with him, he had not yet grown tired of your old moniker.

Did he do it on purpose? To remind you that your worth wasn’t nearly as elevated as you had once imagined it to be? Or did he simply relish the knowledge that he had brought a goddess – even a fake one – to her knees? You bit your lip, your mind racing to piece together a suitable reply. The only matter was, in the year since Sukuna had knocked your self-worth from that pedestal, you’d been scrambling along on the floor, trying to piece it back together and figure out where it really belonged.

You were a woman, not a goddess, he had said. And the devil of it was, you only felt like a woman when his crimson eyes were burning into yours as he forced himself onto you. It wasn’t always pleasant, but you savored it all the same. Every scar he left on you was like a badge of honor. Proof of your lived experiences.

But to share you with his lackeys? You didn’t care who or how high-ranking they were. You didn’t care if they were powerful enough for Sukuna to feel they deserved you as a reward, you didn’t want to share your body with anyone but him. Being his vessel was the only worth you had left.

“I simply did not realize,” you began slowly, lifting your chin to return his gaze through half- lidded eyes as you swept towards him in response to his beckoning, your skirts swirling around you as you did so. “That my Lord was in the habit of sharing his possessions with others.”

You marched up the two steps towards the usurped throne solemnly, your eyes never leaving his, until you came to stand in front of him with all the poise of your upbringing. Sukuna lifted a hand towards your face with a deceptive gentleness, his sharp, black fingernails scraping past your cheek as his fingers raked through your loose hair.

“My possessions?” he purred, as if pleased you had come to think of yourself as such. His hand closed into a cruel fist as he jerked you forward by your hair, sending you face first into his lap. You supported yourself by bracing yourself on his knees, but his unforgiving grip did not allow you to rise.

“I do with my possessions what I will,” Sukuna reminded you, his voice serpentine and cold in your ear. “Or else, I break them and throw them away.”

The burning pain in your scalp was not even the beginning of what you knew he could do to you, and you cursed the warmth coursing through your treacherous body, a body that had come to learn that pleasure and pain were devilishly intertwined.

“Then forgive me,” you whispered, turning your face towards him with difficulty, “That I would rather be broken than be made to submit to someone other than you.”

He could be angered or pleased by your defiance, there was no way of knowing, and frankly, you no longer had the sense of self-preservation to hope for either.

The moment held, the air between you taut like a hunter’s bowstring as he frowned at you. You wondered what he was looking for as he searched the depths of your eyes. He would find nothing there but sincerity.

Something shifted in his gaze, and his frown deepened. You could not say whether he was puzzled or surprised, but when his brows furrowed, you were acutely aware that the scales had tipped against you.

“Your insolence reminds me, we need to break in the dungeons, don’t we?” A cruel laugh fell from his grinning lips. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I bet you’ll feel right at home.”

He dragged you down the three steps to the hall and then along further passageways. Some of his minions glanced at you in surprise, but they knew better than to look for too long. He dragged you down roughly hewn steps that led into darkness, and you stumbled along behind him, struggled to find your footing on the irregular stairs. You were greeted with a darkness so thick it was almost palpable against your face.

Apart from the moans of prisoners deeper within the underground prison, the flickering of the torchlight in Sukuna’s hand was the only sound that met your ears.

You started as a heavy, barred iron door swung open with a deafening creak like a cat’s yowling and with a flick of his wrist, Sukuna sent you tumbling headfirst into a prison cell, your face striking the uneven slabs of stone roughly. The iron bars slammed shut behind you with a deafening clatter, rattling the walls with their weight and as you turned to Sukuna, you could see that his maniacal sneer had returned.

Whatever had been puzzling him, throwing you into the dungeons seemed to have taken his mind from it. “Rot here, then, if you’re so insistent. If you won’t feed my men, you might as well feed the rats.” His eyes sparked maliciously, “Or are you too good for them, too?”

You gingerly wiped at the blood on your forehead but steeled yourself and turned to offer the demon a curtsy.

“Thank you, my Lord,” you glanced up at him, wondering what was going on behind the bloodlust in his eyes, behind the ever-present hunger for violence. “I will do my best to enjoy my stay here.”

“At least cry, won’t you?” Sukuna frowned, the pleasure vanishing from his face. He gave you a disappointed look then turned away from you with a yawn, suddenly bored, “Die here then for all I care.” And with that, he ascended the steps and was gone, the thick oak door to the dungeons falling shut behind him and robbing you of what little light there had been.

There was no point crying, you knew. Sukuna could abide your tears, your screams, and your begging. What he could not stand, was boredom. And so, that was what you would offer him in the face of whatever he sought to torment you with. If he wanted a reaction out of you – if he wanted you to alleviate his boredom – he would only achieve that by giving you something you wanted in return.

At least, you hoped that that was how it would work.

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Several weeks passed before Sukuna seemed to remember you. And when you were brought out of the dungeon, hungry and dirty, your hair a ragged mess and your clothes disheveled and torn, you blinked and shielded your eyes from the torchlight – your senses overcome. You were given little time to adjust, however, and hastily ushered down one hallway after another. The further you walked from the prisons underground, the more extravagant these walkways became. The more intricate the sconces, the more elaborate the rugs beneath your feet.

The curses you had grown somewhat close to over the year of travelling together cast sympathetic looks as they led you to what you could only assume was a main hall of sorts. You ran your fingers through your tangled locks and tried to rub the grime from your cheeks. If they had taken you out of the damp dungeon, it could only mean you would now be presented to Sukuna once more. You could only hope he would not attempt to give you away again.

As the black-lacquered, double doors were opened to allow you entry, the grandeur of the opulent room met your eyes, a stark contrast to the stone and iron you had become reacquainted with over the last few weeks. Thick, maroon-velvet brocade hangings were draped from tall windows that ran from floor-to-ceiling, their tassels were woven from gold thread, just like the intricate gold filigree detailing spread across the elaborate curtains themselves. The floors were of marble tiling, interlaid in a mosaic pattern. Tapestries lined the walls, carrying the history of the country Sukuna had conquered, meaningless images now.

All this splendor was lost on the King of Curses, who would have been every bit as imposing and awe-inspiring if he were in a dilapidated hut. As it was, he lounged against an armchair made of the same velvet as the curtains, as women crowded around him in varying states of undress. A buxom blonde with glittering dark eyes stood behind him, her hands sliding down the defined muscles of his chest, across those black markings you often traced with your eyes, and on bolder nights, gingerly, with the tips of your fingers.

Beside her stood a brunette, with eyes of emerald, hanging from his neck, her tongue tracing the prominent veins that ran along the thick column. Two women sat on the floor at either side of him, one resting her head against his knee, the other with an arm draped over his thigh, pressing her heavy breasts up against his calf. Each of them had auburn hair, like polished copper and freckled, sun-kissed skin. Twins. Yet another beauty stood at his shoulder, with skin dark as sin that glowed like burnished bronze in the light of the sun. Long lashes curtained her dark eyes, veiled with mystery and allure. Her thick, coiled hair framed her head like a halo – an image divine.  

But the woman you could not tear your eyes from, was the one perched on his lap. Her silks had fallen to her waist, revealing pert, full breasts and skin like the purest cream. She turned to look at you as you entered, flushed cheeks, sky-blue eyes, hair like liquid ink – in short, she was a vision of beauty like no other. She smiled at you, a pitying, taunting smirk and yet, all your eyes saw were her swollen, well-kissed lips.

You dragged your eyes away from her, a haze of red seemed to cover your vision and you knew you could not allow yourself to be baited into an emotional response. Various other women were spread throughout the room, all equally beautiful. Some lie on their backs, panting with exhaustion, others leaned against the furniture, apparently collecting themselves, while others still were completely motionless – likely unconscious. You did not let yourself consider the alternative state they might be in.

Clearly, Sukuna had made recent use of them. You were aware that he had taken to collecting women after you, although generally you kept to your own chambers and were spared having to interact with them. He took noblewomen of his pleasing, generally the daughters or young wives of the deceased lord or king. If she survived the first night, she was rewarded with the honor of joining his harem – where she would be allowed to repeat the experience until either her body or psyche wore out. Some did not last the night, others survived but lost their minds – which bored Sukuna - and a select few took to their new lives with vigor, like the inky-haired harlot currently warming the cursed spirit’s lap.

Steeling yourself, you straightened your spine and returned your gaze firmly to Sukuna, refusing to allow any feelings of inferiority to creep into your mind. You were his first conquest. And though he might have a collection of queens and princesses, you were the only goddess he had yet to claim, rags or no.

“You called, my Lord?” your voice betrayed no hint of emotion – as level as your gaze.

Sukuna grinned at your non-response, revealing sharp canines and that same glee in his eyes that could always be found when he had thought of a new way to hurt you.

“Well, well, well… look what the cat dragged in.” His voice had no use being that sultry, it had no business sending that familiar heat pooling in your stomach after all he had done to you. His deep baritone seemed to penetrate your very skin.  

The tangles in your hair, the stains on your face and clothes, you were as out of place as a swine in an ablution chamber and yet – you refused to be beaten. You were his first, you had to be special somehow. After all, for who else would Sukuna put on such a show?

Sukuna wrinkled his nose as he waved a hand in front of his nose, as if there were an unpleasant stench drifting over from you. “Looks like you’re still alive - even if you don’t smell like it.” His sadistic smirk was still apparent at the edges of his mouth. The women broke into gleeful titters, joining in on his mirth at your appearance.

All he wanted from you was a response. For you to burst into tears. To beg his mercy. Even anger would do, you supposed. And yet, you couldn’t. You wanted something from him as well. And perhaps it was suicidal arrogance that prevented you from giving into him as he wished, but you were willing to take that risk, gambling everything on the hope that he would give to you a piece of himself that he gave to no one else.

You wanted to be something to him. Anything.

“I could not afford to delay, when summoned by my Lord,” you responded smoothly, showing no sign of the discomfort you felt.

“Is that so?” Sukuna purred, resting his temple against the knuckles of his left hand.

“And yet, what makes you better than these morsels?” he mused, running his clawed fingers through the silky, black locks of the woman on his lap. “That you dare to defy me?” Clearly, he still recalled where your last conversation had left off.

You doubted the women present were aware of how literally Sukuna used the term “morsels”. It was a game to him, and you needed to play your pieces carefully, all while figuring out the rules – as viable to change as they were at his passing whim.

“I would not dare, my Lord,” you murmured quietly.

“Then serve my men, brat.” His smirk disappeared and, in its place, an inquisitive light sparked in his half-lidded eyes. Why shouldn’t you be made to serve others, he seemed to ask. Why would you be reserved for him alone?

You wondered if this was still about rewarding his underlings, or simply about drawing a line between the two of you – once more showing you your place.

You weighed your words carefully, “I am ever in service to my Lord, and deem myself unfit to divide my attentions as you propose.”

Before Sukuna could respond, a sharp laugh, malicious and high rang through the room. “You dare to defy our beloved lord?” The woman in his lap gave you a once-over her expression making no attempt to hide what she thought of you. “You poor thing. Like a drowned rat making demands.” She had a melodious, lilting voice but its airy quality was dampened by the mean-spirited manner in which she spoke. She had to know who you were, and as such, fully intended to take you down as a final stepping-stone to becoming Sukuna’s favorite.

As if Sukuna had such things.

“Look at you! You reek of filth and whatever droppings have piled up in the dungeons. Do you really think you deserve a place in Lord Sukuna’s harem?”

She sidled from Sukuna’s lap, so focused on you she failed to see the frown forming on his face.

She flipped her lovely hair over her shoulder, “Serving our master is an honor bestowed upon our royal bloodlines.” She gestured vaguely towards the women in the room. “How dare you put on such airs when you’re clearly nothing but a filthy whore? You’d do well to be grateful to be in his mere presence, and spread your legs for whoever he commands, –“

Her speech was cut abruptly short when Sukuna’s large hand closed around her head, his fingers almost meeting at her face. His displeasure emanated from him in dark waves of cursed energy visible to the naked eye.

“Who gave you permission to speak?” his voice was dangerously low, soft almost, and yet it reverberated throughout the room – a clear threat.

It happened almost too fast to follow, the muscles banding along his forearm flexed, half a whimper escaped her lips as her eyes sought yours in a panicked plea for mercy through the gaps in his fingers, and then his hand closed into a fist and blood spurted violently in all directions. You flinched as the spray of blood spattered across your face and clothing. The women jumped to their feet, screaming.

“Know your place, fool.” Sukuna growled, as he released his hold on the lovely woman, and she crumpled to the ground – her silky hair all that remained of her once-lovely countenance. As the woman fell away from between you, Sukuna’s scarlet eyes, still burning with displeasure beneath furrowed brows, connected with yours.

You held his gaze as chaos erupted all around you. There was intention in his gaze, that he knew what he had done, and could not take it back. He had ceded ground to you. He had flinched first. For all he played the part that you were meaningless to him, he had killed a member of his harem for your sake, and that truth weighed heavy, undeniable between you.

Even as the remaining ladies tore for the exits, screaming and sobbing, you raised a hand and spoke simply and clearly, in a compelling manner you could not unlearn after all your years at the temple. “Ladies.”

A spellbound silence fell over them, as they took in your standoff with Sukuna, the way your eyes were fixed unwavering on one another.

“You are as yet in the presence of our Lord,” you reminded them. They seemed to come to their senses, even as you could hear a few of them sniffling behind you.

Sukuna lifted his chin, apparently at ease with you taking control of his harem. He leaned back into his chair, his eyes contemplative.

“Remove her from our Lord’s presence,” you admonished them, giving them a purpose to overcome their shock. As if startled awake, they shuffled towards the young woman, and after at first being indecisive as to how to proceed, one group took hold of her hands as the other grabbed her ankles and she was carried from the chamber, one way or another. The remaining women hovered uncomfortably.

“Get out,” Sukuna dismissed with a wave of his fingers, his penetrant gaze still fixed wholly on you.

They were all too willing to leave and had departed within seconds, leaving none but the two of you in the expansive hall.

Sukuna regarded you warily for a moment, taking you in from head to toe before beckoning you closer with a single finger. “Come.”

You approached, your chest constricting with feeling. You wanted so badly to mean something to him, for him to give you a new identity after having stripped away your old one. You did not so much as flinch as you stepped through the puddle of blood and drew closer to the fearsome giant of a man seated before you. You slowed just before him, but Sukuna took a crushing hold of your hip and drew you closer still, until you stood between his legs and looked up at him, his nose a breath from yours.

Up close, you looked right into his sanguine irises, glowing with bloodlust, and another kind of hunger still, a hunger you could not help but feel was reserved for you.

“She was right, you know,” Sukuna muttered, his breath ghosting over your lips. “You really are a filthy whore.”

“So long as I am yours,” you whispered back earnestly, your gaze wandering from his probing eyes to his full lips, “I would gladly be less than that still.”

He seemed to consider that, discontent with the direction the conversation was taking. It was just as you had thought earlier, he did not take favorites. But if you were not a favorite, and also not a dispensable member of his harem… then what were you? “You do not bore me,” Sukuna frowned, his hand closing around the nape of your neck, his fingers curling into your tangled hair. “That is why I keep you, nothing more.”

In a moment of weakness, you responded to his callousness with bleeding sincerity. “I need you,” you confessed, your heart rioting in your chest at the thought of being so vulnerable in the face of his unfailing cruelty. “I need you to tell me who I am. What I am. I need to be yours to be anything at all.”

Sukuna seemed to be taken aback at your unprompted confession. He scowled, baring his canines, “You are nothing to me, I’d as soon crush you as fuck you.”

It was truth, plain and simple, and more of a response than you had expected him to entertain. You sighed, resigned, and leaned into him, your hands sliding over his powerful shoulders, your fingers curling into his hair. You knew you could not win. But at least you were in his arms, that had to count for something. “Your wish is mine as well, Sukuna-sama.”

When your lips touched his, he seemed unable or unwilling to play this game any longer. He closed his fingers in a cruel grip on your hair – a hold he seemed to favor -, controlling your movements. He leaned into the kiss, devouring you as promised, consuming and dominating you until you felt your knees go soft as butter – unable to support you. Sukuna’s grip on your hair and hip seemed to be all that was holding you aloft. As if to make good on his threat, you felt his sharp canines bury themselves into your lip, felt blood gush forth and drip down your chin, even as Sukuna sucked at the bleeding gash, drinking down your blood hungrily. The stabbing pain seared through you, accompanying a rush of endorphins to your mind – a mind that could make no sense at all of the jumbled mess of emotions spiraling through you.

Sukuna was the one who had taught you everything you knew about pleasure, and he had taught you that pleasure and pain went hand in hand. You were certain he could push you over the edge by inflicting pain alone. And so, even as Sukuna wounded you and drank of your blood, you could not help but moan into his mouth, light-headed and delirious with need.

You did not see how Sukuna’s eyes slid open, how he regarded you with a questioning gaze. How he began to grasp the truth of your confession - that you needed him to claim you far more than you desired to live. You relished pain, and might even welcome death, in exchange for identity – an identity only he could bestow.

Why did you become more interesting the more he dealt with you? Whenever he felt bored, he only had to summon you to sink his teeth into you, literally and figuratively.

“What will I do with you?” he muttered, scarcely realizing he had spoken against your mouth until you whispered back, “I find myself wondering much the same. Every time you look at me,” you swallowed the blood that pooled in your mouth, “every time you touch me.”

Sukuna took you in from head to toe through half-lidded eyes, as if truly seeing you for the first time since you had stepped into the hall. The clawed fingernail on his thumb traced along your hipbone and he frowned. “There’s not much left of you.” There was no pity in his voice, only complaint.

You did not respond. He was certainly aware of the fare that was to be expected in the dungeons. You’d always come out a little worse for the wear, but this was the first time he had left you there for weeks, and you had grown thinner as a result. But that was only to be expected, surely, he knew that?

“Tch,” he scowled, “shouldn’t a goddess be more resilient?”

“I’m not a goddess,” you reminded him.

“You are whatever I say you are,” his eyes burned with challenge, “Don’t forget it.”

You could not look away, you could not speak, you could scarcely breathe. Something had changed. You did not know quite what it was, but the standoff seemed to have passed and, in its place, there seemed to be a sense of acceptance, an admittance of the fact that your identity was somehow intertwined with his own, against all odds.

You were recalled to the moment as Sukuna snapped his fingers and a cursed spirit, sickly green in hue and covered with boils, spirited out of thin air at your side.

“Prepare a bath,” Sukuna frowned.

The cursed spirit stumbled over himself as he folded the hands of his six arms in a show of obeisance, mumbling a hasty agreement before disappearing altogether.

You waited awkwardly as Sukuna beheld you, his clawed hands running along your form, feeling where flesh had given way to bone during your stay in the dungeons. Your lip bled still, though he paid no heed until it dripped onto the back of his hand. An irritated sound escaped the back of his throat, and he brushed a thumb over your lip, sending coils of dark energy into your torn lip, sealing the flesh closed once more. His cursed energy was like the kiss of ice and sent shivers down your spine, without fail, each time he used it on you. It was a wonder that a force so malevolent was capable of healing at all, and you could feel it pulsing within you, more faintly with each beat, until it dissipated inside you.

You could not help the choked sound that escaped your lips. You had missed him. His touch, his cruelty, the taste of his dark energy. He was far more intoxicating, far more potent than the noxious smoke you had seen the priests partake in on occasion. And far more dangerous.

“You’re weak,” Sukuna scowled, as if confronted for the first time with the reality of your human nature.

You felt heat rush to your face. Hopefully he had not heard the shameful sound you had made. It would not do for you to appear desperate.

“I am only mortal,” you admitted, hoping to distract from your misstep, “you have proven the weakness of our kind at great length these last few years.”

“You dare complain?”

“No, my lord. I simply state the obvious. My kind is not enduring.”

“Hmph.” He released you finally, and your skin almost immediately mourned the loss of his touch. “And yet, you have lived where other women have died.”

You could not quite wrap your mind around that admission. Had he attempted to torment other women the way he had with you? And had they died at his hands? You did not quite know what it would take to kill you. Before Sukuna, you had had no experience with illness, pain, or death. And now, it seemed a given that when Sukuna took you apart, he would put you back together again. When he split your flesh open, he would seal it once more. Why did the others die? Or rather, why did you survive?

Before you could put the matter to question, a pop and wisps of green smoke announced the return of the imp along with other cursed spirits that seemed female in nature.

They had spirited along a large tub of water and several glass bottles of varying tinctures and perfumes. At a nod from Sukuna, they tore your robe from your shoulders, revealing your grimy, naked form to the attendants present – and worse, to Sukuna’s watchful, crimson eyes. The spirits crowded around you, some with rough rags, others with coarsely bristled brushes, and others still taking the various bottles in hand to spill their contents on your head, your shoulders, on the rags they held. Without waiting for a signal, they began scrubbing at your body, purging you of the filth of the dungeons. Thin, spindly fingers massaged your scalp, verbena-scented suds spreading through your hair. The rags and brushes seemed to scrape the skin from your flesh and yet, you could not truly pay them heed, entranced as you were by the way Sukuna’s gaze followed their hands as they scrubbed at your back. His eyes taking in the trace of the suds they drew over your abdomen, the thorough washing between your breasts, soap suds trailing down the length of your legs, the rag washing between your thighs…

It was a different kind of humiliation, to be so intently observed by him, to be so naked in the middle of the hall for all present to see. And even without looking at him, you could feel his gaze on your skin, the way it prickled beneath his intent stare. Finally, they poured bucketfuls of warm water over you, washing away the suds. Sukuna seemed not to care that the scarlet rug running the length of the hall was soaked, or that water was pooling at your feet and flowing towards him. Did he ever care for consequences, when he wanted something?

He crossed over to you and traced your protruding hipbones with a long, black fingernail once more. His frown revealed – likely without his knowing – that he somewhat regretted putting you away for so long. He liked to sink his claws into you, to bury his fangs in you… He could hardly do that when you were almost nothing but skin and bone with no soft flesh to fill his hands with.

His eyes traced your form leaving a trail of burning desire on your skin as his gaze burned a path up your navel, over your dripping breasts, your exposed collarbones, your swollen lips, before at last meeting your eyes. The very world around you seemed to flicker like a mirage as you held his gaze and in the blink of an eye, you were no longer standing on sodden carpet, but in the baths attached to his very own chambers, where innumerable candles were set all along the perimeter of the room, on tables, counters, and windowsills. The flickering, dim light filled the chamber with equal parts light and shadow, that flickered on your faces in turn.

In the center of the room was a basin in the ground, lined by emerald tiles, each with a golden pattern swirling through the green. The basin itself was a bath of sorts, large enough for three at least. It was filled with steaming water that was pale mint in color – an herbal bath it would seem. Rose petals were scattered across the water’s surface, and the scent of earthy herbs as well as a faint note of citrus wafted over in the steam to greet you, almost beckoning you closer.

The sound of water sloshing caught your attention and you turned to see Sukuna lowering himself into the bath. He leaned against the slabs of stone behind him and rested an arm on either side of himself as he released a barely audible, content sigh. Your expression softened. He really was always at attention, braced for violence, muscles tensed in anticipation of battle. You could imagine how the steaming bath water must provide him some rare relief.

He ran a hand through his russet hair and your gaze caught on the droplets of water that seemed to trace down the prominent veins of his muscular forearm. At ease, as he was, his head tipped back, his unruly hair swept back by the residual water of his hand, you were dazed by his inhuman beauty. His features were undeniably those of nobility, a king in the truest sense, you could not help but ask yourself how it was possible for a man so cold and cruel to be so undeniably beautiful. Even the black markings on his face only served to accentuate his bold features.

His dark lashes lifted, and those carmine eyes seemed to pierce right through you, pinning you in place. Unable and unwilling to escape from his all-encompassing gaze, you merely stood before him, drinking him in. He did not beckon you closer, or say so much as a word, but the command in those eyes was clear. “Come.”

And so, you did.

Dipping your toes into the water, the warmth seemed to pull you in, melting you down to your very bones as you stepped fully into the bath. You were keenly aware of his eyes on you as you lowered yourself into the murky waters of the herbal bath, concealing your nakedness. Heat rushed through you that you could not fully attribute to the temperature of the water. You hoped he would not see that the tips of your ears had gone red - and that he would not recognize it for what it was.

You drew closer still, drawn in by an inexplicable magnetism as if his dark essence were a black hole sucking in your very soul. He never took his eyes off of you for a moment, and the effect was intoxicating as he waited, watching, like a predator tolerating his prey frolicking before him in a delusion of safety, not yet in a mood to disillusion it.

You had missed him. You always did. His power was your lifeline. His invincibility, your shield. In his shadow, you were safe from all but him. And you never wanted to be safe from him – as foolish as you recognized that sentiment to be. Water dripped from your fingers as you reached for him, gingerly tracing the inky markings on his face. You ran a delicate fingertip along the line of his jaw, traced his cheekbones with your thumbs, followed those symbols line for line until you could draw them with your eyes closed. When your fingers journeyed lower exploring those same markings on his chest, he tipped his head back, relishing in the sensation.

You remembered the blonde whose hands had brushed past these same markings and your stomach burned with a nauseating, possessive ire. You wanted to purge her touch from his skin, wanted to burn her very image from the scroll of existence until nothing remained but a scorch mark. You leaned in closer to him, replacing your fingers with your lips, and trailed mindless kisses along those symbols, and then, growing bolder still, traced them with your tongue. When a wordless murmur of appreciation spilled past Sukuna’s parted lips, you glowed with pride.

“On your knees, goddess.” Sukuna growled, overcome with desire. What little patience he had, decidedly spent.

You acquiesced, sinking to your knees, the water just above your elbow. He opened his eyes, taking you in, the goddess kneeling in the water before him, water dripping from your hair, disappearing between your breasts. The way your eyes were caught on his shaft, the head of it just peeking out from the water’s surface.

“Well?” he began, seeing your hesitation - that ever present mocking tone painfully apparent. “Should I call in someone else?”

Your eyes snapped towards him, irritated, and he grinned in the face of your upset. You lifted a hand to his member and wrapped your fingers around it - frowning because of course your fingers didn’t close around it - and pleasing him with your mouth, as he was clearly expecting you to, would be a herculean effort. You could see, even without looking at him, that challenging grin on his face and the malicious spark in his eyes.

You alleviated his boredom, he had said, but the thing was – you liked surprising him. You reveled in the expression he made when you defied expectations. When you jumped headfirst into whatever he expected you to balk at. And ever since he had broken you so thoroughly on that table months ago, you no longer feared pain – you feared only abandonment, being discarded as a pawn that had outlived its use by the only one that could seal every split and crack within you with nothing more than his dark aura. The one who could fill you so thoroughly with himself, with his cursed energy, that you thought you might forget having ever felt empty.

The lives of the world were forfeit, their villages were forfeit - all that mattered was staying by his side, drunk on his power, for as long as you were able.

You bowed your head beneath the water and held your breath as you licked up the underside of his shaft, slowing as you reached the bulbous head and broke through the water’s surface. You traced the tip of your tongue along its slit. Sukuna hissed and his head tipped back once more. His muscles tensed, and this time, it was your turn to grin. Using both hands, you cupped his shaft again, and closed your mouth around the head of his cock. Your jaw immediately ached at being stretched so wide but the grunted curse that echoed throughout the bath chamber spurred you on. Water dripped from your face, and you knew you would have to time your breathing precisely to survive this encounter.

Your hands ran along his length with your movements as your head bobbed up and down. Up – you inhaled through your nose, swirled your tongue around the head, twisted your hands, and breathed. Down – your ears filled with water, you exhaled, took him in as deep as you could, and squeezed the remaining length of his shaft between your hands. Again. Again. Again. The guttural sounds that fell unguarded from those proud lips hummed right through you like the most potent drug, driving you to continue. You were feeling quite skilled and proud of yourself, you could do this – you could have him helpless beneath your ministrations.

And then one of his hands gripped the back of your head.

Panic was the first thing that shot through you. Sukuna, in the throes of his lust, would not care if you could breathe. A second hand fell on your shoulder, and you opened your mouth to remind him that you were human, that you were breakable, that you could die – but not fast enough. One moment you saw him, his head still tipped back, two arms resting on either side of him as the other two held you firm, and the next – nothing but water as that impossible length thrust into your mouth, straight towards your throat. You gagged underwater and thrashed, trying to free yourself, if only for a moment, to breathe, to try again with warning, but Sukuna had no cares for your distress. He was concerned only with his own release and if he registered your existence at all, then only as a means to an end.

He attempted again and again, to penetrate the narrow canal of your throat, each thrust only worsening the sensation, your body rebelling against such abuse. Water splashed everywhere as you writhed, desperate for a breath of air, but by the third thrust your throat gave way with an awful popping sound, dulled by the pressure of the water against your ears. The awful penetration was intense, it hurt so terribly that your core tightened in false anticipation of the pleasure that usually followed on the heels of pain.

You struggled to regain some semblance of calm, knowing only a level head would help you hold out long enough to breathe again. But each time he thrust into your throat, your body convulsed in protest, and your lungs burned for air. He pushed your head down with more force as he approached his release, his hips bucking as he drove more forcefully into you, not noticing as your thrashing slowed, your strength ebbing.

You dimly felt his release, as if from beyond a veil. You heard a growl of pleasure, loud enough to shake the walls, loud even through the water. You felt the way his shaft twitched as copious amounts of thick, bitter fluid gushed down your throat. You registered distantly the way it continued pulsing against the walls of your throat even in the aftershocks of his pleasure. And then you felt nothing at all. Not even a sense of relief when his cock finally pulled free from your lips.

Sukuna exhaled, a breathy sound of relief, slow and drawn out – rough around the edges. He dragged a hand through his hair as the world came back into focus. The cool air of the chamber in contrast to the dizzying warmth of the bath, steam still rising, made him acutely aware of each droplet of water where it clung to his skin. He felt alive, powerful, every inch of him thrumming with an energy he only knew when he gave in to his baser urges with you.

You.

Sukuna cocked his head to the side as he took in the sight of you, your wet hair clinging to the skin of your back as you floated, face down, in the bath before him. He frowned. You were not weak. He knew that. Or else, how could you dare to tempt him, knowing you were not a fitting receptacle for his lust – knowing the most fleeting of touches was enough to cost you your feeble life?

You approached him readily, spread your legs for him willingly, and only rarely begged for your life in the face of certain death – uncertain if your climax or the reaper would reach you first.

“Tch.” The sound left his lips unwillingly. He wasn’t ready to let you go yet. You had been the first of his harem, and he was ever expanding it, hoping to find another like you. But there didn’t seem to be another temptress like you on the face of this wretched earth, one who craved him above all else. Above any mortal bonds, misguided virtues, or sense of identity or dignity. You clung to him like he was your salvation – and not your destruction. Your desperation amused him. Everything about you did, and he was not ready to go back to being bored again.

He buried his long fingers into your thick hair, black, sharp fingernails scraping against your scalp as he pulled you out of the water, towards himself. You were alive, albeit barely. And his clear, sanguine gaze roamed the length of you. He was ancient, and he had seen nearly everything there was to see in his centuries of existence. If he didn’t crave the sensation of blood on his skin with a maddening intensity as he did, the mortals might have considered him a god. As it was, he liked the insides of people better than their outsides.

You were a rare exception, he mused as he dragged a pointed, black talon upwards along your skin, past your hipbones, up your navel, along the curve of your swollen breasts, teasing along your collarbones, before drawing to a stop at the prominent veins running down the column of your lovely throat – all the more appealing to his eyes for its fragility. Like glass so thin it might crack with a breath. If your skin tensing beneath his touch was not proof enough, the pulse beneath his finger confirmed – you were alive, still.

Good.

He was far from done with you.

He flipped your positions with no regard to your unconscious state. Your upper body sprawled along the marble tiles, water dripping from you and pooling beneath you as he positioned himself between your legs. Two powerful arms braced on either side of your immobile form as one of his hands gripped your hips, lifting you to meet him as the fourth hand spread your legs for him.

You would have enjoyed this, he thought, if you were awake.

The head of his cock, alert and ready for a second round, prodded at your entrance. Sukuna’s ruby eyes were fixed on your expression, waiting for the moment you jerked back to life. Would it be with a scream of agony or ecstasy? The not knowing was as delicious as the anticipation. He knew he could bring you back from either.

His second cock sprang to life, rubbing against your slit and brushing against your clit as the first member made its way inside you with slow, lazy thrusts. He released your hip and placed a hand against your back, his spread fingers mirroring the bones of your ribcage. He could crush it beneath his hand as easily as he had the head of that shrew who had mouthed off against you. Ruining the moment that had been weeks in planning.

How he had wanted to drag you before him. To see the jealousy in your eyes as he adorned himself with meaningless whores. He had wanted to fuck them in front of you until you begged him to stop – or to take you instead – or to… what? He didn’t know, but he would have eaten up your response regardless. You were terrified of him, he knew, but instead of running from him, you ran towards him.

He ran his tongue along his teeth, hungry for you again. He was beginning to realize it was a hunger that could never be sated. A hunger that might be turned against him if anyone caught on. If you commanded anything more than his passing interest, would you be considered his weakness?

He remembered the feel of the blue harlot’s skull imploding beneath his fingers. Blood gushing to the floor, shards of her skull cutting at his hand, only for the scrapes to be healed immediately by his cursed energy. And between the dripping blood, your eyes meeting his evenly, boldly, unafraid of the sudden display of violence.

Were you his weakness?

The thought prompted something akin to anger within him. He had no weaknesses. With a violent thrust, he sheathed himself within you. Halfway inside you, the head of his cock barred by the end of your velvet core, Sukuna was met with a burning need for more. To prove to himself, to you, to anyone who would dare to surmise otherwise – that you were nothing.

The shaft of his second cock rubbed against your clit, as it slid up and down your belly, the head of his member nestling between your breasts – caged between them and the cool, wet marble beneath you. With each thrust, it slipped up and down between your mounds, heightening Sukuna’s pleasure. The first member pounded into you with abandon, sledgehammering into your body, your unconscious body slamming against the marble with each reckless thrust.

Your eyes flew open in shock as a violent cough consumed you, expelling the water from your lungs. The burning sensation between your legs and a fiery agony in your core confirmed, you were up to your throat in Sukuna’s cock. Drowning in him in an entirely different way. You tried to brace yourself against the marble and lift your body, but Sukuna’s callous hand against your back crushed you back down to the ground ruthlessly, the marble cracking beneath you – or was that just your ribs?

There was pleasure too, ungodly pleasure through the pain. The kind you relished. You groaned despite yourself. Sure, you had nearly died only moments ago. But that was moments ago - almost an eternity ago already. Now you were being crushed beneath him, beneath his gaze, beneath his ministrations.

You turned your head to the side, the only freedom of movement you were allowed and met his eyes. You were reminded of that day so long ago, when he had taken you in your own temple, against a table not quite so hard as the marble beneath you. The way he had met your eyes with a curious gaze then.

This was different.

There was a burning fury in his eyes. A demonic possessiveness. As if the devil had been taken by the devil. He seemed intent to burrow his way straight through you. To prove something to someone, likely himself. Did he want your body, your blood, or both?

How badly you wanted to give whatever it was he would ask of you.

Your lips fell apart and nothing but short, breathy gasps fled your mouth each time he rolled his hips and plowed into you, his grip on your back for purchase, as another held onto your leg still, opening you wide for him as he thrust deeper into you, turn for turn.

A feral growl burned from his chest as the messy, slapping noise of skin against skin echoed through the chamber, water splashing over both of you.

There was an end to your cavern, but Sukuna did not seem to care. His pleasure took precedence over your anatomy, he pounded against your cervix, not caring when your body shook violently with pain, except to pin you more firmly in place.

How your brain was capable of processing such torturous pain at the same time as the heights of pleasure, you did not know. Your mind was a foggy place filled with nothing but the steam of the chamber, the water growing even hotter with the energy rolling off of him in waves and the scent of him, the feel of him, all around you. This would be a good way to go, a dark voice whispered within you.

That second cock pulsing between your breasts, rubbing against your clit again and again in time with the violation of his thick, thick shaft within you was an unholy combination that teased you higher and higher, until you cared not for the pain, for the trembling of your rebellious body. It didn’t understand - the pain was worth it, it was delicious.

The syllables of his name burst from your lips in small, delicious, agonized gasps, as the heat coiling within you tightened further and further into a madness only his brutality could release you from.

You fell from the precipice, shattering around his monstrous cock, at the very same moment that he penetrated your cervix.

Whether it was a scream of climax or of agony, you could not say. It started as one and devolved very quickly into another. But Sukuna was far from satisfied.

Even before your climax had truly ended, the agony tore through you. Tears pooled and streamed from your cheeks in mere moments. The pain was too much. You were too weak. You whimpered miserably. Hot tears mingling with the cool droplets of water that had dripped to the marble.

“Now, now…” Sukuna purred, his mask of mockery not firmly in place through his brutal anger, “don’t give up so soon.”

You sucked in a pained breath as Sukuna slid out of your womb only to bite down on your tongue, muffling a pained scream as he slammed back into that inviolable part of you.

He lifted your face from the marble, drool and tears falling from your face, contorted in pain. “Didn’t you say you were my whore?” he tutted. “What use is a whore if I can’t even fuck you properly?”

There was rage you could not place. Why was he so angry? Had he been holding back all this time? Was this what Sukuna was like when he gave in to his urges? Was this what he needed of you?

“What was it you wanted again?” he growled into your ear. “Identity?” The playful mask was more firmly in place now, concealing the fury that still thrummed beneath the surface.

“Is it worth this?” You felt his tip brush the opposite wall of your womb and bit down on a whimpering sob.

“Aw,” Sukuna mocked, slowing. “Do you want me to stop?”

You knew, without knowing how, that he would kill you if you agreed. This was some sort of twisted ultimate test. A game he was playing with himself, to find out what you were worth.

You’d be damned if you were going to lose.

You were losing sensation in your legs, your ribcage burned – there was definitely something broken – and your throat burned still from his earlier abuse, but you had a fire of your own within you that refused to cool. A blaze that sometimes wanted to swallow the world and spit out the ashes. You’d been raised a goddess, abandoned as an appeasement, and twisted into a slave and a whore. No pain of the body could compare. 

There was nothing you couldn’t take.

“Why?” you seethed, your eyes meeting his with the combined, burning resolve of the Furies of legend, a growl of your own building in your throat, “getting tired?”

He did pause, then, his wrath giving way – however briefly – to surprise. He stilled, his lips curved into a smirk, and then his shoulders shook as he tipped his head back with laughter. It echoed against the walls and fell, cruelly metallic, back to your ears.

“That’s the spirit!” he barked, finally, and using his grip on your hair as an anchor pummeled into you. With even less regard for your well-being, he clearly had every intent of impaling you on his cock – in the literal sense of the word.

A slit on his abdomen teased open, a smirk playing against your posterior, that long, thick tongue you had become very familiar with teasing between the mounds of your backside, seeking out the puckered entrance beyond. One of Sukuna’s hands drew back to clap against the smooth skin and the resounding sting seemed to spread upwards and through you. But it was so tame in comparison to the pain of your insides being rearranged, that it was almost a sensation of relief.

His tongue prodded at your anus and penetrated the tight ring of muscle with something like a laugh as the wet, thick muscle, slid along the tight walls within you, sliding deeper than should have been possible, in and out, further and further along with each poking thrust, wriggling deeper inside of you, tasting every inch of you.

You were completely out of your mind. With the one cock pleasuring itself between your breasts, the tongue inside of your intestines, and the second cock stretching the walls of your womb to their outer limits – it was a wonder you were still conscious at all.

Your tongue lolled out of your mouth and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He was everything, he was everywhere, there was nothing and no one but him. He could have you, he could consume you, he could kill you and keep your corpse to fuck as he pleased. There was nothing he could ask of you that you would not give. They had been lying to you all along, you knew, the Great Evil was your purpose, not to vanquish, but to be consumed completely by it. No heaven could compare, the goddess Terraria be damned. She would have gotten on all fours for him, too, if she could – begging for the favor of his cock.

But she couldn’t, because he had chosen you and you alone.

And then he tore through the walls of your womb.

There was a scream so loud it hurt your ears. You wanted to ask for it to stop but couldn’t work your mouth to form the words – and then you realized you were the one screaming. The anguish was like nothing, the delirium of the pain was addling your brain. You wondered if you were dying.

Sukuna did not stop.

Your scalp burned from him dragging you up by the hair without pause. Your leg ached as he arched it up and used it to anchor himself as he pumped deeper and deeper into you. How you had the presence of mind to register either of those sensations was a wonder to you.

Your scream was never-ending, the need for breath was secondary. Sukuna laughed, loving the sound of your agony. He bent low to kiss the throat that bled such a beautiful, awful sound and then he bit into your flesh, eyes gleaming at the scarlet ambrosia that spilled from your lovely veins.

He tore into you, pain upon pain. Through your stomach, up your esophagus – and now you could truly feel him in your throat.

And then he came with a shudder, a groan of release reached your ears, soft and intimate and lovely.  You felt his release everywhere – or rather you no longer knew where one part of you ended and another began. So attuned to his sensations, his desires, his lust as you were, you too, climaxed through the pain, tremors running through your body as he let you drop back onto the cold tiles. You were in heaven and hell at the same time. It was so like Sukuna to take you there.

You opened your eyes blearily and recognized that the marble had indeed cracked. Just like your ribs. A cough tore through you, pain intensified exponentially by your ravaged insides and when you spit up the blockage, your eyes focused enough to recognize – blood and cum.

When he finally pulled out of you, the one thing stemming your bleeding was torn mercilessly away and blood gushed forth from you with abandon. Blackness tinged the edges of your vision almost immediately at such sudden loss of blood, as your body registered how thoroughly it had been wrecked. Sukuna’s second member, still pulsing, pulled away from between your breasts and the tongue that had been nestled inside your intestines also slipped back out, disappearing inside Sukuna’s abdomen once more. He took hold of you, almost gently, by your shoulders, and turned the two of you back around until you were draped limply over his chest as he leaned back against the cracked marble. He curled your wet hair around his fingers thoughtfully, as the thumb of another hand stroked your shoulder almost comfortingly. You noted dimly that you had been right, this was a good way to go. His eyes fell to yours, meeting your gaze with an intensity you had not thought possible.

When his eyes roamed over you and stopped between your legs, you followed his gaze. It was so much more blood than you had realized. The minty green water was spoiled almost all the way through with coils of thick, red blood. Enough to dye almost the entire bath. There was nothing beautiful left of this bath chamber.

“Why not ask me to stop?” Sukuna murmured, so quietly you only heard it because of how close his lips were to your ear.

You swallowed thickly. You were tired. Tired, physically, of course, but also tired of the lies that had built up your entire life. Sukuna had been the only truth in your life – a brutal, cruel, ruthless truth. But a truth, nonetheless. Was it so strange that you would rather be a true whore than a false goddess? Maybe your sense of gratitude towards him was foolish and mistaken, but it was there. 

“I didn’t want you to.” You admitted, your voice almost lost with your fading consciousness.

Sukuna was silent a moment, stroking your hair away from your forehead as your eyes fluttered closed, listening to his heartbeat as your own faded away.

“Do you still want it?” he muttered, almost hesitating despite himself. That his hesitation was for your sake went completely over your head. With great difficulty, you opened your eyes one last time in confusion. “Identity?” he added, a frown on his beautiful, proud lips, the black markings on his face smooth as the plane of his forehead as he regarded you distantly, making a decision you could not possibly weigh. “I won’t take it back even if you beg.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but your body lacked the resources to bring them to life. Instead, you nodded with what strength you had left. You would always want identity - a true identity - given by none other than Sukuna himself.

Then your eyes closed for a final time as an exhausted breath fell silently from your lips. Sukuna watched you quietly a moment longer, considering your request. A lock of pink hair fell over his forehead as he ran a hand up and down your lifeless arm.

You did not know what you were asking for, but he did. It would be cruel of him, selfish. He paused in a moment of uncharacteristic, unprecedented mercy. But when did he deny himself something he wanted?

Mind made up, he lifted a hand and poised a black fingertip over your chest, beneath which your heart lay hidden, resting at last. All concern for your eventual regret dismissed, Sukuna dragged the sharp talon over your skin, splitting the flesh and revealing the life-giving organ beneath. Why not bind you to his side for all eternity? It was what he wanted and what he wanted was all that mattered.

He cut open your heart, revealing the chambers of the muscle in their final twitches of life. A black smirk twisted his features. Why not? Why not treat himself? Why not enslave you?

He curled the fingers of his hand into a fist, piercing the palm of his own hand until he drew blood. He opened his fist and watched with eager greed as the inky blood that had pooled in his palm dripped down into your open heart.

It took only moments for his cursed energy to do its work. It swirled around you, sealing your heart back shut with a snap, sewing your skin together above it until not even a blemish remained. Your back arched as your heart pumped Sukuna’s blood through you, tainting your own. Your very body raised off of him slightly, lifted upwards by the dark energy coursing through you, healing every wound and injury throughout your ruined body.

The flow of blood that had been spilling out between your legs ceaselessly, stopped abruptly, and the red and green water dissolved into nothing but an inky black surrounding the two of you. Sukuna’s smirk gave way to an unapologetic grin as he watched you change before his eyes, beneath his hands – entirely his. Unbreakable now.

With a gasp, your eyes flew open as a different kind of pain surged through you – a pain akin to anger at its very extremes. Light shone from your form, intermingling with the darkness, burning through your skin. An anguished groan left your lips as you fought the foreign influence, but it was fast, it was powerful. It was Sukuna himself inside you – although in an entirely different way.

And because it was Sukuna, you let him have you. You let him flow through every inch of your being and embraced him – alive, elated, enlightened. It wasn’t unlike a climax to have him delve so intimately into your being, settling into your very nerves, your pores, between your cells. You were alight with him and it was euphoria like nothing you had ever known.

When the delicious torment had finished coursing through you, leaving nothing but the tantalizing tendrils of his being lingering just beneath your skin. You were suddenly awake like you had never been before. Awareness flooded you, of the birds beyond the bath chamber, the water dripping onto the tiling, and Sukuna’s heart thudding darkly, so close to you. You turned on him – suddenly ravenous for him. Needing ever more of him to replace the cursed energy that had stopped coursing through you with such intensity. You wanted him to give you more, to consume you or let you consume him – you weren’t sure which.

You straddled his hips and pinned him against the marble at his back – suddenly stronger than you had ever been – and pressed your mouth to his, with a hunger like nothing earthly. Still, there was an anger within you, just beneath the surface, like a living being, waiting to be provoked to life. His anger, you realized. It was the rage you glimpsed every now and then between his mocking smiles and punishing caresses. An emotion that always lived with him – one you now shared.

You groaned into his mouth, running your tongue along his teeth, biting at his lip, teasing his tongue with your own – coaxing him to fight back, to battle with you, to play with you. But he merely leaned back with a smirk, enjoying your little rush of need. He kissed you back leisurely, slowing down when you needed speed, and gentling his touch when you craved wild, reckless abandon. The damned contrarian. He was doing it just to upset you, you knew.

A growl built in your throat, and he heard it, his grin widening.

“Well, would you look at that?” he muttered, the surprise in his voice causing your eyes to open as well. His expression gave you pause, stemming the raging need within you.

Something was wrong.

You didn’t know what he was seeing, but the look in his eyes scared you, more than anything you had experienced since you had come to know him. It made you feel like you had made an awful, irreversible mistake. It made you want to tear the skin from your face without quite knowing why.

“Looks like there was something of the divine in you after all, goddess.” There was a mocking tone to his low voice, his hushed murmur intimate and forbidden. His breath against your ear sent an icy shiver racing down your spine. His cruel intonation, just the way his voice sounded when he was testing the limits of your capacity for pain, heightened your sense of alarm. Something was terribly, terribly wrong and Sukuna sounded as if it was not at all a surprise to him. You whirled towards the water trying to see a glimpse of your reflection in its inky black, trying to see what he had seen. You held your breath, waiting for the ripples to settle, waiting in horrified anticipation.

And there it was. Whatever he had done to you had changed you. There were black markings on your face, not unlike his own, if somewhat more delicate in appearance, across your collarbones and wrists as well, the design of which cut off abruptly here and there. Your hair and your eyes, too, had gone an inky black, not unlike the water the two of you were submerged in. But interlaced through the black locks were strands of white, stark in contrast – and almost cruel to look at. Just like your left iris, which seemed to have been cut through a third of the way with white, leaving that eye half-black, half-white.

You did not need Sukuna to tell you what it meant. He had turned you into something demonic with his cursed energy, but it had not been able to take over completely because somewhere within you, unbeknownst to you, the power of the goddess had slumbered.

The temple had not been lying to you.

Your world turned on its head as you struggled to come to grips with the meaning of this awful realization.

Sukuna’s hands curled along your waist to meet at your midsection. You saw in the water’s reflection the way he watched over your shoulder as your hands dragged down your face in abject horror. Ever a grin on his lips at your torment.

“You knew this?” you gasped in disbelief. Had he not been the one to disillusion you? To tell you that you were no more than a woman?

Sukuna bent his head to nip at the junction between your neck and shoulder. “Have I ever pretended otherwise, goddess?” he teased against your skin.

The nickname was jarring, and you suddenly realized why he had never given it up. He had known all along what you were. And perhaps destroying your belief in yourself, was how he had broken you down in the first place, defeating you with barely any effort at all. Had you truly attempted to fight him after he dispelled your divine barrier or had that simply been enough for you to concede defeat, convinced you that you were in the wrong place, fighting someone else’s battle?

Now here you were, in the arms of the very one generations of worshippers had prayed for you to defeat, tainted entirely with his blood, his energy. Already, he was parting your legs again, ready to partake of you, liking you even more in this tainted state.

You tipped your head back against his shoulder despite yourself, still wanting him, despite everything. Still willing to give yourself over to the evil that you had been cautioned against your entire life. “Am I a goddess, Sukuna?” you whimpered, the vaulted ceiling above you blurred as tears pooled in your eyes.

His fingers found the apex of your thighs, fully healed now.

“Not anymore,” he laughed cruelly, and you felt your heart breaking into pieces. His fingers slid along your slit, pleased to have been gifted a blank, uninjured slate.

“Then, what - ?” Tears spilled over your cheeks but the question died on your lips as his fingers found their way inside you. Your eyes slid shut and a breathy moan echoed throughout the chamber as your back arched in pleasure. Whatever he had done to you had heightened your sensations exponentially, as your body responded to him in a way that was wholly unnatural, as if every inch of your being was poised in limbo, waiting perpetually for his touch, waiting to submit to him always.

“Mine,” was the answer growled into your ear. The reverberations burned into you through his chest, his voice vibrating through your ear, down your exposed throat.

And then he took you as if that was the only thing that was true, the only thing that mattered.

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

Power.

It spilled out of you, from your very fingertips. Part Sukuna and part something that was entirely your own. Something had broken within you. You saw now, the pieces that made up your being. The divinity, the curse – and the broken woman between the two. All of those were you.

When Sukuna re-entered his harem, with you at his side, a hushed silence fell over the assembled. You had no patience for the harlots before you. Too many of them, no different from the girl in blue who had learned her lesson too late. They, all of them, had made eyes at Sukuna and worse – plotted to have you removed from his side. Sidling up to him coyly as you had seen. They didn’t know about the undying rage within you, how you waited for it to be provoked, to justify a lashing out of power, to give reason to the destruction you longed to unleash.

You saw her one moment, a lovely blonde – the same whose fingers had traced the markings on Sukuna’s chest - whispering something to another behind her hand, her eyes on you. The next moment, the candlelight flickered, and a scream tore through her as the ground at her feet softened, drawing her in. Horror filled her eyes as she struggled to make sense of her predicament. Some eyes amongst the gathering flicked towards you, piecing two and two together.

You made it slow; it was more satisfying that way. She sunk down to her knees, clawing at the flagstones around her, begging for help, but her friends only staggered backward, terrified to be the next to face your ire. She was up to her neck before she turned her helpless gaze toward you, begging for mercy.

But you weren’t feeling merciful.

You did not even glance at Sukuna as the rest of them turned towards you, unsure where to place you, struggling to make sense of the changed hierarchy. But it had changed, and you were feeling charitable enough to educate them on it.

Darkness seemed to gather wherever you focused your anger, your power. And the cursed spirit that was looking at you in disbelief was next. Lest the fools think only mortals were under your thumb.

Not being human, he caught on a bit quicker, and almost immediately began begging for his life. His gaze caught between Sukuna’s mirth and your wrath. Burying him alive would be boring – you had already done that once. What if you crushed him as Sukuna had done? You wondered what that would feel like. You concentrated the air around him, formed it into a solid, invisible cage, and shrunk it bit by bit. You watched the agony contort his face, watched his body shrink in turn, until blood spilled from the split skin of his crushed form – until his bones broke; until there was nothing left to hurt. His screams had abated, and that was the end.

Tch.

You searched for your next target and found that everyone in the room had gone silent and had fallen to the floor, prostrating to you. You frowned and turned to Sukuna, suddenly understanding his awful, murderous boredom. There seemed to be nothing worse.

There was a broken, bitter part of you that mourned your lost mortality, your lost divinity. A part that only found relief when someone else was screaming. Sukuna would understand, and he did. It was ín the subtle inclination of his head, the smirk that teased his lips. His scarlet irises were pleased. He seemed so taken with you that you found it hard to care for the parts of yourself you had lost.

He nodded towards the plateau before you, upon which sat a throne that seemed to have been built into the very ground itself, large enough for two to sit comfortably side by side. It was overlaid with gold, but you suspected stone or iron lingered beneath that. It was the only explanation you could come up with for the formidable seat. High-backed and elegant, intricate designs were fashioned into the metal, inlaid with rubies and diamonds, and cushioned with embroidered red velvet. It was the throne he had sat upon when demanding you service others, but that memory felt centuries old. Distant, irrelevant.

This was the largest kingdom Sukuna had conquered to date and the throne room represented that accurately with its luxury. The palatial chamber was built in such a way as to carry the voice of whoever sat on that throne to every corner of the court. Structured so that wherever you stood, you faced the central figure perched upon that seat of power. The fool who had ruled here had seen to that, assuring that no one dared to turn their backs on him, assuring that he had all present in his view from his elevated seat of power. Perhaps, it was justified in a sense. This kingdom was a hub of trade and wealthy in resources. Not only that – it was located central to the neighboring kingdoms, strategically situated for negotiation, attack, or defense, but Sukuna cared little for that. A throne was no better than chains to him.

Sukuna glanced over his shoulder at the assembly and the bloodlust glinting in his ruby irises was a warning enough to have them scrambling to clear the room. A command they read clearly.

Cowards. Bloodlust of your own still itched in your fingertips, and you longed to see what havoc you could wreak.

The king of curses led you up the few steps to the throne, stopping just before it. He withdrew a hand from where it rested in the crook of his white robe and took hold of yours. Lifting it up to his mouth, he brushed his lips over your knuckles, an action that sent shivers up your spine.

“Rule over this rabble for me,” he commanded, tightening his grip on your hand. Your gaze slid, unbidden over the throne beside you. He wanted you to rule? You could not fathom if it was kindness, generosity, or another form of punishment you had yet to wrap your head around. His mouth was set determinedly, and his eyes peered at you with no hint of that malicious mirth that usually lined his lovely scarlet eyes. There was nothing but earnestness within them, join me, they seemed to say, be on my side. Do as I do.

You held his gaze a moment and understood. He had no interest in ruling, in holding court over his subjects, in negotiating trade and regulations. His only interests were on the battlefield and between your legs. Rule for him and leave him free to cleave through his enemies, their screams echoing in his ears – his own version of nirvana.

You envied him for a moment, suddenly taken with a bloodlust of your own. How you would like to be beside him, cutting down the legions as you had seen him do. Blood and screams thick in the air. Afterwards, you would sate your lust with him in your tents. Each of you ravenous and still drenched in blood. Grappling for dominance until he overpowered you and the two of had had your fill of each other. Bloody and content until you did it all again the next day.

You still weren’t certain how much of these new facets of your personality were your own and how much of it was the natural consequence of Sukuna’s blood within you. It would be too simple to assume it was all his influence and you held no accountability for the dark desires burning within you. In truth, you knew a part of you had enjoyed this even before he had changed you so markedly. You had always enjoyed the display of power that was his wrath on the battlefield. And when his eyes had met yours on your travels, when he had taken you with blood still on his hands – you shivered at the thought. You had enjoyed that even when you were human. Even when you were divine.

But it wasn’t a goddess or a slave he was asking you to be now. Not even a reward for his loyal minions. No, now he was asking something else entirely.

“A queen?” you said quietly, turning from the throne to your maker. “Is that the identity you would bestow upon me?”

He smirked and took hold of your shoulders soothing his thumbs over the tension in your muscles. “I’ve stayed here too long,” he muttered, changing the subject as his hands meandered down your form and untied the sash around your waist. He pushed your robe from your shoulders leisurely, offering no explanation for his actions. Queen or goddess – he could have you whenever he wanted you, however he wanted you. He turned you, entirely naked now, towards the throne and you followed in the direction his hands guided you, struggling to understand what he was after.

He maneuvered you onto the throne, on your knees, holding onto the high back of the solid seat as he positioned himself behind you, his lips at your ear. You felt wickedly exposed and out of place and so you sighed with relief when the frigid air at your back was replaced with his solid, heated form. You wanted to kiss him, but his hand snaked around your neck, taking hold of your chin as he turned your face away from him, giving him access to your throat instead. He nibbled at your ear and nipped his way down your throat as he freed himself from the confines of his trousers, ready to take you on the very throne he was giving you. He ran his hand along his members, and the two fused into one. The very sight of his impossible girth had your heart dropping into your stomach. You could never have taken that before he had turned you.

“Would you like that?” he asked, as he sunk into you slowly, inch for delectable inch, running his tongue along your pulse as he did so. “For them to call you a queen?”

You moaned in delirious ecstasy. You could never have enough of him. Your insides made way for him, welcoming him, needing him. He had changed the very essence of your being. You needed him the way you needed air and water – he could take you anywhere, any way at all, and you would thank him for it.

You arched your back and rocked against him impatiently, feeling him filling your core more completely, and could not help the whines of pleasure that spilled freely from your lips. Sukuna held the sides of the high-backed throne and crushed you between himself and the soft velvet, allowing you to fuck yourself on his cock with a desperation you would have taken care to conceal before. His canines buried themselves in your throat, prompting fresh blood to spill forth and he closed his mouth over the wound, drinking it down greedily.

He rolled his hips into you, his need as great as yours, prompting more needy whimpers from you. It was never enough with him.

With reckless abandon, the two of you found your own rhythm as you pushed against him, driving yourself to new heights. You could feel him within you, deeper than should have been possible, you could see him bulging through your skin, see exactly how deep he was, and you pressed a hand to your skin in awe as you felt him thrust into you with abandon. The head of his shaft was within your very ribcage, you noticed dimly, intoxicated with lust and pleasure. The kind of penetration that had killed you once, but your new body could take the pain. Your new body was made for him.

Gasping, panting, you fell from the heights of ecstasy, tumbling down headfirst through shockwaves of pleasure. When Sukuna suddenly, unexpectedly, pulled away from you. You had less than a moment to grieve the loss of content as he slipped out of you and took hold of your shoulder, turning you until you were sitting properly on the throne. You looked up at him, confused and still dizzy with pleasure. This was where he belonged, standing over you, all enigmatic lethal beauty, looking down on you like a god in judgment. His cock in his hand, his face flushed with lust and desire, intensity burning in eyes as red as your blood that dripped from his lips – the sight of him had your pulse singing in wanton need - and then he came.

His copious seed doused your form entirely. Warm, sticky fluid gushed over your face, over your chest and legs – all over the throne you sat on. Shock and humiliation set in as you tried to make sense of what had transpired. Sukuna braced himself, still, with one hand on the back of the throne as he leaned over you. His cock still dribbling ejaculate onto you. He panted, catching his breath, and then his expression broke into a grin as he took in the sight of you.

Like a cum-drowned mouse.

He took hold of your chin and kissed you on the lips with a tenderness that belied your current state. “No matter who calls you a queen, sweetheart…” he purred, lingering at your lips, heedless of the sticky, white liquid dripping from your chin. “Don’t forget that this is the throne you rule from.”

He leaned lazily over you, reaching down to retrieve the crown on the floor, one he had discarded since occupying the castle. One that had remained there, worthless because Sukuna had deemed it so, and placed it on your dripping head.

“Don’t forget that you are my whore.”

You glanced up at him, your eyes full of wonder despite yourself. He was cruel – and you loved him for it.

“I might forget anyway,” you replied boldly, not bothering to make an attempt at cleaning yourself up. He was clearly enjoying the sight.

His ruby eyes glinted with mirth and malice – a sentiment you recognized now. That sensation you also felt every now and then. Give me a reason, it seemed to say, give me the slightest excuse to unleash my rage on you.

It was tiring keeping it in all the time. You understood.

You crossed your legs paying no mind to the stickiness between them, one over the other, every bit the stature of a queen, even crowned in gold, and robed in his seed.

“You’ll have to come back and remind me.”

A true laugh, short and surprised, fell from Sukuna’s lips. “Oh, I will,” he promised, his grin evidence of how much he was enjoying you. “You can be sure of that.” Both a promise and a threat – and sweeter than any lover’s confession.

Heat pooled in your belly at his assurance, and then without so much as another word, he disappeared.

He was truly gone. He hated being kept indoors, he hated courtiers, and he hated his own clean hands. He needed to be tearing into something, you knew, and so you understood when he went back to war like a lion to his prey. You could not ask him to stay.

You washed yourself and cleaned the throne – and then you ruled.

You oversaw all matters of state that so bored Sukuna and made sure his kingdom flourished. You were determined to have his approval when he saw the progress his capital had made. There was pleasure in all affairs of government for you. You seemed to have a natural affinity towards it. You soon established a reputation as a ruler who was equal parts harsh and fair. You did not relish taking the last sheep of some poor farmer, and so the peasants tended to welcome your rule. The rich and powerful, however, were another story entirely. As were the miscreants who resorted to crime. You relished the moments when a fool came to challenge you. You delighted in all the different ways there were to take a head from a body.

But those challenges soon came to be few and far between as word spread quickly – the Queen of Curses was not to be toyed with. Any slight, real or imagined, was met with a quick and cruel response. Their caution drove you mad with the need for violence. What was the purpose of the power buzzing in your veins, if you had no one to eviscerate with it? More often than you cared to admit, you envied Sukuna’s freedom on the battlefield. What you wouldn’t do to feel someone’s pulse slowing beneath your palms, to feel their blood running between your fingers. If you did not have challengers and fools to punish, what were you to do with this craving for bloodshed?

When boredom became too much to bear, you brought people out of the dungeons to fight to the death in the courtyard square. 18 prisoners fought one another, and you promised the victor freedom. It was a brilliant sight. Your eyes lit up at their desperation, their cunning – their violence. It reminded you of your beloved.

And when the victor kneeled before you, to receive your royal pardon, all exhaustion and weariness – you killed him, of course. There was no lie. It was a freedom, of sorts.

And of course, it would not do for word to reach Sukuna of you pardoning prisoners. On the contrary, you hoped he would hear of your cruelty, of your violence. You hoped it would make him lust for you and bring him back home.

And sometimes, it did. When he heard tell in hushed tones of the Queen of Curses’ latest cruelty. Some horror beyond imagining meted out on whoever had been fool enough to offend her, he hungered for you with a passion that left a trail of broken women in his wake – and still his lust was not sated.

He would be haunted by the image of you, that once pure, innocent face of a goddess stained with blood and smirking in pleasure as you took some fool apart piece for piece. As you murdered and tortured and wanted more still, as you listened to screams the way he did – as songs of praise to your power. And the need to take you, to fill you, to wreck your body with the ravages of his lust drove him to impatience and distraction – and nothing in the world could keep him from you then.

You knew this, of course.

And every time you meted out punishment, crueler than the last, you hoped this was the one that would bring your cursed king home. Because even if all the world called you the queen of curses, you were never more content than when you were his whore.

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 28 (NSFW)

Read on AO3 | Read on Wattpad

Read chapter twenty-seven

Title: You Need Me

Words: 5.9k

Summary: Third time’s the charm, right?

Warnings: Lost orgasm

ST Rambles: WOW! Not me posting a chapter a chapter after only two weeks. Nuts, really. As of now, this semester is much less of... it's just less fucking nonsense, if I am being honest. I am getting very excited about my future and where I will be this time next year. I have an interview on February 27th for a new-grad RN residency program. It's all just very strange and adult right now.

[MASTERLIST] || BANNER // @elmidol​

However short it might be, you thought you would like to spend the rest of forever exactly like this.

The sun remained hidden, and the light of the moon had faded, leaving you shrouded in darkness and engulfed in the heat of Kylo Ren’s resting form. Not a limb had moved from what you could remember before dozing off last night, your legs kept woven with his, cheek melting into his solid chest, the broad hand between your shoulders less stark in its effort to keep you against him. Still, the world vaguely existing beyond the canopy around you, you remained tucked into him, unsure if you had ever felt this amount of peace before. One difference now, something you’d never had the chance to experience, was the faint tickle of deep, rhythmic breath coming from the sleeping warrior who caressed you.

Twelve. Twelve perfect, dazed breaths kissed your forehead and sent mild sparks dancing along your skin; they followed thoughts of absent nightmares, nightmares that always seemed to keep away when he was near. Looking at him, peering up to see the vulnerability in his slackened mouth and long, looming eyelashes framing the dying purple that lay beneath them, you could tell he had not slept this well since Starkiller. Maybe even before then. Quietly, you allowed yourself somewhat of a small victory at the thought.

You did not know what to do, not wanting to wake him, yet aware that you needed to get ready for your shift. The calendar-chip Karmen had given you had transferred its data into your watch, but your watch was rooms away – worlds away – resting on the refresher floor. The transport ship would be waiting at the front entrance at six, but that had to be at least an hour away if you were banking on the soft darkness surrounding you, not quite remembering what it felt like waking up to real sunlight.

So, ever so slightly, making every effort to silence your breath and shifting, you loosed from his hold and led his arm lightly back down to the bed, watching him for any sign of disturbance. Through the distance, you heard the early, soft ebbing of the sea, noting how it complemented the push of Kylo’s exhales. He did not seem to stir, not even a lapse in his breathing when you rolled onto your back and tugged the linens up to cover your chest, the cold of the room taking residence over the skin previously pressed to the hearth of his own.

Your Master. The Commander of the First Order. Kylo Ren. How strange it was to be here, to see up close every healed and healing scar, to witness the slight twitch in his brow, to study the handsome line of his nose and the various moles that flecked along his cheeks. This was the strongest, most feared and lethal man in the galaxy, and here you were fawning over the light spray of sparce freckles sprawled along his cheekbones. A privilege, you thought, to have the man who haunted nightmares keep your very own at bay.

Lips pressed together, eyes full of wonder, you let the very tips of your fingers trace the raven haze of hair that splayed beneath his dreaming face. And when the dark ends met his shoulder, you risked a featherlight touch over the hand you had earlier placed. An intricate, beautiful pattern of veins jutted out on its surface, his long fingers curled into a weak fist, your focus lingering along the scars cut into his knuckles. A life of scrapes and training and battle and bruises lived in his skin, the veins beneath treading paths along them, like a map, like a guidebook to each blight of hurt that ghosted their blue trails. You swallowed a giggle, wondering if you would pick a sixteen or a fourteen-gauge needle to start an IV on him.

Running your fourth finger along the prominent vein that fled gracefully along his entire arm, you kissed the inside of his wrist, watching his face and never wanting to disturb him, but needing to feel him. A slight upward twitch at the corner of his mouth made your heart jump, choking back a gasp when a curl of hair swept over his eyes. Another fascination, how full his lips were; you touched them, a sneaking whisper of your fingers, pulling down on the bottom one and leaning in closer and closer, warmth fogging your hand, your face, his features unmoving and mild.

The elegant brutality that now crowned his features – it was healing, its edges no longer raised and red, but flush with their binding. Two weeks ago his face had been unmarred, but the whole of you found this new normal breathtaking, heart-stopping. Beholding him now brought you back to that desperate moment, just before he’d carried you to bed, when you clung to him because you believed you’d never get another chance.

Palm flat to his chest, above his heart, following the lead of his lungs, you closed your eyes and rested your lips to the corner of his mouth, and said, quieter than the very thought of a whisper, “I never wanted to hurt you.” A ghosted kiss. “I never wanted to leave then, and…” The steady beat of his heart remained, the rush of your own silencing the tide of the waking bay. With his next breath, with an aching chest that held nothing of the pain it had previously, you breathed, “I never wanted to leave then, and I never want to leave again.”

Not a single tear, not even the suggestion of one, nothing but adamant truth tapping against the canopy’s silence. You needed him here, no longer caring if it stole the innocence and vulnerability of sleep’s caress.

“Kylo,” you whispered, kissing him with intent, coaxing him awake.

A deep, sharp inhale. You could not trap the smile that broke across your cheeks.

A nuzzle against his nose, curious fingers breeching that sea of obsidian tresses. “Kylo, wake up.”

He hummed, his lips finally leading into yours when he left his dream’s embrace. Like he had not wanted it moved, his hand reclaimed your back and pressed you against him, his other hiking your leg atop his own, the feel of his skin warming you to your very center. Nearly melded against him, his bare torso to yours, you felt him harden, felt the heat of his cock grow and thicken, become weighted as it filled and filled. You caught an unbidden gasp, leaning away from him long enough to see the mischief that danced in his eyes.

His arms coiled around you as he stretched, a cant of his hips to finish off the gesture. He was looking down at you, first at your face, then over your body, the skim of his eyes heavy when you could see their every tick. Kylo slid a rough hand up your leg, stopping just beneath the curve of your ass and anchoring himself to the scorching skin of your inner thigh. When he looked back to your eyes, searing amber swallowed by the shadows of the room, you smiled and ground yourself into his erection. Kylo growled in approval, your lips gracing his and feeling the depth of the vibration on his lips.

“You know,” he sighed, sleep heavy in his voice, “they should add assault and battery to your charges.” Those fingers around your thigh reached deeper.

“Hm, and why is that?”

“Because,” he nipped your bottom lip, “I didn’t consent to any of this.”

His crooning tone filtered into your veins, amusement blooming in your chest. “You were asleep. If anything, I was being considerate.”

“Considerate, mm?” Your fingers fisted at his nape, the hand at your back gliding up to do the same. “I guess I’ve been very considerate both times I’ve woken up before you, then.”

“Kylo Ren: considerate,” you chuffed a giggle, “I don’t know about that.”

“Really?” he rumbled, light yet venomous. Kylo tread parted lips along your jaw, your ear lobe slipping between them before he pulled you in and whispered with pride and claim, “Because that first morning, before I left you to sleep in my bed,” the hand around your thigh shifted upward, just grazing your slit, “I stared at the bruises I’d made the previous night, stared at how they’d grown and how they all belonged to me.”

The tip of his tongue slid along the shell of your ear, a pant parting your lips when his cock throbbed into your abdomen.

Kylo’s tone had lowered and thickened when he next spoke, “I thought about waking you up, then,” the tip of his finger pushed into the wetness that had gathered between your legs, a pleasured hum rolling out of him, “thought about fucking my hand while I watched you sleep, knowing my cum had dried onto your thighs overnight.”

Hot, masterful fingers parted your folds, your breath stuck in your throat as Kylo stared into you, watching you when his touch brushed lazily against your clit. His eyes narrowed in knowing pride when yours seemed to flutter, hiking your leg up further, trying to get another graze of his touch. An effort in vain. His hips canted again, slowly this time, stroking himself against the soft skin of your belly.

“I wanted to fuck you awake, really, wanted the first thing you were aware of to be me splitting you open, wanted to see your eyes lull and widen when you realized what was going on.” A second tease of those fingers, slick slipping past your entrance. “And I could have, you know,” he drawled, a third nudge over your stiffened bud, a tug at the nape of your neck.

He waited, observing you before you asked through shuddering breath, “What do I know?”

An upward slant to those plush lips, a tongue running along his teeth, a viper behind his eyes. “You know that I can have you whenever, however I want—” his fingers began a slow, circling pattern, passing over and over that sweet spot “—because you’re always ready for me, always wet.” His hand shifted so it was his thumb rolling over the buzzing nerves, and the tips of three bare, slickened fingers teased your core. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You ground into him, begging for more of him, the length of his cock burning into you, slipping against your stomach as precum slicked his shaft. With as much nonchalance as you could muster, which was near zilch as you held back hums and winces with each pass of his thumb, you sighed, “Maybe, or perhaps you’re forgetting my life doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Maybe not right now,” he purred, pumping and circling his fingers, effectively inching you toward climax, “give it time. Give me time.”

“What are you talking about?” you panted, pushing your body into his hand, reaching the very brink of pleasure.

His hips canted, he grunted, and when you winced, seethed with pleasure, felt it tighten in your belly and quiver along your legs, Kylo stopped.

“No,” you whined, “no! That’s just cruel,” you pulled his face from your neck, “Kylo, what-,”

He said nothing, but there was something unreadable in his expression that stopped you from readying for battle. It appeared like something had just clicked for him, his eyes so distant he could have been in an entirely different galaxy for all you knew. Just as fast as he was gone, he returned with passive pomp settling a smirk into his face.

You studied him, confused and stunted, but if he wanted to return from wherever he’d gone, so would you. “Hey!” You punched his shoulder. “What the hell?”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

He ground his teeth, sucking them before the most sardonic smile cast over his features. “You should get dressed,” he cooed your name, the sweet tone widening your eyes, feeling the challenge in it, “I would hate for you to be late to your second first day.” He hummed, laving his gaze over the sweat glittering along your heaving chest, tiding viciously with unsated breath. “We both know what happened the first time.”

With a raised brow, “I have two capable hands,” you countered, pushing away from him. “I don’t need you.”

Quicker than you could register, he had both your hands pinned beside your head, his broad, structured body pressing fully into you. “You do need me,” he breathed, nothing feral in his tone, but sure, not a shred of doubt when he said, “you need me, and for this to work-,”

“For what to work?”

He kept quiet for a moment, a decision weighing on him, focus flicking between your eyes and the light that teased beyond the windows, along the horizon. It appeared as if time would have permitted, if the sun had slept in a second longer, he would have answered you. You saw it in his eyes, when he peered down to you, his hair a shield from the rest of the world, you saw that whatever rested against his lips – it would have changed everything you knew. Everything you did not know.

But instead, with a swallow and a sigh, he simply said, “For this to work, you do need me.”

You tested a hand from under his, slipping it so your thumb smoothed along his flushed ear. Flitting your attention between his stark, serious eyes, feeling the panting of his parted lips, you knew you were right when you said, “We need each other.” Your other hand found its earlier home over his chest; staring at its placement, feeling every smooth, unrelenting beat of his heart, you declared, “for this to work, we need each other.”

Another quiet moment, and when you looked up, you found the very beginnings of dawn claiming the shadows that had earlier claimed his irises. Pushing his hair back, you could see that even though you were right – you did need each other – he didn’t want it to be true. Not that it seemed to anger him, but something remained hidden, kept quiet in his gaze, something taut and unyielding; something, it seemed, he did not want to admit – to you or himself.

He nodded. Not a word, not a breath. But more than you would have expected from him in the past.

Equal.

“You could have just let me finish and then been dramatic, you know?” you sighed, easing back from intensity when something of amusement softened his face.

“At least for today,” he purred your name, “your world will revolve around me.”

“And why is th-oh,” the Force nudged your bud, laved at it just as his tongue might.

He leaned down one last time, lips to your ear. “Because you’re not cumming until I let you, and you have a twelve-hour orientation shift to look forward to today.” An icy thrill swept your veins when he promised, “I intend to make each one of those hours memorable.”

“You won’t be anywhere near me.”

“As I’ve found recently,” his hand teased along your curves, the pad of his thumb ghosting the very tip of your nipple. When you shuddered, he hummed, “distance is no longer a barrier.”

Even through the haze of lust, there was no hiding the contempt in your voice when you barked, “And you figured that out how? Through training? While you’re still healing from not even two weeks ago?”

Kylo did not say anything, instead leaning back and letting you out from under him. He was still hard, but you had no time or want to care about that fact. Kylo watched as you stormed from the canopy and gathered your clothes from the refresher, nearly stomping. Through the gossamer fabric, you saw he was amused with you, and when you pulled on yesterday’s uniform to make the short distance to your room, he stood from the bed and sauntered toward you.

“Didn’t Belkar give you orders to not strain yourself for at least a month?” Your arms were crossed to your chest, your remaining belongings tucked beneath them. “You know, you aren’t invincible. You have to know that by now, right? Because I sure as hell do.” The image of his comatose form slithered in and out of memory. You shuddered. “Can’t you just do what’s good for yourself? This once?”

He took the step up from the bed’s level, the heightening sun glowing behind him, crowding the pale blue of the sky with every step that brought him closer. Lazily, like you weren’t lecturing him, he ran the flat of his fingers along his shaft, cocking his head when he stopped a pace away from you.

“Why would I listen to his orders?”

“Okay, then it’s my order,” you said, “because if you want to be stubborn, fine. But if I need you, then I need you at your best, not hurt and half-healed because your skull is too thick and your ego is too big to process that no matter if you are Kylo Ren, you are still human. And I am your care provider. And… I… say so.”

His lips twitched. “You say so?”

Although you barely believed the authority in your tone, you held steady, “Yes, Commander Ren, I say so.”

He’d never looked at you quite like he was now, something of stunned pride gleaming behind a much more fortified front of command. Closing the space between you, your back meeting the chilled black of the door, Kylo leaned down and studied your crossed arms. Knowing mischief flashed in them before he sought your gaze and met you with a face full of challenge.

“First,” he rumbled, his breath on your lips, “address me by my name or my title, not that rank. Ever again. Understood?”

Eyes on his plush, dawn-kissed mouth. “Yes. Second?”

“Second,” tongue in cheek, the hand he’d busied with his erection came up and plucked an article from your arms. It was only after his face became the youngest you’d seen it – taunting eyes and a broad, pompous smile – when you realized what hung from the tip of his forefinger. “I suppose mine might be more comfortable than your own?”

Your mouth fell open – in horror or at his audacity, you did not know. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, waiting for you to squirm as you viewed his boxer-briefs just inches from your face. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“They are, actually. So, if you don’t mind—” you plucked them from his grasp, not breaking his stare for a second “—I’ll take these.” He only looked between your eyes, his own glinting with amusement. “And here—” you balled up your own panties and clasped your hand to his, tucking both to his chest and smiling sweetly “—if I’ve put you out too many pairs.”

A few seconds passed where all you did was take victory in the stunned setting of his features, and when you reached to activate the door, he caught your hand and pressed a long, hard, lusting kiss to your mouth. When he finished, both of you panting, he circled a canine with the tip of his tongue and took a step back.

“Good luck today,” the door shot open and your heart thrummed at the whoosh of ice over your back. With the tone of his next words – slithering, toying, smug – and remembering his promise to make the hours memorable, you knew he meant nothing to do with your occupation when he said, “you’ll need it.”

Sighing, you stepped into the vacant landing, and shot him one final smirk. “I have my watch if you need me,” you swept your gaze over his bare, muscled body, “if you want me.” No matter if you’d meant to, you’d initiated a game, and for the first time in so long, you were excited to play.

In the few steps from his room to your own, you waited for the gentle lock that indicated the door’s close, but it never came. For a second, you wondered if it had shut and you just did not hear it, but you felt those dark, peering eyes and knew his gaze was following your every move. So when you activated your door, took one step past the threshold, you pulled the skirt of your uniform over your head and stretched your arms above, your bare back arched and ass on display.

In a marked taunt, you purred, “Think of me fondly in my absence, Master Ren.”

You did not wait for a response before activating the door to shut, but one still came in the form of an overwhelming, buzzing pulse between your legs. A high-pitched mewl accompanied your trip forward, yipping until ten endless seconds passed and the pleasure thrumming along your slit subsided.

Game on.

[HORIZONTILE LINE]

With a fresh uniform, and Kylo’s briefs hugging your curves, you strode through the manor – although, you were still unsure what to call this place – and meandered your way around until you found a kitchen. Some of the staff acknowledged you with a small nod, others too busy cutting exotic fruits and preparing for breakfast. Which, passing by two intricately stacked and arranged platters, you knew most of the food being prepared would just as quickly be disposed of.

A woman in a black uniform guided you out of the bustling kitchen, taking you to a dining room. In it was a long table, undoubtedly used for meetings and manipulation, filled with trays of meats and fruits and carafes of juices, a metal one indicative of milk or cream. A large, insulated pot with a gilded, floral handle, steamed at the far end of the table. Caffeine.

There was limited time to eat, only about thirty minutes before the transport arrive, so you took a plate, painted too intricately with the flowers you’d walked through last night, and gathered whatever sustenance might help you make it to lunch. Most importantly, you filled a delicate mug with piping hot caf and carried everything into an adjoining room.

No lights were on, only the rising dawn filtering through thin veils of curtains, and Talia sat at the very end of the otherwise empty, centered table. She was dressed, but looked disheveled, at least for her typical put-together appearance. She wasn’t working alongside you, you knew – your assignment at Canto Bight’s medbay purely aimed at incriminating you – but it was still nice to have a friend, one who was under the same roof and not acting strangely.

Her hands were clamped onto either side of her head and there was a plate of picked-at food pushed to the side, a glass of water placed before her sunken head.

“Hey, Tal,” you started, noting her subtle jump at your voice. When she gave a subtle wave, you took a seat next to her and asked, however redundant, “How’re you feeling this morning?”

A long sigh, fingers comforting her temples. “Do I look that bad?”

A pause, considering. She looked quite pale, but there was no sheen of sweat over her forehead. She was breathing a bit quickly, and her mouth appeared to be parted, like she could be sick at any second. “Well, you’ve looked better, but I’ve seen you at your worst.” A look around the room, tuning your ears to the clang of the kitchen. “Is it nausea?” you whispered.

“Stars,” she winced, more in theatrics than pain, “I’ve spent more time over a toilet than anywhere else since the beginning of this thing.”

You chewed at a fruit you’d never had before, swallowing before saying, “Is it just in the morning or is it all day?”

“Morning sickness is a cruel lie they tell unsuspecting women,” she cleared her throat, finally peering up to you. “At least that’s what I have concluded.”

“Did you sleep last night?” There were purple splotches under her reddened eyes.

A shy smile slipped onto her face, quickly faltering. “I could have gotten more.”

Your brows raised, realizing Talia had a similar night to your own. “Oh?” you hummed.

“A private half of this villa?” she lowered her voice, swallowing, looking to the arch that peered out of the room, “and then adjoined rooms? It’s like they want us to have affairs with our assignments.”

“Well,” you sighed, recounting your night and morning, “perhaps. If that’s the case, can I assume where you slept last night?”

She loosed a breath of amusement. “Shockingly, no.” She shook her head, closing her eyes again before explaining, “I haven’t told him. Yet. Still. I stayed with him until he fell asleep but made it back to my room before I could hurl up everything I’d eaten yesterday.” A small, bitter laugh. “Do you know how impossible it is to throw up quietly?”

A warm sip of caf and you tapped her wrist, earning her attention back. Eyes filled with concern, you asked, quieter than the distant shore, “Are you afraid to tell him?”

“I’ve tried,” she sighed, completely exasperated, “This past week I have had so many opportunities – traveling here, the last few days on the Finalizer… last night.” Talia ran her finger along the rim of her glass. “I want to tell him. I need to, if I’m being honest. Time sensitive issue and everything.”

“Has he suspected anything, or do you know?”

A gloom shrunk her features, her focus shifting to the window behind your shoulder. “I think that’s why I haven’t told him. Armitage is always busy, running off to this place and that. I love the time I spend with him, I do. But, his lifestyle isn’t necessarily… compatible, I guess. Not with a baby. Not with, not with a partner. Not with me.”

“Oh, Talia.”

“No, I’m okay,” she shrugged, sad eyes going back to her glass, “I think I’m just biding my time. Preparing for the worst.”

“And what would the worst be, here?”

The room went silent, still, a few staff members replacing what you’d picked from the trays. For a few minutes there was only the sound of far-away waves and the kitchen’s relentless clattering, but Talia cleared the silence with a drag of breath. “The worst would be me telling him, him not wanting anything to do with me or my situation, being removed from his service and out of a job, publicly disgraced and shamed for carrying the General’s bastard kid, and just wholly ruined socially, occupationally, and personally.” There was quiet fear clawing at her eyes, but she forced a pleading smile.

“Wow,” you breathed, cutting through the intense moment, “it’s almost like you’ve thought about it before.”

A pitiful laugh. “Yeah, just a little.”

“Well, there’s always the alternative,” you shrugged. “Maybe none of that scary stuff will happen. Maybe Hux will embrace it. Embrace you and your situation. Because it isn’t just yours, Talia,” she considered your next words before you said, “it’s his, too.” You clasped her hand, trying to get across that she could come to you whenever she needed. “When you’re ready, or at least before you’re in labor,” you shared a laugh, “tell him. I think… I think people can surprise you if you let them. Maybe Hux will do just that.”

The pact that bound you seemed to glow, such gratefulness in her expression. She smiled and slipped her hand from yours, sipped from her glass and shook her head. “Well, now that you’ve bandaged my crisis, how are you doing? Only a couple days before everything gets real.”

Though you knew it was true, you’d barely considered the trial. Aside from Karmen’s rundown yesterday, you’d spent most of your time preparing for your shift, worrying about Mason, and cooped up with Kylo Ren. So maybe it would all feel real when you got there, but as of right now you’d scarcely thought of it.

“I think I’m doing better than I should be,” you sighed, nibbling a piece of toast. “Like you said, this place is rather extravagant, and then this whole city is unbelievable. I don’t know, maybe I’m just avoiding thinking about it. And, like you, I’m preparing for the worst.”

A glum smile hardly met her eyes. “Your worst is far worse than mine. I can’t even imagine.”

“You and Mason both, I guess. Although, you’re not as cryptic with it as he’s been.”

“Trouble in paradise?” She notched a brow.

You breathed a giggle, remembering you needed to clarify, “Just trouble, no paradise. Mason and I aren’t together.”

Talia was completely taken aback, no hiding her shocked expression. “Oh. I mean, I just assumed… Are you sure? Does he know you aren’t together?”

“I’d assume so,” her tone made you wary, not sure what was so obvious.

“I’m sorry, I really just thought since seeing him in the medbay so often that you two were a thing. Like, a serious thing.”

“We’re not,” your tone was short, but you breathed before saying, “I’m seeing him tomorrow. I need- ah, ah, fu-,”

That buzzing Force claimed your cunt, drilling both sweet spots and making it impossible to breathe. After a few seconds, its presence – its master – merciless, you crossed your legs and knitted your hands together in your lap, coughing to try and hide the sensation’s vision-blurring effects.

Talia was stunned, but before she could ask, you continued, “I’m see-seeing Mason tomorr-ow, and ha! Wow, and,” it felt like Kylo was thrusting inside of you, your toes curled in your shoes. “And grabbing some clothes for the trial. He also said he wants to ta- oh, okay.” You stomped both your feet to the floor, leaning down to the table and chugging the rest of your coffee.

“Are you alright?” Talia leaned forward, but you waved a hand in dismissal.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. So clothes and then Mason wants to talk!” You stumbled away from her and tried to keep from cursing Kylo Ren outwardly, a few shouts of goodbye falling behind when you eventually got out into the main halls of the manor.

The pulse between your legs finally let up, and you had half a mind to tromp back to his room and knee him where it’d hurt, but there were five minutes before transport would arrive, so you decided it would need to wait for a later date.

“If you can hear this,” you hissed, searching the halls for onlookers, “I’m going to-,” a swirl of pressure laved your sensitive bud, sending you tripping into the foyer. “Kylo.” It let up again. He let up. Maybe you would have tried another retort, but the grand entrance slid open, and at the bottom of the dawn-draped stairs awaited CB-7070.

She had a hand clasped to her wrist, not a blaster in sight, and her face remained hidden by a white helmet. The gold band over her right wrist shimmering with the sliver of sunlight to your left. Consciously, you half-circled her, wariness creeping along your veins. Nothing she had done, but… for a second you dropped your eyes to that familiar break in her uniform. You swallowed when you looked back to her visor, not offering a smile, and keeping at least three paces away at all times.

“Morning,” she muffled out your last name, pivoting to face you. When she took a step forward, you tried not to, but you backed away in suit. She stopped her advance.

Without a word, you nodded, pushing your hands into your pockets.

CB-7070 cleared her throat. “I’ve been informed by Commander Ren that you can assign me a name if you choose.”

“No,” you said, too quickly. “No, that won’t be necessary. CB-7070 is fine. We won’t know each other long.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“Use my first name,” you commanded, running a finger along your uniform’s embroidery.

“Understood,” this time she used your own name – no titles, no pleasantries.

With only two minutes before transport, you said, “You’re aware you will not be in any of my patients’ rooms, correct?”

“I have been briefed on Cantonica’s privacy laws, yes.”

You peered side-long at her. “Good.”

When she spoke your name, there was a measure of nerves you couldn’t help but notice. “Is there anything you need from me that will make this arrangement easier for you?”

There was little time to think, but something in your head was screaming to request the one thing you felt would minimize the pit of dread rooting in your gut.

Plainly, facing her, arms crossed, you said, “Show me your face.”

Without hesitation, the stormtrooper unlatched and removed her helmet. She was dark-skinned, full lips and deep brown eyes inherent of the desert around her, genetic protection from the lifelong sun on this planet. Dark brunette curls were smoothed to her scalp, twisted into a tight bun at its base. Her face was round, and with the slight smile she gave, her cheeks crinkled a pair of gentle eyes. So young. Too young.

“How old are you?” There was a harshness in your words, not entirely intentional.

CB-7070 did pause at that. After squaring her shoulders she said, “Eighteen. Nineteen soon.” Her voice was kind, warm.

“I don’t need you to prove yourself,” you guessed as much at her posture, “I can assume if you’re here, at this… place-,”

“The Consulate.”

Consulate. “Thank you,” you continued. “Since you’re stationed at the Consulate, I can assume you’ve already done enough grunt work,” those early weeks, before Kylo Ren, flashed in your mind’s eye, dehydrated soldiers, strung out in preparation for the attack on the Republic. Sighing, watching the sky for any incoming ships, you took one step toward her. “No, I don’t need you to prove yourself. But I do need you to have my back.”

She stood even straighter at that.

“I know you’re assigned to watch me and report to the General, and I’ll just say right now that neither of us is the other’s favorite person. But I am not your enemy. I’m not an enemy.”

She looked at you, hearing the approaching ship, and just before it sped too close to blast your hearing, the young Stormtrooper nodded and said, “I was briefed on your case. You are not an enemy. You saved that man, an engineer. One of many who normally go unseen and unnoticed. I will do my job, but I am not biased to you or my General.” She angled her eyes to the sky and tucked her head back into the helmet. “As much as my assignment is to monitor you, I have been trained to protect the officers and officials of the First Order. And given you kept the Commander alive after Starkiller went down – you are one of the most important officers I’ve been tasked with.”

You hadn’t known that was general knowledge, her admission striking through every chamber of your heart. The memory of that day. People had seen such a different side of it, they’d seen you protect and serve when minutes prior you were begging for death in the dark of your residence. The day you could have used a savior, others had painted you as their own.

CB-7070 marched to the transport’s descended ramp and faced you. “Ready when you are.”

With a straight back, hands smoothing over your uniform, you approached the ramp, waiting for CB-7070 to follow behind. She stood next to you, but before you took a step further, you turned to the Consulate, and then to the sea that spanned beside and behind it, and you quieted all that Canto Bight had already presented.

Today was not about Snoke, or Mason, or Kylo. Today was about you and your patients, whoever they would be. Today you were not Commander Ren’s Care Provider.

Today you would be a nurse, and that meant more than anything.

[thewinedarksea]

school

ft. some of the ink mage’s truly horrendous teaching style. tw: the ink mage lmao.

“The best school in the world, and they still produce insufferable idiots like you.”

The student in the second row, eighth seat choked, spluttered, swelled. He put the girl in mind of a bullfrog. Certainly he looked like one, his sickly green robes too big on his gangly frame, adding to the impression of size as he sucked in a breath to argue. 

“I’m telling you that—”

“No,” the Ink Mage said. “Don’t tell me anything. Actually, just stop talking. Your voice is irritating me.” 

The student stopped talking. At least there was a shred of common sense rattling around in his head; the girl had seen how the Ink Mage handled students who backtalked, and cleaning up the aftermath was low on her list of desired activities for the day.

The Ink Mage’s gaze swept the room. The girl copied the motion for something to do. Lecture Hall J was crowded, the cramped rows filled with a sea of students; freshmen, if the girl was any judge—the only year of students suicidal enough to take voluntary credits with her master. Most of them still wore their introductory robes, pens in hand, sheets of parchment at the ready. A mischief of mice, unaware they’d been tossed amongst cats. Unaware that her master had the sharpest claws of them all.  

“How many of you can read Illegible?” the Ink Mage asked softly.

A scattering of hands went up. After some deliberation the girl added hers to the mix, earning a brief glance from the Ink Mage. 

“And how many of you understand the underlying principles of spell creation outlined in Whistler’s Third Collection?”

Fewer hands. A boy in the ninth row, third seat; a group of three sitting halfway down the fifth row. The girl herself.

The Ink Mage took it in with a frown. On his face the annoyance deepened, cooled. The expression he wore right before he broke objects and people and experiments. The girl lifted her knees to her chin and focused on making herself very, very still.

“Right.” 

Behind him ink began to bleed across the white paper expanse of the board in his tiny, looping scrawl, outlining the tenets of Whistler’s work. Creation, sustainment, the intersection of runes and intention and the raw power lurking just beyond the Veil. Lines five to eight detailed the Ink Mage’s critique on the work. Lines twelve to thirty-seven were devoted to a critique of Whistler himself.

“I am delighted to see that, as always, I’ve been assigned a bunch of worthless, subpar cretins,” the Ink Mage said.  “How I’m supposed to teach any of you about spell creation when you can’t even tell a rune from a child’s scribble is, quite frankly, beyond me.”

Third row, fourth seat raised a tentative hand. “This is Introduction to Summonings, not Spellwork Creation,” she said, her voice so small it was almost lost in the terrified silence of eighty-three freshmen realizing they were in over their heads. 

The Ink Mage’s eyes narrowed. Chairs scraped against the floor as students in the first row shifted back. 

“Introductions to anything are a pointless waste of my considerable expertise. If you’re sitting in my class I expect you to understand the beginnings of theoretical spellwork and to have passing familiarity with all dialects of runes, regardless of subject material. I am here to teach, not handhold a bunch of illiterate children through their first attempt at binding some demon.”

“But you could die if you don’t know what you’re doing!” Fifth row, first down; dreadful hair framing a face twisted in horror. They faltered beneath the Ink Mage’s glare. Rallied. “You could make a mistake like mixing up your bindings, or leaving a hole in the wards, or—”

“Or annoy me until I have you thrown out on the streets and banned from academia?” The Ink Mage smiled, small and sharp and cold. “Shall I share some advice, o worthless class of mine?”

He’d settled on the desk in the front of the hall before the lecture had started, arms outstretched to either side. Now he leaned forward, intent, voice slicing through the tension-thick air. Strands of hair slipped free from his bun to frame his face. 

“Don’t. Make. Mistakes. And you, idiot boy—presume to lecture  me again and I’ll vanish your tongue. Now, questions? No? Good.” He clapped his hands together. Ink bloomed in complex equations behind him. “Let’s get started.”

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x male naga (nsfw)

This is a commission for someone who asked me to hold off posting it til today because it’s their birthday. So, happy birthday! I hope you like this. I really enjoyed working with these two characters of yours, and I’m totally in love with Ambrose...

Contents: one naga with some colourful language, one shy and arachnophobic drider boy, some thievery, some fluff, and some smut. Length: 4847 words

___________________________

Aiden cursed as he ducked and wove through the dense pine trees as evening pressed on relentlessly into night and the baying of the hounds and shouting of guards faded behind him.  

It had all been going so well until the duchess had returned early to her chambers and caught him red-handed with his sharp, taloned claws in her safe. She’d shrieked half the castle down, screaming about thieving snakes, leaving the naga no choice but to hurl himself out of the window and take a long dive into the freezing, filthy moat surrounding her castle. At least he still had her jewels in his satchel. He grinned wickedly to himself, canines flashing in the dying light of the day.  

Honestly, he was exhausted.

His python-like lower half was built for stealth rather than for prolonged speed, and his muscles were screaming at him to stop. The warmth had faded from the day, and the cold-blooded naga was starting to feel the chill as his muscles tightened and began to burn. His underside bore scratches and scrapes from his long flight, first through the remote castle’s extensive grounds, and then out into the wilder woods beyond. Sharp rocks had scored along his thick, red-scaled hide, leaving him bruised and a bit bloody, and he ached all over.  

Thirsty, weak, and with nowhere left to go, he eventually slowed his pace, breathing hard, and came to a halt in a quiet glade amid tall, silent pine trees. The wind hissed in the needled canopy above, but down here between the sentinel trunks, nothing moved. The baying of the duke’s hounds had long since faded into nothing, and as he swept his spiky, dark red hair back out of his eyes, he went utterly still, straining to hear any sounds at all. His head swam and his vision went double for a moment. He’d not eaten in days and while that wasn’t normally an issue for a naga, it was going to be problem for him soon after expending so much energy on escaping.  

Lightheaded, weak, and shaky, he swayed on the spot.  

Something darker than the surrounding shadows moved in the trees up ahead, and he swore softly, trying to get his eyes to focus.  

He ground his teeth and drew his body up tall, hoping to look menacing, but the extra effort sapped the last vestiges of strength from him and before he knew what was happening, he had pitched forwards and was lying face down in the carpet of old pine needles. Woozy, on the edge of consciousness, he watched as the dusk-dark body of a drider emerged hesitantly from the trees. He couldn't see enough to make out any features, but the blue-black of the delicate limbs that speared down silently into the forest floor was enough to tell him it was a drider.  

“Shit,” he hissed and his eyes rolled shut as he finally succumbed to his exhaustion. 

When he next stirred, he was chilled and sluggish, and lying in the dark somewhere. Warmth; he needed to get warm. And where the hell was he? The last thing he recalled was the approach of a drider. He realised with a jolt of fear that he should be wrapped up in webbing, stored for some future meal, if even half of what was said about driders was true. But he was free, if sluggish and sore.  

He blinked and tried to push himself upright on shaking arms, his cold muscles reluctant to obey him, and as he shifted, something squeaked at the back of whatever dank cave he was in. A rat?  

Still fighting the lingering grogginess, he lifted his head and saw a drider shoot backwards, stumbling over its tangle of spindly limbs, only to sit down heavily and stare at him with wide, panicked, dark eyes. The drider looked young, but into his adult years, and his dark, messy, almost violet-purple hair fell into his eyes as he panted, clearly terrified, and stared at the naga. The skin of his human half was bear and almost pure white, in stark contrast to his dark spider’s body, and his torso was rather scrawny, skinny, and a little pathetic, but flawless as carved marble.  

“Hello,” the drider croaked awkwardly. “You’re awake. You startled me.”

“No shit,” Aiden grunted. “Where the hell am I? And who are you?”

“My… My name is Ambrose,” he faltered, following it up with a frankly adorable smile, and Aiden was pleasantly surprised by the little dimples that formed in his cheeks at the gesture. “You’re… You’re in my -” he broke off with a screech and shot sideways, limbs scrabbling on the stony floor as he stared at the floor beside him.

“What the fuck?” Aiden muttered as he watched the drider panic at apparently nothing. “What is wrong with you?”

“Spider,” the drider whimpered pathetically, pointing a slender finger at the spot where he’d been sitting in a mess of dark limbs only a moment before.  

Aiden found laughter bubbling up inside him and he roared with amusement, the whole cave echoing with the sound of it. “You’re shitting me!” he wheezed. “Oh that’s fucking precious! A drider that’s afraid of spiders!” He laughed until his sides hurt and his eyes watered, but when he eventually got himself together, he wiped the tears from his eyes and crooned in a patronising baby-voice, “You want me to put it outside for you?”

“Yes please…” the drider mumbled miserably, not meeting Aiden’s gaze.  

Aiden snorted, still chuckling to himself, and scooped the tiny black spider up and chucked it out into the forest, feeling the drag of his cold tail and the ache of his muscles. He grunted and winced, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around the cave. “So, this dump is your home then?”

Ambrose’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and he nodded. “Yes. It’s… It’s not much. And thank you for putting the spider outside,” he said. “Normally I just wait over here until they’ve gone away…”

“You have to be the worst spider boy ever,” he snickered, ignoring the way Ambrose’s face crumpled dejectedly.  

The drider levered himself up off the ground, arranging his stick-like legs underneath him and, to Aiden’s surprise, the naga realised he was really quite tall. His legs were thin and fragile looking, and his pendulous, midnight black body was covered in silky-soft hair. The tactile naga was almost overwhelmed by the desire to touch it, and drew himself back before he could give in to the unexpected urge.  

“Well,” Aiden said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a fire pit in this hovel, have you? I’m fucking frozen, and I stink from my impromptu swim in that foul bitch’s moat. I need a bath, and I need to warm the fuck up.”

Ambrose looked frankly horrified at the naga’s crass language, and Aiden reminded himself to rein it in a bit. No need to offend the person who’d been kind enough to pick him up and bring him here. He mused on that for a while and then asked, “Hang on a second… How the fuck did you get me in here? You look like one stiff breeze would send you spinning away like a tumbleweed!” He laughed at the image of the poor little drider cartwheeling away on the wind, only to find Ambrose looking hurt and embarrassed. “Ah, shit,” the naga added. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Ambrose mumbled. “I’m stronger than I look though. I dragged you here. I made a litter out of web and pulled it like a sled. You’re heavy, but I managed alright.” He tucked a stray strand of his inky hair behind his delicate ear and added, “There’s a stream just a few hundred yards that way, if you wanted to wash. I’ll start a fire for you.”

Something about the quiet sadness in his voice made Aiden pause. He looked at the miserable looking drider and asked, “You live out here alone?”

He nodded mutely and turned away.

With a sigh, Aiden slithered painfully out of the cave and found the stream. It was freezing, but it washed off the muck from the moat, and with every icy wave that bit into his skin, he promised himself he’d be warming up beside a toasty fire before too long.  

Aiden hauled himself back up the steep bank, panting and groaning, his head aching and his vision blurred from exhaustion and lack of food. He let out a string of vile curses when he had to force himself to stop and take a breather. “Damned, fucking cold-blooded snake,” he swore, cranking his tail up the last bit of the incline and beginning his slow drag back to the cave.  

When he got there, he found that Ambrose was heating a pot of something over a now-roaring fire, and it smelled amazing. “What’s cooking?” he asked, nearly adding ‘good looking’ for good measure afterwards, but he decided against it.  

“Rabbit stew,” he said. “I made it this morning. It’s good to be reheated once more though. Is that alright?”

“Fuck yeah,” he grinned, and Ambrose gave him a very shy little smile in return. Something about it made Aiden’s stomach flip over and he crushed the sensation immediately. It wouldn’t do to go falling for some cute little spider boy when he was out in the middle of nowhere and still had to turn his thieved goods into his guild’s boss.  

The two shared their meal in relative silence, but Aiden couldn’t help noticing the way Ambrose always made sure he had enough, and how the drider watched him eat and then glanced away whenever he caught him staring.  

“You really don’t get out much, do you?” he asked boldly when it happened for the third or fourth time. “How many other people have you seen lately?”

Tears formed suddenly in Ambrose’s eyes and he looked away. Guilt lanced through Aiden, and he lowered his empty bowl, setting it down on the ground.  

“Hey, come on, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be…” He broke off and turned away. “I know I can be a real dick sometimes. Maybe it comes from having two of them…” he interjected, and then cursed himself for saying something so crude. “Anyway, look, I just meant… you seem nice. You don’t deserve to be shut away up here in the mountains, living alone in a cave full of spiders that you’re absolutely terrified of.” He couldn't help the little giggle at the memory of Ambrose tripping over himself in his terror at the little spider, but his mirth was short-lived.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Ambrose said in a tiny voice.  

The way he said it made something in Aiden’s chest crack. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I’m scared to go out alone. So many people hate my kind. I’m scary to them, but really… I’m… I’m the one who’s afraid.”

“Come with me,” Aiden said before he’d even thought about what he was going to say. The sudden statement shocked him; Aiden was not known for random acts of kindness.

“Where? Where will you go? I saw what was in that bag,” he said, pointing to the satchel with the stolen diamond tiara and necklaces. “You’re a thief and a criminal. What kind of life are you trying to offer me?”

Aiden hissed out a sigh. “You’re right. But I mean… spider silk is really good for healing, and you could maybe work at a healers nearby if… you know… ah shit, what am I saying? I don’t know.” He scratched his head, feeling the rake of his sharp claws over his scalp. “You don’t even know me.” He sighed. “Forget I said anything.”

Ambrose looked at him steadily across the dancing flames of the fire pit. The light reflected in his big, dark eyes, and Aiden felt that strange coiling in his gut again that had nothing to do with the excellent food that the drider had prepared for him. He was strangely beautiful, in his skinny, slightly creepy looking way, but it was easy to see how some folk might be unnerved by the sight of him.  

The warmth from the fire began to make his head nod and a drowsiness washed over him as he coiled himself up tightly beside the fire pit a few minutes later.  

“You should rest,” Ambrose murmured quietly, coming over and stooping gracefully to pick up the wooden bowl that Aiden had abandoned beside him.  

“Thankssssssss…” he hissed, forgetting not to lisp as his body tipped towards sleep before he could stop it. He must have been more exhausted than he’d realised as he slurred, “That wassssss reallygood.”

“I’m glad,” Ambrose said in a soft voice. “Do you want a blanket?”

“Mmm,” was all Aiden could get out before he slipped into sleep.  

Inhaling deeply, he stirred and felt the warm weight of a huge woollen blanket over him, and he looked up to see Ambrose on the other side of the cave, curled with his legs stowed neatly beneath him on a wide hammock of web. The thought struck Aiden that he looked oddly sweet like that, and he smiled.  

The gentle vibrations caused by the naga waking and stretching must have reached the slumbering drider because he twitched awake with a yelp of distress and scuttled back into the deepest corner of the cave, eyes wide and fearful and unfocused.  

“Hey, it’s just me, dumbass,” Aiden chortled. “Remember, the criminal snake you adopted yesterday?”

Ambrose surprised him by beaming a wide smile at him that stopped his slow-beating heart for a few seconds and stalled his brain. Gods above; he was beautiful.  

“What?” the drider asked. “Do I have drool on my face? Have I leaked webbing or something?”  

“Is that like pissing yourself?” he snorted, shattering whatever moment had hung pendulously between them.  

“No,” Ambrose replied, blushing prettily. “It’s still embarrassing though.”

When he looked around and saw that in fact everything was as it should be, with no drool or webbing out of place, he sighed and stretched. Aiden tried not to watch too closely as his torso flexed, but he found that he had to turn away all the same.  

Ambrose went lax with a grunt and looked over at Aiden with his big dark eyes gleaming softly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Stiff, tired, achy…” Aiden complained. “But mostly alright, I guess.”

Ambrose’s previously relaxed posture tightened and he looked suddenly as though he were staving off tears.  

Aiden moved closer, his smooth, hard scales barely whispering on the cold rock of Ambrose’ dank little home. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, trying to hide his emotions behind a wavering little smile. “Nothing…”

Aiden cocked an eyebrow, and Ambrose caved.  

“Fine,” the drider sniffed, turning away, legs moving like a clockwork automaton.  

Not having legs himself, Aiden would have been lying if he had said that he didn't also find Ambrose’ eight, slender legs fascinating. Forcing himself to concentrate, he shifted a little closer to the drider, who paused when he sensed him getting near, and drew in another long breath before speaking.  

“I suppose… I mean… it’s kind of lonely up here in the forest…”

“But this cave is full of spiders to keep you company,” Aiden jested, and Ambrose suppressed a shudder. “Ok, seriously though, if you hate it so much, why do you live here? There’s a town not fifty miles away, and for someone with legs like yours, that wouldn’t be a taxing journey… I don’t get the whole hermit act… Give people a chance… Trust me, there are way scarier looking beasties out there than you. You’re positively angelic in comparison to some of the folk in my guild, let me tell you…”

Ambrose looked over his slender shoulder at Aiden and gave a sad little smile. “You’re the first person who’s ever seen me and not run screaming.”

Aiden’s heart cracked at that. “What?” he breathed. “You’re shitting me! But… But you’re -” he cut off quickly before he embarrassed himself.  

“I’m a drider, that’s what!” Ambrose said hotly, drawing himself up tall, and for the first time, Aiden saw him as perhaps others did: more than a little ‘otherworldly’, with his big dark eyes and ghostly pale skin, his long limbs and his rounded, downy arachnid body. “People hate driders. They think we’re creepy or scary, or that we eat their children, or wrap them up in web for later and suck them dry…”

“You don’t?” Aiden snorted. “Damn, I quite liked the idea of being able to say I’d survived a few nights with a monster…”

The hurt on Ambrose’ face cut Aiden to the quick once again.  

“Ah, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. I always run my mouth when I get uncomfortable.”

“See? I make even you uncomfortable!” he said, huge, crystal tears rolling down his pale cheeks. “And you’re a criminal and a thief!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he huffed defensively. “Just because I nick stuff for a living, doesn’t mean I hang around with creeps… Ok, maybe I do, but they’re alright. My crew is alright. We don’t steal from people who don’t deserve it, you know?”  

He darted back to where his satchel still lay on the rock and scooped it up, drawing out the sparkling gems.  

“The bitch who owned these has a whole vault beneath the castle. She just kept these ones in her room because they were her favourite. She also keeps a tiefling on a leash as some kind of sick pet, and she’s got a centaur whose coat she dyes baby pink and has her paraded around for her amusement. Trust me, I’ve seen monsters, and you, my friend, are not one.”

Ambrose was still crying silently, but he lowered his dark spider’s body close to the floor, legs moving seamlessly like the dwarven and goblin lifting mechanisms at the docks. “I guess I don’t want you to go yet,” he said in a small voice.  

“Who said I was going anywhere?” he grinned, wondering what he was getting himself into. This wasn’t like him. Had Ambrose been anyone else, he’d have left him in the dust a long time ago, but there was something about his curious innocence, and the way he had instinctively helped the weakened naga, despite his obvious wariness of others…  

Ambrose perked up visibly at that. “You… You mean you want to stay?”

“Maybe for a few more days,” he shrugged, putting the jewellery back in the sack. “Just until I feel myself again, you know?”

“This isn’t you at your best?” Ambrose joked, and he was met with an answering grin from Aiden.  

“Ho boy,” Aiden beamed at him, sharp canines showing. “I’m unstoppable when I’m on top form. Just you wait.”

The exchange seemed to have cheered Ambrose up, but when Aiden asked the drider if he fancied showing him around the surrounding forest, Ambrose shrank away again, shaking his head. “I can’t,” he said.

“What do you mean?”  

“I… I don’t go out much.”

Well, that much was actually obvious to the naga, but still… “Just a few yards from the cave?” he said. “I’m cold and I could use some sunshine on my scales, you know?” he said, flicking his red hair playfully. It was enough to draw a little smile from Ambrose, and he agreed to accompany Aiden to the mouth of the cave, and then just a bit further.  

Aiden found himself drawing the drider out more and more, both literally, and metaphorically as they laughed together over meals, or, more accurately, as Aiden scandalised him with tales of his thieving crew’s antics and escapades. However, after another four days, Aiden was certain of two things. The first was that he had stayed too long and his crew would be wondering if he’d just run off with the profits of the heist, and the second was that he was falling for this sweet, intelligent, shy, under-socialised drider faster and harder than he ever would have thought possible.  

“Come with me,” he murmured, on the evening when he had decided to announce that he absolutely had to return the next day.  

The two were lying beside the fire, Ambrose with all his legs tucked up adorably beneath him so that he looked like a little black cat with its paws scrunched in close to its body. He was also leaning his upper body against Aiden’s, who was coiled around Ambrose’ entire form. He was just long enough to be able to encircle him completely, the very tip of his tail just coming to rest in front of Ambrose’ spider body. Occasionally, the dark tip of his tail would twitch involuntarily, and Ambrose’ eyes would always dart down to look at it, and he would twitch his pretty lips into a little smile every time. Naturally, Aiden did it deliberately sometimes, just to watch his new friend’s reaction.  

“I can’t,” Ambrose whispered hoarsely.  

“Do you want to?” Aiden asked. “I mean, don’t you want to see the world? Do you really want to live out your whole life in this one cave full of spiders which you’re terrified of? How long do driders even live anyway…?”

His face crumpled. “We can live a long time,” he mumbled. “And no. Of course I don’t want to stay here alone forever.”

Aiden reached his hand out and ran the back of his fingers up the smooth, slightly fuzzy surface of the leg nearest to him. Ambrose shuddered violently and let out a gasp of shock, eyes rolling closed. When Aiden repeated the gesture, a moan spilled from Ambrose’ lips, and it was the most seductive and delicious sound that Aiden had ever heard anyone make.  

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Ambrose, you… the sound you just made…”

“I’m sorry,” he panted, pink flushing his skin from collarbones all the way up to his ears. “That… That felt so good.”

“Has anyone ever touched you?”

Ambrose shook his head, his messy hair tumbling into his heavily lidded eyes.

The naga went very still and removed his fingers from the incredibly soft velvet at the ‘hip’ of Ambrose’ spider leg, where it joined his spider body. “Would you let me?” Aiden asked. “Would you let me make you feel good?”

Ambrose licked his lips and opened his glittering eyes. His pupils were huge in the dark, and he nodded slowly. “Please…”

“You want me to make you feel good?” Aiden asked again. “How far do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His pulse beat rapidly at his throat, but he looked determined. “Will you stop if I ask you to?”

“Of course,” he said, and he couldn’t resist adding, “I know I’ve got two of them, but I’m not that much of a dick…”

Ambrose snorted, his lips hitching up on one side. “I barely have one, so…”

It was Aiden’s turn to be confused, and Ambrose’s turn to laugh.  

Ambrose blushed and giggled his way through a rapid-fire lesson in drider anatomy, and Aiden was suddenly very interested. “Male driders don’t really have a… you know… I mean we do, but it only really comes all the way out when it’s mating season. Mostly it just stays inside. Even if… you know…”  

“So wait, you’ve got a slit, or what?” he asked. “I mean, some male naga have both, so I’m cool with whatever you’ve got going on down there… but that’s… that’s kinda hot, you know?”

Ambrose’s answering blush was so pretty that Aiden felt his cocks stirring already, and the heat must have shown in his gaze because Ambrose’ blush only deepened when he realised. “You think…? I mean… You’re… You’re turned on by me?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “Very much so.”

“And it’s not just curiosity?”

He shook his head. “Part of it is - I do like the idea of something new - but mostly it’s just you. You’re sweet and bashful, and you deserve to be praised and told how beautiful you are. I want to give that to you.”

A single tear rolled down Ambrose’s cheek. “Alright,” he said. “How… How do you want to do this?”

A little while later, Ambrose was on his back, and Aiden was trailing his claws down his incredibly soft and wildly sensitive underbelly. Ambrose jerked and twitched and bucked, crying out and biting the back of his hand as Aiden worked him all over, just getting him used to the sensation of being touched and, quite honestly, worshipped. Aiden noticed almost immediately that Ambrose was getting wet in a very particular place on his lower body, and when he ran his fingertips over it, he discovered a slit that was slick and warm and wet.  

“Can I use my mouth on you?” he asked huskily.  

Ambrose whimpered and nodded his assent. “Wait,” he gasped, and the naga halted. “Are you poisonous?” His words were slurred and weak, but he cracked one dark eye open and tried unsuccessfully to focus on Aiden through the pleasure of the touches he was still receiving from Aiden’s fingertips.  

The naga snorted, amused. “ ‘Venomous’ is the term you’re looking for, and no. No juice in these,” he said, flashing his canines. “Some of us are, but I’m not. Don’t worry.”  

And with that, Aiden leaned his weight against the curve of Ambrose’ body and cautiously lowered his mouth to taste him. Aiden’s long tongue lapped at him, finding him slightly sweet and a little salty, and he soon discovered Ambrose’s cock seated deep inside him. As he worked his tongue repeatedly along the length of it, sometimes managing to curl the long muscle almost all the way around Ambrose’s hidden cock, he felt the walls of the slit pulse almost rhythmically, and he knew that it would feel incredible to be inside him.  

When Aiden paused and voiced this aloud, Ambrose, who was quickly becoming a whining, mewling mess of limbs and heaving body, groaned, “Yes! Please…”

Aiden looked down the length of his own, scarlet red body, and bit his lip. Not only was the larger of his two cocks fully erect and weeping profusely, but the second, which usually only became fully erect during the naga’s heats, was also hard and slick. “Well, well,” he said. “Look what the sight of you like this has done to me,” he chuckled.

Ambrose managed to open his eyes with a flutter of long, dark lashes, and he smiled. “Beautiful,” he rasped. “I want you…”

Aiden shifted, coiling himself up so that he could slide easily into the slick heat of Ambrose’ sheath. The moment their cocks touched, he felt a jolt run right through him, and he gasped, clinging to Ambrose’ body. “Fuck,” he snarled. “Fuck, you’re perfect…”

Ambrose was beyond words at the sensations coursing through him.  

“I’ve never felt so full,” he managed to gasp a few minutes later after Aiden had begun to rock back and forth inside him. “I… I don’t think I’m… I’m going to…” he panted, his body convulsing and shaking with over stimulation beneath Aiden. “I -” and with a rush of heat beneath Aiden, the drider came.

Spurts of thick, hot come pulsed around Aiden’s two cocks, and the naga lost his rhythm and his control, coming with a gasp a second after Ambrose.  

Ambrose’ uninhibited yell of pleasure echoed off the walls of his home as he came, his body twitching and rocking with pleasure, while Aiden rammed his eyes shut, cocks buried inside him, and ground his teeth, gasping at the intensity of it. He had never come like this.  

It took a while for both of them to come back to their senses, and when they did, Aiden laughed nervously and slid free of Ambrose. “You alright?” he asked, voice hoarse.  

Ambrose nodded and tightened his skinny torso, abs clenching as he looked down his body to where his lower half was frankly a mess. “I think I might need to bathe tonight,” he said. Then, with a wicked glint in his eyes that Aiden would never have suspected from him, he added, “Unless you want to go again?”

“What have I unleashed?” he laughed.  

In fact, they did go again, twice more, before the dawn.  

As they were both tired and spent, washing clean in the freezing stream, Ambrose said quietly, “I think I will come with you.”

“What, you only want me for the sex now?” Aiden joked.  

Ambrose remained serious as he said, “No. I was thinking about it before. If you promise that you will help me… I’d like to come with you. I’d like to see something of the world.”

Aiden was not expecting his heart to react in the way it did, but he flashed Ambrose a wide grin. “Great,” he said. “I promise. You’re going to love it. I just know it.”

___________________________

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[tanoraqui]

followup to this

Once she was sure all three guards were asleep, Nadia slid the keys off the lieutenant’s belt and unlocked the great stone door to the dungeon proper. As usual, it was much easier to step silently in trousers, and she was halfway down the torchlit steps before an unknown voice called from below, with the clank of shifting armor, “Lose all your coin already, Barrun?”

Nadia froze. A fourth guard. More shuffling armor and they called again, closer and more warily, “Barrun? Padit? ...Neith?”

If they came up, they would find her, in prole clothes with stolen keys and no good reason to be beyond this door. If she went back, they would find the other guards.

Nadia took a deep breath and rushed down the stairs as silently as she could, shadow tucked behind her against the torchlight. She caught the guard by surprise between one step and the next. A moment was all she needed--her fist swept up in the arc Erit had shown her, elbow in and thumb tucked below the knuckles, and she caught them under the chin. 

The guard fell back the couple step they’d climbed, hitting the floor with a crash and a groan. Panicked, she almost tripped after them, and kicked them in the head with what she hoped wasn’t a killing blow. 

The guard moaned again and fell still. Nadia waited. But nobody else came running, nobody shouted from above.

The lack of sound from down the dungeon corridor was even more terrifying, and the dim torches that lit it with puddles of light. The Summer Palace didn’t have a the bright, new, bulb-lit prisons of the capital, to hold even a woman who could wield her shadow to pick locks or knock a guard unconscious. They didn’t even have a ring of fire--or, they hadn’t bothered to make one. Alive or dead...was she going to find Erit beaten senseless, or worse?

She put a hand to the coronet now hidden beneath her shirt, and her shadow crept forward. She had to try.

But Erit wasn’t dead, nor beaten senseless, much. She sat in a cell about two thirds of the way down the short corridor, arms around her knees and back to the far wall, and her shadow darted forward to tap at Nadia’s feet before vanishing back to the dark floor. The assassin herself looked surprised.

“You came back? You idiot. This isn’t your fight.”

“What- of course it’s my fight! It’s my country, too! And I stole the...”

“I’m sorry, I’m very drugged,” Erit said in the same, calm voice, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d interrupted. “I haven’t got an ounce of self-control right now.”

She got to her feet and took a couple unsteady steps forward, looking apologetically at her shadow. It dashed back from where it had been curling around Nadia’s feet and slipped up Erit’s back, but only for a moment before it peeked over her shoulder, visible in the faint torchlight, and then swept forward again to clasp Nadia’s shadow by the hand.

“Oh!” Nadia stared up at the ceiling and then forced her eyes back to Erit’s face, ignoring the lapse with the strength of years of court etiquette. Her own shadow didn’t even flicker. 

She set about busying herself with the keys, and when none of them worked, her lockpicks. 

“Do you know what they gave you?” she asked as she carefully teased the tumblers. “Maybe we can find an antidote.”

“A little bit of everything they could find in the prince’s cabinet.” Erit leaned against the bars of the cell. She was favoring her right leg, with the bullet wound that seemed to have started bleeding again, but her skin only showed it with a faint crease around her mouth. Her shadow had pressed itself against her body again, spending more time in the light than Nadia had ever seen it; it clutched the leg and groaned.

Not that she was looking. Or blushing at the naked display of self.

There was scraping from down the corridor just as the lock finally caught, and she glanced over to see the falling guard rolling over, clearly waking up. She yanked open the cell door and caught Erit before she fell. “Shit! We have to go!”

“Don’t worry.” Erit squeezed her hand, as Nadia’s shadow looked around frantically for an escape route. Erit did not lean on her, but she did limp as she walked forward, tugging Nadia along. The guard was halfway to their feet by the time they got close.

The guard drew their sword, and opened their mouth to shout. Erit’s shadow crouched in front of Nadia like a snarling beast as Erit dropped her hand and hit the guard with a precise chop to their throat, and this time they collapsed without a sound.

“Now we go,” said Erit, and took her hand again. For a moment, her shadow knelt at Nadia’s feet, hands raised as if a blade rested in them, and then it leapt back up and dashed up the stairs, disappearing and reappearing in the flickering torchlight. Erit closed her eyes as she had when sensing through it from two rooms away, and immediately clutched at her head with a grimace.

“I need to sleep this off. But we don’t have time, do we.”

Nadia shook her head. “The Chancellor is already on his way to the Archives, with all the rest of the crown jewels.”

“You still have it?” Erit asked, low and urgent as they stepped into the guardroom, with the three other guards still asleep with drugged wine.

Nadia patted her roughspun shirt, with the coronet hidden beneath. “But will it be enough?”

[justanartsysideblog]

A Tale of Sand and Smoke: Chapter 1

Found on AO3 here.

Prologue

---

“I can see it! Come up here, Miss Nadia!”

Rhaenys shielded her gaze to see a hand waving frantically in the crows nest, a slim shadow against the morning sun; little Nothres the cabin boy was on lookout duty today, it seemed.

She knew what ‘it’ was, of course. Ever since they’d begun sailing for Braavos, Rhaenys had kept her eyes peeled to the horizon, even when she’d known that they were still weeks away.

The rest of the crew were as eager to set foot on land as she was, but for very different reasons. To most of them this was just another stop on their route, a place to rest and recuperate after so long at sea before heading to the next port. To Rhaenys, this was the beginning of something new. They were finally acting, not planning and plotting and whispering among themselves of what should be.

She couldn’t deny that sitting upon the Iron Throne was not what she truly wanted. She was not certain she would be a good queen, though she would try her hardest to be a competent one. She’d spent her childhood being told she was to rule, and no one had asked her if she wanted to. The important thing for her was that this was a change. She would be able to be Rhaenys, to be a daughter of Dorne. Once she sat upon that throne, she would be able to visit her uncles, and they would tell her of her mother. She would get back some of what had been stolen from her that day.

Rhaenys did not want to rule, but she wanted to see her family. She wanted the people that had followed her into exile to see their families. Gerion and the others had risked everything to protect her, and she owed them for that.

Nadia Sand was a merchant’s daughter with an adventurer’s soul. But soon Rhaenys would put her away, tuck that name into the recesses of her heart to be pondered on days when the weight of her rule was too heavy to bear.

Until then, she’d make the most of it.

She scaled the net ladder with calloused hands, rope worn and sturdy, and the finesse of one accustomed to it after years at sea rather than some innate grace. The heavy ropes barely shifted in the wind, and Rhaenys had learned to move with their gentle sway long ago.

She remembered how terrified Septa Lemore had been, the first time Rhaenys had climbed up to the top. She’d gotten stuck in the crow’s nest, too afraid to climb back down afterward. Sir Connington had gone and fetched her, and she’d been scolded so thoroughly and her pride so wounded that no one had suspected she’d try again.

But she had, and she’d been rewarded with several blisters the second time around, and Sir Connington was tasked with fetching her once more, because she’d frozen up at the top just like before. The third time she’d frozen again, but the fourth…the fourth she’d managed it. And the pride she’d felt well up in her when her feet touched back on the deck made the scolding she’d received afterwards worth it.

There’d been no stopping her from climbing anything and everything after that point. Rhaenys hated being afraid; best to confront the fear head-on until it was no longer a problem.

Heights did not bother her anymore.

There was just enough room in the crows nest for herself and Nothres; the young boy was still scanning the horizon, and Rhaenys followed his line of sight to the small hint of a shadow to the east.

“You can look through the spyglass, but be careful. If you drop it, Jaka’ll throw me to the sharks,” The young boy said seriously, face grave. Rhaenys smiled and ruffled his hair before unfolding the spyglass and peering in the direction little Nothres had pointed.

Through the lens the Titan was more than a shadow on the horizon. It loomed high atop two jutting cliffs, sword held aloft in challenge. Another ship was just entering the lagoon, sailing beneath the behemoth. As it did so, an odd roar echoed across the water, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“What was that, miss Nadia?”

“That was the Titan of Braavos,” Rhaenys whispered, leaning forward eagerly. “They say it roars at morning, noon, and evening.”

“I don’t want to hear that again,” Nothres scratched the back of his neck nervously.

Rhaenys sent him an apologetic smile as she handed the spyglass back to him. “You’ll have to hear it again soon, I’m afraid. It also roars every time a ship comes into the harbor.”

Duck was waiting for her when she reached the deck a few moments later, dressed in the Westerosi fashion; tights and a padded overtunic in dark green. It was unusual to see him dressed so primly, even if the fabric was plain and rather coarse; she was used to him in the loose breeches and shirts the sailors favored. He leaned against the central mast, arms crossed and grinning. “Septa Lemore was looking for you, Miss Nadia.”

It was time for her to change out of her sailor’s garb as well, it seemed. She supposed she looked very little like the spoiled, bastard daughter of a rich merchant, dressed as she was.  Rhaenys glanced down at her clothing with a resigned sigh. She would miss the mobility of breeches.

---

Septa Lemore was waiting for her in their cabin, along with a dress.

“There’s no use in trying for a wash here,” Septa Lemore sighed, smoothing her own habit. “We’ll have a bath drawn for you at the inn. I don’t know if they plan on having you join them at the Iron Bank, but if so we’ll need to buy you a proper gown, likely one of Braavosi make for impression’s sake.”

If she were a man there would be no question as to whether she joined Gerion and Haldon for negotiations with the Iron Bank. Rhaenys slipped her shift over her shoulders, and listened to Septa Lemore hum as she laced up the back.

“It seems like years since we last docked,” Septa Lemore commented, helping Rhaenys into her dress. “I’ve forgotten what dry land feels like.”

Rhaenys smiled, “It has been a long while.” They had stopped in ports before, but never for long; never long enough to get accustomed to walking without the floor pitching beneath her feet. “Do you think the Iron Bank will fund our cause?”

“If not the Iron Bank then perhaps the Sealord,” Septa Lemore coiled Rhaenys’ braid around the nape of her neck, the motion followed by the telltale scrape of pins against her scalp. “The Gold Company will be yours, but armies are expensive to feed.”

“And mercenaries are expensive to keep regardless,” Rhaenys agreed. She knew that it took considerable coin to ensure the loyalty of mercenaries; they were swords for hire, and did not care for her cause, only the gold behind it.

“Here we are, let me look at you,” Septa Lemore turned her around, hands on her shoulders, and seemed to be searching for something in the lines of her face, a wistful expression on her own. She had to look up to do it and it was jarring for a moment, as Rhaenys realized she'd grown several inches taller than the older woman and hadn't taken notice till now.

“A final touch,” Septa Lemore murmured, more to herself than to Rhaenys, as she turned and pulled a small box out from her trunk and opened the ornate lid. Rhaenys knew what she was about to hand her even before she slipped it onto Rhaenys’ wrist.

It had been her mother’s bracelet, once; the only thing she had left of her.

Rhaenys couldn’t remember her mother’s face, or the sound of her voice. She couldn’t remember the way her hair smelled or the color of her favorite dress or the lullabies she’d sing. All Rhaenys had was the bracelet, with it’s tarnished golden band and a chipped ruby at its center. 

She wondered how it had looked on her mother’s wrist. Sometimes she’d look down at her own arm and try and see past the scars and the callouses and the chipped fingernails, but she never quite managed it.

A stranger’s hand; a distant, fading memory that distorted each time she took it out to ponder. 

But she was glad it was this, and not some Targaryen signet ring. She didn’t need anything of her father to remember him by, didn’t want to remember. 

She’d always thought it cruel, that fate would tear the warmth of her mother’s smile from her…but leave her with the memory of her father’s face.

“Come now,” Septa Lemore tore her own gaze away from the bracelet and smiled softly, “They’ll be waiting for us on deck.”

It was true, the others had all changed as well, and Gerion took her arm with a kind smile and steered her toward the bow of the ship.

Gerion leaned down, and spoke in a voice too soft for the others to hear, “Welcome to Braavos, your grace,” just as the Sea Whisper sailed beneath the Titan’s legs.

She felt the Titan’s roar in her bones, an awe-inspiring ache that traveled from her toes to the tips of her fingers still clutching the railing.

---

The docks were an organized chaos that Rhaenys could only admire for so long before she feared being swept away in the crowd. The smell of fish was nearly overwhelming; Rhaenys saw Haldon press a perfumed handkerchief to his nose, face pinched in displeasure as he headed toward the dockmaster to discuss the arrangements of the Sea Whisper and its crew and cargo. Captain Hao Su walked with him, looking as if she wasn’t bothered by the smell at all.

All incoming cargo had to be looked over by the Sealord’s custom officers here in Chequy Port, before the Sea Whisper could be moved to the Outer Port to dock for the rest of their stay.

“Come, Miss Nadia,” Septa Lemore called, tucking Rhaenys’ hand into the crook of her elbow. “Your father has already made arrangements for us at The House of the Seven Lamps.”

Jon walked behind them, looking every inch like a guard standing beside his patron—but Gerion was not his main concern. Rhaenys wondered how obvious it must have been, with the way he tensed every time someone walked a bit too close to her open side. Even Septa Lemore, for all her soft chatting as she pointed out buildings to Rhaenys, kept her grip firmly on Rhaenys’ hand and pressed close to her other side; so close Rhaenys could feel the hilt of the dagger beneath her habit.

No one was more obvious than Duck, of course, who brought up the rear and seemed near to unsheathing his sword at the end of each street. Rhaenys knew there was nothing to give away, that to the outside they looked simply like a merchant traveling with his daughter and several protective guards, but it did not stop her from worrying that somehow they’d tipped their hand.

The House of the Seven Lamps was a large building that smelled strongly of incense. The air was thick with it, nearly overwhelming as they went from the bright sunlight of the open air to the dimly lit tavern of the inn’s main floor.

This time of day there were a few patrons milling about the tables; a group of merchants had settled themselves at the tables closest to the bar, and several men smelling strongly of fish peppered the smaller tables along one wall.

It was a nice enough place—appropriate for a well-off merchant, and relatively clean. Rhaenys knew that it was secure, or at the very least was easily made so, if Gerion and Sir Connington had chosen it for their stay in Braavos. It would serve its purpose, and it certainly had more space to walk than a ship, so Rhaenys could hardly complain.

Gerion spoke to the innkeep, who shouted across the room for a young, plainly dressed boy who hurriedly led them to the second floor.

There were two rooms, connected by a small washing chamber whose tarnished brass tub was currently empty. Gerion handed the boy a coin, and told him to show Haldon to their rooms when he arrived. The boy pocketed it reverently, wide eyed, and Rhaenys wasn’t certain if he’d remember to do as he was told or rush off to spend it on sweets.

“Tomorrow you and I shall visit the Sept,” Septa Lemore placed Rhaenys’ travel bag on the small table in the corner, as Duck and Jon carried up the larger trunks from the cart downstairs. Rhaenys nodded absently as she opened the singular window and peered down at the street.

Gerion came to stand beside her and rested his arms along the windowsill.  His gaze was thoughtful as he watched the people below on the crowded canal streets. “We have much to do, now.”

Rhaenys nodded.

“I promised I would return you to your throne, and I will keep that promise,” Gerion sighed, “But I am not certain it will happen quickly.”

Rhaenys knew that, of course. She was impatient, impatient to be doing something, but that didn’t mean she thought everything would fall into place quickly. It had taken years to get this far. She knew it would likely take many more to get to Westeros.

Even if the Iron Bank decided to fund her campaign they would still need to find those willing to be bought...and those loyal without coin. The first was easier than the latter, but both would take time.

His hand was warm on her shoulder as he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Please be patient with us for a while longer, Your Grace.”

Rhaenys offered him a smile. “I have waited this long, I can wait a few years longer, Gerion.”

Gerion graced her with a smile of his own before he turned back to watch Jon and Duck settle the last of the trunks into the room, and they all turned toward him for direction.

“Well,” Gerion clapped his hands together, “Let us eat while the day’s catch is still fresh.”

The merchants had left by the time Rhaenys and the others entered the tavern again. Sir Connington sat himself nearest to the door, arms crossed, surly and unwelcoming; being in an unfamiliar place had only heightened his gruff nature.

Rhaenys supposed they were all caught off guard by the change. It was difficult and a little overwhelming to be surrounded by strangers when she’d spent nearly her entire life on a ship with one crew.

The fish stew was steaming when it arrived, and smelled strongly of seasonings that Rhaenys did not recognize. It was filling and delicious, a proper first meal off a ship where she’d lived off salted meat, hardtack, and oranges.

If this was to be their fare for the remainder of their time in Braavos, Rhaenys had no complaints.

---

It was late when Haldon finally returned from the docks. Hao Su would remain with the Sea Whisper until they left; she never felt quite right on land, and rarely stayed off her ship for more than a night.

Haldon’s face was drawn as he opened the doors to their rooms, his usually pressed robe wrinkled and his hair mussed. They had all situated themselves in the larger one for the evening, to wait for Haldon’s return.

“I have sent a request for a meeting with the Iron Bank,” Haldon sat himself down beside Gerion at the table with a tired groan. “We should receive a summons within two days.”

Rhaenys knew better than to ask, for she knew the answer, but she couldn’t help speaking. “Am I to come with you?”

“Certainly not,” Haldon scoffed. “It is a simple task we are to perform, you need not be present.”

“It isn’t safe. You will remain here,” Sir Connington agreed.

The chorus of rejections hurt more than she’d expected. She had been so excited to finally do something...she should have realized it would be more of the same, more of others making decisions for her.

Surely if they wished her to rule one day, they’d want her to begin making decisions. They do not want me to rule, they want my husband to rule while I give birth to heirs, she thought bitterly, and felt guilty a moment later. That was disingenuous of her. These people had risked their lives—still were risking them—to keep her safe.

“Shall we go for a walk?” Gerion asked, expression thoughtful. “I have been told that the canals are quite beautiful at night.

“Do I have a choice?” She snapped, and the look of disappointment on Gerion’s face made her pause, but did not quiet her anger. She did not wish to come off as a petulant child whining about the unfairness of her situation, but it was difficult not to utter the words.

“You could remain at the inn if you’d like, of course.” Gerion nodded, “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I would prefer I be given a chance to speak on my own behalf to the Iron Bank.”

“It is beneath a queen to haggle like a fishmonger’s wife,” Haldon responded, waving his hand dismissively. He seemed far more interested in the missive he’d received from their spies than talking further.

A fishmonger’s wife has a voice, at least, Rhaenys thought bitterly. “If I were a man, I would be there.”

There was a long silence. Haldon cleared his throat, his expression pinched and pensive, as if he found the situation too uncomfortable to continue. “This is not a discussion for today.”

It never was.

“Daughter,” Gerion murmured, “Shall we?” The last thing any of them wanted was for her to make a scene.  It hurt even more that Gerion thought she would do so. She contemplated declining Gerion’s offer, but that was a childish whim. In the end she wanted to go and see Braavos, and sitting in her room moping over the unfairness of her situation wouldn’t fix anything.

So she took Gerion’s hand and let him steer her toward the door, even though she felt like yelling. A queen must comport herself with grace, Septa Lemore always told her. Grace did not come easily, nor comportment, but Rhaenys would try.

This would not be the last time she brought up the subject of going to the Iron Bank, but she would let the matter lie for now.

The air was a mixture of brine, overripe wine, and a terrible concoction of perfumes that drifted from the pleasure quarter. It made Rhaenys miss the sharp sea air of the open ocean.

“The courtesans of Braavos are quite famous,” Gerion murmured, as he led her across one of the long, stone bridges.

Rhaenys remembered hearing of the courtesans during her lessons with Haldon and Septa Lemore. Of course neither had gone into detail about them—as if Rhaenys had not grown up on a ship full of sailors, and wouldn’t know what being a courtesan implied.

She looked over at the large, well-lit barges, as the sounds of music and laughter drifted across the water. “Tell me about them.”

“The second Black Pearl was the illegitimate daughter of Aegon IV. Her granddaughter is the current Black Pearl of Braavos. That is her barge there, I believe.” Gerion gestured to a large barge with a gauzy midnight blue canopy and the sound of harps.

Rhaenys had learned of Aegon the Unworthy in her lessons; of his legitimizing five of his bastard children and causing generations of war and strife. His one major flaw, Haldon always told her, was that of all the things he could rule, he could not rule himself, and his vices led to destruction and dissidence. A cautionary tale, Rhaenys knew. Meant to remind her that she must uphold her virtues, and remain steadfast in her will.

But Rhaenys couldn’t help but be a bit grateful for Aegon the Unworthy’s faults, knowing that somewhere out there on one of those barges was a relative, whole and safe and living a life free of the troubles of the throne.

“Have you ever met a courtesan?” Rhaenys asked as they continued their walk. The smell of roasting meat wafted from the open doorway of a tavern as they passed, and Rhaenys was reminded that she hadn’t eaten since that afternoon.

Gerion laughed, “Do I seem rich enough to have met a courtesan, daughter?” Gerion Lannister would have been rich enough to spend an evening or several with a courtesan of Braavos, but Belin Hurrey, Westerosi merchant, would never have the coin for such a thing.

Rhaenys smiled back, “Was my mother so beautiful that you never thought to spend your coin elsewhere?”

Gerion’s expression turned thoughtful, “Your mother was the kindest woman in the world.” There was something in his tone that made Rhaenys think he was not speaking of the Dornish prostitute that had birthed Nadia Sand.

Of all her traveling companions Gerion was the only one who spoke of her. Jon had been her father’s friend, and had never thought kindly of Elia Martell, and if Haldon or Septa Lemore had met her, they made no mention of it. Rhaenys remembered late nights near the fire curled up in Gerion’s lap as she peppered him with questions, and the soft timbre of his voice as he told her of Elia’s days at court.

Treasured memories and stories, even if they were not her own. They were something, a piece of her mother she kept, so that no one would forget.

“What of the other courtesans? Do they have names?” She didn’t want to speak of her mother here; it seemed too personal a subject for so public a place, even if no one here would know who Gerion spoke of.

Gerion nodded, shaken from his own reverie. “There is the Nightingale of course. Men are challenged to duels if they do not say that the Nightingale is the most beautiful woman in the world when asked...”

---

The summons from the Iron Bank arrived over breakfast, and Haldon and Gerion hurriedly finished their meal while Rhaenys tried her hardest not to glower.

Septa Lemore seemed to realize that Rhaenys needed to be out before she exploded, so she suggested they head to the Isle of the Gods to visit the Sept, as she had mentioned the day before.

It was not Rhaenys’ idea of an afternoon well spent, but at least it was something.

The Sept Beyond the Sea was located on a small island off of the Isle of the Gods, one of the central islands of Braavos and located near the junction of the Canal of Heroes and the Long Canal. She could see the steepled red roof of the Temple of the Lord of Light in the distance, across the patchwork rooftops of the many temples on the island proper.

The crew of the Sea Whisper were a motley bunch; many had carried small tokens of their gods with them, or built tiny shrines beneath their bunks belowdeck. Rhaenys wondered how many would come here before the week was out, to pay their respects to their gods.

Rhaenys herself did not know what she believed, or if she believed at all. She had been taught the Faith of the Seven by Septa Lemore, the prevailing religion of Westeros, but it had never seemed more to her than a litany she repeated for the Septa’s sake.

What use were the gods if they did nothing for those that worshiped them? She had yet to see any proof that they aided their communicants; if they existed at all, they were unconcerned with the lives of the humans that gave them offerings.

A portly septon was leading a service when Rhaenys and Septa Lemore entered. The pews were sparse; very few Braavosi worshiped the Seven, its purpose more for Westerosi sailors than the locals. Those within followed the septon in song, a tune that Rhaenys knew from Septa Lemore’s daily prayers. The older woman led Rhaenys toward one of the back pews, head bowed in reverence.

Rhaenys tried to focus on the rise and fall of the septon’s voice, but found her thoughts wandering. The incense was thick, and mixed with the odor of the nearby sailors, left a sour taste in the back of Rhaenys’ throat.

When the service ended a long-faced septa stopped them at the door, to speak with Septa Lemore. The look the woman gave and the surety with which she approached made Rhaenys believe she was one of Haldon’s spies, here to give Septa Lemore information more than to discuss their shared faith.

Rhaenys left Septa Lemore to her talk, and paused at the top of the stairs to wait for her. The Sept and its worshippers made her uncomfortable, and she vastly preferred the smell of fresh air to the smoky recesses of the domed chapel.

Well, it would be alright, would it not, if she looked around at the other temples? She would not be far, and she would stay within sight of the Sept. With that thought in mind she headed down the stairs, careful to keep from stepping on the hem of her gown.

Each of the smaller islands that made up the Isle were connected by simple bridges, weather-worn but sturdy. Rhaenys crossed the largest and walked along the beaten path, taking in the carved shrines along the way.

Some were ornate, with gold leaf and inlaid mother of pearl, and painted wood so vibrant it gleamed. Others were simple: a word alcove with a statue at its center. One was nothing more than a tower of thin, roughly hewn stones placed one atop the other.

Rhaenys recognized some of the temples from her studies, but most remained a mystery to her. There were more gods worshiped here than anywhere else on the world. Some liked to claim it was the reason Braavos could not be conquered.

Rhaenys knew it was the Sealord and his infamous fleet that kept it so, not some conglomeration of dieties. Still, it wouldn’t stop her from enjoying the artistry of the shrines.

As she headed down a side street, she saw a singular bridge leading out to another solitary island.

The large square temple sat upon a rocky knoll of dark grey stone, with a black tiled roof and no windows. Its doors were immense, even from a distance, one white and one black. There was something carved into each side, but from her current position Rhaenys could not discern what it was.

Grey stone steps led down to a plain, empty dock.

As she took a step toward the building, a voice called out from behind her, “I would not enter there, dragon queen. You have cheated death, and death does not lose well.”

The voice was not particularly frightening, but the words themselves chilled her to the bone. Dragon queen. Rhaenys turned quickly, hand reaching for a blade that was not there, and faced the woman that had spoken.

Clinging to her face was a red lacquer mask made of interlocking shingles, like the tiled roofs of Hao Su’s homeland; the oily shine matched the glistening wetness of her eyes. Despite the sunlight of the early morning, the edges of her somber robe seemed shadowed and wavering.

Like smoke.

“You are mistaken, whatever it is you may think,” Rhaenys swallowed. For once she wished for Septa Lemore’s swift return, for even if she were to be chastised for running off, Septa Lemore would know how to deal with this mysterious woman and her knowing gaze.

“I am not,” The woman murmured, never blinking. “I am Quaithe, and you are who I have claimed.”

Rhaenys quickly glanced around, but the street was relatively empty; no one but the two of them could hear Quaith’s words. Her heart began to pound as she took a step back, “Who sent you?” She could make it to the Sept, if she needed to escape, she simply needed to turn left at the house of the Great Shepeherd and across the bridge beside the three-turreted tower of the Trios. Septa Lemore and her dagger would be just inside.

“I was sent by no one,” Quaithe continued, “I mean you no ill-will, Rhaenys Targaryen.”

The sound of her name made her blood turn to ice.

“Your destiny will take you far from here, but your fate is carved in stone,” Quaithe continued, and her voice took on an odd cadence, eyes going glossy as she seemed to chant,

“Twice royal and twice denied, by blood and by birth.

You will be crowned by sand and smoke.

Gold your company, gold your wings, and gold the heads of your enemy

The dragon has three heads, but only two remain. Beware the false third.

To go north, you must journey south, to reach the west you must go east.

To go forward you must go back and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.”

A prophecy.

“You are mistaken,” Rhaenys asserted again, far harsher. The anger inside of her gave her courage, and she met Quaithe’s eerie gaze without flinching.

“Nadia!”

Rhaenys turned at the sound of Septa Lemore’s frantic call, just as the older woman turned the corner and spotted her, “I am here, Septa.” She glanced back, ready to call attention to Quaithe, but the masked woman was gone, leaving only the smell of her sandalwood perfume to prove she’d been there at all.

---

Rhaenys barely heard the scolding Septa Lemore delivered upon their return to the inn, her conversation with the mysterious Quaithe repeating in her mind as they walked. She apologized, and promised she would not wander off again, and inwardly vowed she would think no more of prophecies.

Prophecies were poison, she would have no part in one.

She spent the rest of the day learning of the noble houses of Braavos from the Septa, a rather dry and dull affair that Rhaenys suspected was given as a punishment, for usually the Septa made her lessons far more agreeable.

The sun was nearly set when Gerion and Haldon returned.

“The Iron Bank representatives would not see us today. We were told to return in the morning,” Gerion sighed.

While Gerion looked merely weary from the ordeal, Haldon seemed near fuming. “Made to wait the entirety of the afternoon in that small room, packed like sardines with the commonfolk, and then dismissed without an explanation—I have never felt so insulted!”

“It cannot be helped,” Gerion shook his head. “I am acting as a merchant, there is no reason for the Iron Bank to treat me with any formalities.”

Rhaenys held her tongue this time, and did not ask if she could go with them in the morning. It would only cause more arguing, and she was already on edge. She needed a distraction for her restlessness, so she stood and headed into the smaller room reserved for her and Septa Lemore as the others continued their discussion.

It was a simple thing, to change into a tunic and breeches. She had several sets of her own, from her time on the Sea Whisper. The night air had begun to chill, so she opened her trunk and pulled out a decorative doublet.

Rhaenys tightened her sword belt strap with a thoughtful frown. The weight of her blade was a comfort, as was the small sunburst design carved into its hilt. It was of Dornish make, elegant and light and slightly curved, a gift from her Uncle Doran. Rhaenys often wondered if the sword had any particular meaning, other than being Dornish. Had it been a blade wielded by some great Dornish warrior? Or had it simply been a weapon picked from the Martell armory where it had begun to collect dust?

Whatever its origin, the blade was dear to her. When she’d first received it, she’d asked why she couldn’t wield a spear instead. Spears were the weapons of Dorne, after all. Surely sending her a spear would have been more appropriate.

“You’re a Targaryen, not a Martell.” Gerion had reminded her, and though he’d meant nothing cruel by it, the words had stung. To others being a Targaryen meant more; being a Targaryen was better. Perhaps she could have taken more pride in her Targaryen blood if her skin was lighter, or her eyes not so dark the purple was nearly invisible, or her father a better man than he had been.

But the fact remained that all of those things were set in stone and could not be changed. And so she longed to know more about her mother who died for her, whose skin was dark and whose eyes were warm and whose face she’d forgotten. She longed for Dorne, a land she’d never seen, because Dorne somehow meant home.

One day, she thought, as she ran her thumb along the raised hilt design. One day.

It had been a fight, to get her protectors to allow her to wield it. The argument that had ensued had seemed endless.

“Women do not need swords.”

“We will protect her so she need not do so herself!”

But where had they been when her mother had been murdered? Where had that promise of protection held true? She remembered little of her childhood in King’s Landing, but she would never forget that fear and feeling of helplessness as she’d been dragged from under her father’s bed.

She refused to be that powerless ever again.

It had been Gerion that had fought for her when she’d come to him in tears, frustrated by her own lack of choice. The lack of power that came with being a princess rather than a prince.

“Rhaegar was no warrior, perhaps Rhaenys can be. She will learn to fight. A warrior queen could instill loyalty.”

A warrior queen she was not yet, she knew. What she learned and which blades she wielded were monitored closely. Despite her aptitude for swordplay she’d never swung a blade heavier than her Dornish sword even though she’d been more than eager.

Septa Lemore said that larger muscles would make her unseemly for marriage. But no one was marrying Rhaenys for her arms, they were marrying her for her name. She knew they’d overlook the size of her muscles for that.

“Come on, Duck,” Rhaenys ordered, walking into the adjoining room. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Sir Connington frowned. “It isn’t safe to go out alone.”

“I am not going alone. I am taking Duck. No one is looking for me, Sir Connington. I do not need to be that wary.” She tried not to think of the masked woman Quaithe and her cryptic words. No one needed to know of her, not when Rhaenys herself was unsure of the woman’s significance. When she learned more, then...then she would tell the others. She did not trust the woman, that was for certain; a stranger who recognized her and spouted prophecies was a threat. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to divulge that secret.

Perhaps it was a simple act of rebellion, after so much had been chosen for her without her consent.

“There are dangers for any woman walking the streets at night. I should go with you.”

“We will stick to the well-light streets, Sir Connington,” Duck stepped forward. “I will protect her, I promise.” The surety in his voice was a comfort, and his expression was sincere but resolute as Jon looked ready to argue.

Duck would do whatever she asked of him, Rhaenys knew it with a certainty. He had been her sworn sword since the day she’d knighted him in that field, little arms trembling to hold a sword much too big for her ten years; the first member of her Queensguard.

Duck would be loyal to her, not to whoever Sir Connington and Gerion and Haldon decided she would marry. Rhaenys’ throat tightened, as she tried to shove down the bitterness that filled her at the thought, and focused on her fondness for Duck and endearing loyalty.

“Oh, let them go, Jon,” Gerion stepped into the hallway, “We have much to discuss tonight, and they will be back within two hours, I am certain.” Gerion’s expression told Rhaenys that if she were not back by then than she would never be allowed to set foot outside again without an entire guard present.

Gerion was giving her a chance at independence. Perhaps it was an apology of sorts, for not being allowed to go to the Iron Bank. Whatever it was, Rhaenys was grateful.

“Of course,” Rhaenys agreed, “We will not be gone long, just enough to get some fresh air. We won’t leave Ragman’s Harbor.”

“See that you do not,” Septa Lemore replied crisply, and Rhaenys wondered for a moment if she would tell the others about Rhaenys’ wandering off. But she merely settled herself down and picked up her embroidery.

Haldon’s gaze was searching, but he made no comment. It was only Sir Connington who still seemed against the idea. Rhaenys decided they should leave before he found some way to convince the others to keep her inside, and hurried toward the door, Duck at her heels.

Rhaenys stopped walking only when she could no longer see the tavern, and paused to glance around the brightly lit canal with a small smile.

“Where would you like to go first, Miss Nadia?” The way Duck said her name was stilted and uncertain—he had the hardest time with this charade, and seemed to find it uncomfortable not to call her “your grace” or “my queen”.

“They say the Nightingale will be at Moroggo’s. Would you like to see her?” Rhaenys asked, already walking down the well lit street. There seemed to be a festival of some sort, for the canals were lined with lanterns, and the sound of laughter and music echoed across the water.

Duck smiled, “They say she’s the prettiest courtesan in Braavos.”

Rhaenys nodded. “We won’t get many chances to see a courtesan, it would be fun to get a glimpse, wouldn’t it?” Once she became queen, she’d have no time to visit a famous courtesan, even though it would be the only time she’d have the title and wealth to do so. She’d have to make the most of the opportunities she had now.

They were halfway across the Black Canal when they heard the shout.

“You! A challenge!”

Duck already had his sword drawn, feet planted firmly in front of her as three Braavosi men stopped ahead of them on the narrow street.

[gwynne-fics]

Silver Lining

chapter 40

Eun-Sang didn’t know judo competitions made her nervous until she watched Young-Do beat his third and fourth opponents. She knew nothing about this sport but she thought that something was different about her husband when he went into the fourth match. He seemed off.

It was clear that he wasn’t doing as well as he should during the final match. She gripped the arms of her seat and tried not to chew off her lipstick as she worried her lower lip between her teeth when the crowd hushed for him.

“What the hell are you waiting for, Choi Young-Do? Kick his ass!” The people around her laughed until it worked and Young-Do won.

Eun-Sang grabbed her flowers and tried to make her way down to the floor. It took her some time to find the right door to go through and then a bit more to get close to Young-Do. She thought he was looking for her because he seemed a little dazed and confused on the podium as he received his medal.

She decided to wait by his gym bag and was pleased that he swept her up in a kiss. She forgot where they were and yanked him into her by his gi top. He lifted her up and she barely refrained from wrapping her legs around his waist. She was his…trophy…right now. She came here with the intention of looking like his trophy. That meant a certain level of elegance and decorum.

“Let’s run away,” she suggested between a few chaste kisses and him setting her down. She could tell he wanted to agree with her before responsibility tightened his shoulders.

“I have to give a few interviews and let Myung-Soo take some pictures. They are going to want to talk about my successful rehabilitation after my car crash.” Eun-Sang blinked at the code words for his father’s…assault and lightly cupped his cheek so she could thumb away the stray tear. “You don’t have to stay. It’s long and boring.”

Eun-Sang kissed his cheek. “What would my surprise be worth if I didn’t stand next to you on such an important win? I only have a few phone calls to make and I can do that while you shower.”

“I love this surprise,” he said hoarsely and wrapped her up in another hug. It was so tight as he lifted her up, her shoes fell off. She already regretted the high heels Rachel stuck her in and wished she’d thought to put flats in her purse but Rachel was adamant she commit to this ensemble. “Thank you for coming.”

He set her down and found a chair for her to sit on while he helped her back into her shoes. Eun-Sang was mildly embarrassed by the flashes of lights as photographers took pictures of them. Young-Do briefly bowed his forehead to her knees before standing and reminding everyone of his commanding presence.

Young-Do introduced her as his new wife before answering their questions about his rehabilitation, his win, and his plans for judo in the future. “I will not be pushing for a professional career. Judo is something I do to keep my body healthy and my mind strong. I am the president of Zeus Hotels and my time and focus there remains my priority. I have an obligation to my employees and shareholders that this remain my own personal hobby and not anything more. Thank you for your support but I would like to shower and celebrate with my wife, President Cha Eun-Sang of Park Industries.”

She stood at the mention of her name and bowed politely. Eun-Sang was a little surprised when she was thrown a few questions. She tried to pick the simplest one: What do you think your husband’s win?

“I am very proud of him,” she said as she took his hand. “I knew he was good but this is the first tournament he’s had since we married. Our courtship was short and he mentioned his love of judo. It was fun to be here today to cheer him on.”

“Is it fair to say he won today because you cheered for him so loudly?”

Eun-Sang shook her head. “My husband won because of the hard work he put into this. It would be unfair to take that from him. However, I am eager to celebrate this with him. We can’t do that until you let him go.”

She bowed and started leading him away. Young-Do didn’t fight her and accepted her strategic retreat with grace. Once they were out in the hallway, he took over and brought her to the showers. She intended to wait for him but he looked around and looked mildly nervous before he said, “There are no cameras in that corner. I can give you my edge there, if you want.”

Eun-Sang grinned. “Yes. Don’t mess up my hair though. Rachel will kill you.”

He rolled his eyes but they both had the giggles as he brought her over and lifted her up before bracing her against the wall. He practically tore her panties off and she was pleased he was just as desperate for her as she’d been for him these last two weeks. She wrapped her arms around his neck and delighted in the fast, hard thrust of his body into hers.

Eun-Sang enjoyed the rough feel of his hands, the sharp scrape of his teeth against her neck and throat, and the hot, fast ride of him before they both came. He carefully set her down and she grinned up at him. This is what they were and it finally felt right between them in a way that hadn’t since the interlude on her beach.

“The women’s lockers are over there,” he said quietly. “If you need to clean up. I’ll only been about fifteen minutes.”

“Good. I’m starving. I can’t imagine you’re not.” She had to stick her shoes on again. He held out his hand to help her. They parted ways briefly as she fixed her makeup and hair (although Young-Do did an excellent job not roughing it up). She had to do a little bit of wiping when she realized they hadn’t worn a condom.

They were so inconsistent! Shame on them! It gave her the private giggles.

It didn’t matter. She was still on birth control. Eun-Sang put it out of her mind. Young-Do showered and changed quickly. He also knew how to avoid a second round with reporters. They hadn’t figured out that he liked driving himself when he wasn’t busy so they took his car out into the city.

“I normally go to a small noodle shop after I win,” he said, “But we can go somewhere nicer if you’d like. We’re both a little over dressed.”

Eun-Sang put her hand on his leg and leaned against his arm. She felt languid and relaxed after their quickie. “Noodles sound great. I have to make a few calls but then I can give you my attention.”

He kissed the top of her head and they fell into silence. Eun-Sang tried not to be too surprised when he used public parking in front of a very tiny noodle place with outdoor seating. He helped her out of the car and clearly knew the ahjumma running the small restaurant. He surprised her when he took her inside the cramped space. The walls were covered in graffiti with messages passed between patrons over the decades. Eun-Sang was enchanted while he ordered his usual for both of them.

“Aren’t people afraid of spam if they leave their phone numbers up on the walls?”

He smiled and poured her some water. He pointed out his own message with his phone number. “I’ve never gotten a spam call. No one has ever pranked me either and that’s a pretty personal message.”

Omma, where are you?

Eun-Sang stared at it sadly and he shrugged. “She left when I was twelve. This was our place. I tried to get ahjumma to paint over it after I got a letter from her explaining why she left, but she insisted on keeping it up.”

“It feels like your life has been one betrayal after the other,” she mused softly right before her phone began to ring. “You are so gentle.”

She opened her purse and answered as her assistant put through one of the calls she had to sit in on. She ignored the sad way Young-Do looked at her. Her calls only took a few minutes before she was able to focus on eating. Young-Do quietly laughed at her as she inhaled the meal.

“Didn’t you eat breakfast this morning?”

Eun-Sang just slurped her black bean noodles at him. He reached over and wiped her nose. “It is way past lunch time. I’ll probably be snacking late tonight.”

“I’ll join you,” he said. “I’ve had no snacks for six weeks now. It was worth it but I miss having chips.”

She grinned and was surprised that they fell into a lazy afternoon and evening. When they got home, they changed into relaxed clothing, snuggled up together on the couch to watch television, and munched their way through two bags of chips and assorted sweets. She found that they had the same snarky sense of humor when it came to watching romcoms and a love of fast action movies with dangerous ladies and men defying death to save them.

It starkly reminded of Hyo-Shin.

She shoved that feeling down as deeply as she could. Hyo-Shin did not belong in their day together. Rachel was right, she wouldn’t feel good until she felt like she matched Young-Do’s effort and she’d done that today. He was so happy and filled with delight. Hyo-Shin’s shadow did not belong here.

But she couldn’t remember laughing this much with Young-Do outside of sex. It shouldn’t surprise her that it ended up with them losing their comfy clothes on the couch, him bending over her, him kissing her between her legs until she almost came, only to have her pout at him as he lifted his head.

“Not fair.”

“Turnabout,” he teased as he slowly slid inside her. And then, suddenly, it was all wrong again, like the beach, slow and tender with eye contact. His hands cupping and teasing, his lips soft and taunting, his body warm and gentle as they became the epitome of making love together. She drew her fingertips over his shoulders and chest, rubbed her legs against his sides and hips, clenching him as deeply as she could.

The last time she felt like this, so perfect and lovely and undone, was the last time she and Hyo-Shin made love. And to her horror, Eun-Sang almost said another man’s name when she came.

Almost. Almost. Almost.

The guilt made her cry.

[beks21]

The Neck Thing

um hey so i wrote my first fic???? i don’t know how this happened, but @elanev91 was amazing and believed in me, so here you go. It’s Harry+Ginny and snogging, so enjoy :)

Read on Ao3 or FF.net

Harry was doing the neck thing to her again, and it was driving Ginny mad.

They were on their way to the Quidditch pitch, but had gotten, erm, sidetracked just inside the doors. Ginny was laughing at something Harry said, and when she caught her breath and opened her eyes, he was much closer to her, and he was looking at her intensely, and then the next thing Ginny knew, she was pressed against the wall, her arms moving to encircle Harry’s neck.

The neck thing always started the same way: Harry would cup her face in his hands and begin to kiss her, and then as the snog deepened - as she matched his enthusiasm - his hands would slide back into her hair. {Ginny had always suspected, even before that fateful kiss in the Common Room, that Harry had a thing for her hair, and as they spent more time together, her suspicions were confirmed. Very confirmed. No doubt left in her mind, actually.}

But the hair was just the beginning. Harry would drag one hand from her hair down to her waist, to draw her closer to him {not that she resisted, Merlin help her}, and then his other hand would start...moving. As he kissed her - as she kissed him back - his hand that was still in her hair would stroke through to the ends of her ponytail {usually getting tangled in her hair band a few times before one of them would impatiently yank it out}.

After combing his fingers through her hair a few times, Harry would bring his hand to her back, then slide it oh so s l o w l y up to her neck. By this time, his lips have moved from her mouth to her jaw, towards her ear, and his hand would oh-so-gently massage and tickle her neck, and combined with his lips and tongue… Ginny could barely remain upright.

“Harry…” Ginny whimpered as he moved his mouth up towards her ear.

“Hmmm?” Harry’s eyes were closed and his fingers were still at her neck.

“Are we… are we actually going to… mmm, going to fly today?” It felt like Ginny’s lips had forgotten how to form words and were now only capable of pecking at Harry’s face and neck.

With what seemed like tremendous effort, Harry removed his hands from Ginny’s hair and back and brought them to rest on her shoulders. He leaned in for one more lingering kiss, then pulled back with a sigh. “I guess we should,” he shrugged, then smirked, “before we get too carried away.”

Ginny winked at him. “No, of course not, we mustn’t get too carried away. And we can’t have you slacking off with your flying practice, either,” she grinned at him.

A long-suffering sigh erupted from Harry, much to Ginny’s amusement. “I miss one game last month-”

“And a whole season last year with the Um-bitch,” Ginny interrupted, not willing to let him forget that little detail. The memory still made her blood boil...

“-and now all the Gryffindors do is nag me to fly more, to get back my edge, as if I’d lost it!” Harry continued, his hands beginning to play with Ginny’s hair again, and Ginny shivered.. “Can’t I just snog my girlfriend without the whole bloody team telling me to go flying?”

Ginny poked his stomach. “Oi, don’t be mad, Potter. You love flying, and you know you haven’t really lost your edge. Whoever thinks that is full of bullocks.”

Harry grinned at her and grabbed the hand that had poked him. “Darn right I haven’t lost my edge.”

Ginny twisted her hand in his and decided to tease him just a bit. “I mean, you’re faster than the Hufflepuff Seeker, for sure.” Harry stuck his tongue out at her and tugged her along as he began walking towards the door once more. Ginny skipped a bit to catch up with him, then continued, counting on her free hand. “You’re still better than the Slytherin Seeker, what’s-her-face? The fourth year.” Harry nodded and shrugged - he didn’t know the Slytherin Seeker’s name either - and held the door open for Ginny.

“And not to bring up your ex,” Ginny rolled her eyes; Harry blushed slightly and pulled her closer to him so he could sling his arm around her shoulders. Ginny snuggled closer to him as they continued walking towards the Quidditch pitch. “Not to bring her up, but yeah, Harry, you’re still faster-” Ginny looked up at Harry with mischief in her eyes; Harry thought her expression was just like the twins’ just then. “-than She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

Harry burst out laughing, so hard that he stopped walking and doubled over. Ginny ducked out from under his arm and watched him, a pleased and proud expression on her face. It had been a few days since Harry had let loose and laughed so freely, and Ginny was glad that he could laugh now, with her… she was glad that she could make him laugh.

Harry caught his breath and reached for her, squeezing her tight. “Thank you for that. I didn’t know how badly I needed a laugh…” he trailed off and huffed another little laugh. “Thanks.”

Ginny nestled into his arms, pressing her face against Harry’s chest. “Happy to oblige.”

Harry tightened his grip, and one hand began making its way up her back and to her neck {Merlin, he was going to do the neck thing again}, and then he pressed a kiss to Ginny’s forehead. Ginny raised her face so she could catch his lips with hers, feeling herself getting swept away into the sensations of his gentle hands and soft mouth and solid chest… but she pulled herself back, still in his arms, just enough to look up at him.

“Oi, let’s not get distracted, Potter,” Ginny tsked at him. Harry grinned at her, and she laughed. “You’re still not faster than all of Hogwarts’ Seekers.”

“Gin, I AM the other Hogwarts’ Seeker,” Harry protested, one hand moving again to her hair. “How can I be faster than myself?”

Ginny forced herself to ignore his hand as he tugged gently on a few strands {she was beginning to think that she had a thing for Harry having a thing for her hair} and raised an eyebrow cockily. “Did you forget who played as Seeker in that oh-so-important match last month?”

Harry pulled her back against his chest and murmured into her hair, “That was a pretty significant match, hmmm?” His hand moved from the bottom of her hair back to her neck, and Ginny mustered her self-control just enough to hold in a contented groan, knowing that her response would only encourage Harry.

She tried to take a step away from him, to put a little distance between them, to resist getting sidetracked again for the third time in fifteen bloody minutes but then Harry moved his mouth to the side of her jaw, and his hand came up to the back of her head, scraping gently along her scalp, and Ginny found that she had no strength, no desire to move away from this. So she kissed him back, and moved her hands into his mess of hair, and Harry let out a noise that was half-sigh, half-chuckle, and Ginny smiled and kept kissing him, pulling his mouth back to hers.

Harry brought both his hands to Ginny’s neck, and she swayed against him, her knees buckling slightly. Harry laughed and caught her, keeping them both upright, but he had to remove his hands from her neck and grab her waist instead. Ginny groaned, lifting her head and dropping her hands to Harry’s shoulders. “We are never going to make it onto the pitch at this rate, Potter, not if you keep doing that neck thing,” she said with a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Harry smirked at her. “What neck thing is that? And who says we have to go flying right this minute?”

Ginny smirked right back and gave him a little shove. “You know what neck thing. That thing you do with my hair on my neck… augh, you know exactly what you’re doing to me!” She pointed a finger at him accusingly; Harry kept smirking and his eyes twinkled. “Don’t change the subject, Harry. You may be Gryffindor’s star Seeker, Harry, but I can still fly laps around you on this pitch.”

Harry hummed and caught her hand in his and began walking, once again, towards the pitch. “Is that a challenge?”

Ginny interlaced their fingers and beamed at him. “Of course it is. Think you can handle it?”

With a laugh, Harry responded, “Oh, I think so. Accio my Firebolt and Ginny’s Cleansweep.” He pointed his wand towards the broom shed, and almost instantly the two brooms were hovering at their sides.

Reluctantly, Harry let go of Ginny’s hand and mounted his broom. “How about we make this challenge more interesting?”

“I’m listening.” Ginny mounted her own broom and then felt in her pockets for another hair tie. “What’ll you give me when I beat you?” She tried to maintain her bravado as she realized her hair tie search was futile. Damn all those snogs and the neck thing, she thought, but she didn’t really mean it, because honestly, who could condemn the neck thing when it came down to it?

Amused, Harry reached into his own pocket and handed her a hair tie. Ginny’s jaw dropped a little in shock, and Harry snorted. “Don’t look so surprised, Gin. It’s not like I drop them on the floor when we snog. I’m not that distracted.” Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, and Harry laughed. “As I was saying, I think we could make this flying practice more interesting. And I think what you’ll give me when I win is” his eyes gleamed wickedly behind his glasses, and Ginny’s mouth went a bit dry in anticipation “-a poem.” He grinned at her, looking far too pleased with himself.

Ginny gaped at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. She pitched forward, holding her sides, roaring with laughter. She felt tears prick her eyes and flames burst in her cheeks, and she kept on laughing.

“I’m serious!” Harry protested, reaching out a hand to make sure she didn’t fall off her broom. Ginny caught her breath and glanced at him, but couldn’t keep it in and she started laughing again. “Harry,” she gasped as she wiped away a tear, “if I wasn’t already going to trounce you around this pitch, THAT would definitely motivate me to win.” She took a deep breath, still shaking from laughing so hard. “Merlin’s beard, I am never writing another poem in my life!”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Not even when I win, Weasley?”

“Not ever, because I am going to win, Potter, and when I do,” Ginny paused, turning to face Harry full-on, “you’re going to snog me and do that neck thing again.” She winked at him, then kicked off the ground into the air. Harry quickly followed, catching up to her {Ginny might have let him catch her, just to hear his response}. “I guess if you win, Weasley,” Harry’s voice was low, but Ginny could hear him clearly even through the wind, “we’ll both win. And if you lose, well,” he smirked again, and Ginny felt a zing of excitement that had nothing to do with their altitude, “I guess we’ll have a do-over, because I like the neck thing better than poetry.” Ginny shivered, but shook it off so she could hunch over her broom and yell, “Ready, set, GO!” And they were off.

[artificialqueens]

Grotesque and Amazing Ch. 1 (Trixya) - Juniper

Summary: Trixie learns that money can’t buy happiness, as she and Katya get tangled up in a complicated love web. Female! War and Peace AU.

A/N: Alternatively titled The Slowest Burn in Existence. This is set in modern times, and begins right before Trixie’s senior year of high school, though the story itself won’t be taking place in school. If you’re unfamiliar with War and Peace, that’s totally okay, since I’ll be taking lots of liberties with this and give you all you need to know. A little warning - in the chapters to come, Trixya will definitely be involved with other people, so remember to check the tags. Phew, okay! You can always find me at @artificialjuniper. Happy reading! 

The unforgiving rattle of the car was giving Trixie nausea as it blundered over the abused asphalt. The radio was blaring and the air conditioning too low, but she was already in such a frazzled state that it seemed irrelevant to argue with the driver over the volume of the rock classics station. Instead, she opted for gazing out the window, watching the expansive fields roll past, praying for them to settle her stomach.

It was a beautiful day despite the storm clouds that rumbled within Trixie’s mind. The sun was shining, and the grass was looking particularly green. Herds of cattle were snacking, taking their fill of the earth. She’d always loved coming out to the country; something about the rural setting was comforting.

When Trixie was a little girl, she had lived out in one of the little houses that belonged to her grandparents. She shared a bedroom with her mother, and they lived comfortably enough, just the four of them. She was unafraid to contest with the rowdy chickens in the back, and posed proudly for Polaroids out in the garden with her grandmother. Every Sunday they’d pile into the pick-up truck and drive into town for church, and Trixie was sure she felt blessed.

She could make a pot of coffee for her grandpa before she could even reach the counter. She was always by his side, absorbing every lesson he would teach. Hours were spent watching him play his guitar, singing sweetly as he replaced every song title with her name. He’d lift her up on his shoulders and carry her into the kitchen at dinnertime, where he pretended to choke on his wife’s cooking until milk shot out of Trixie’s nose.

Then Trixie’s grandmother went, and her grandpa’s heart couldn’t find the strength to hang on.

Suddenly it was just her and her mother, and the feeding the chickens seemed more like a chore than a privilege. There was an irreparable hole in her heart, and she spent many nights asking why this had to happen to the best people she knew. Her mother would brush her hair every night and tell her stories, but it wasn’t the same, and they both knew it. After a few months, they found someone to buy the house, and Trixie’s mother moved them into the city.

Trixie sighed as they began to pass some of the nicer houses, sequestered off from the rest with others of similar size and grandeur.

Plenty of rich people from the city had places out in the country, as well. Some had ranchland that they collected profit from, others just desired a quiet place to get some peace of mind, delighting in the small, friendly culture the residents had.

It was at Wilson’s Steakhouse, just off the highway, where Trixie’s mother had met her father. He was tall, tan, and rich. The son of an oil bigwig, he was a much older man, eager at the prospects of taking advantage of a beautiful young girl. Her smile was bright and her gum-popping endearing as she took his order. He scribbled his number on a napkin, and they quickly got swept up in a whirlwind romance. She had a small taste of his luxurious world; she tasted expensive champagnes and tried on designer gowns. When she’d stumble drunk a few hours shy of sunrise, she’d assure her parents that he promised to propose soon, and then she’d be able to take care of them all.

But her fantasy was shattered one Saturday morning spent hurling over a toilet bowl, and she cried as she looked up as she saw her mother standing over her with a knowing expression.

She told him a few days later, and by that evening he was gone. Forever returning to his former life, without her and the baby girl on the way.

It was years before she got the full truth, but Trixie always knew she hated her father. She hated the way she felt jealous when she saw all the other kids with both parents, hated the way her mother never got to spontaneously dance in the middle of the living room like her grandparents did. The only valentine she received, year after year, were the flowers Trixie would pick from the garden.

But her mother was strong, and brave. She scraped together every cent, made time for them, and kissed her forehead when Trixie blurted out a teary confession of her feelings for girls. And when the ladies in the rows behind them in the pews at church whispered about them, how a bright, young girl could give into temptation at only 17, she held her head a little higher and sang the hymns a little louder. They did fine on their own; she would never beg for a man that didn’t want her.

So, it was definitely a surprise to see the letter on the kitchen table, unopened, on top of all of the other mail. The address and name were familiar, but the addressee was unexpected. It was for Trixie.

Her father had died. A heart condition, apparently, and whoever scribbled out the message clearly wanted her to know that he had fought a hard and lengthy battle, as if it made any difference. She’d never meet him now, and for that she felt a slight pang in her chest. Though, by the concerned look on her mother’s face, she knew it was for the best.

She kept reading, skipping over details of what an amazing man he was, and had to re-read a line close to the end. And then she read it a third time. A fourth.

“According to his will, Samuel has decided to leave all of his financial assets to his only daughter, you, Beatrix Mattel.”

At first, she refused. But her mother swallowed hard and hugged her, telling her that this was a sacrifice she did not have to make. It was a blessing, and it was hers to keep.

As she rode to his estate, the hatred only bubbled within her more. How cruel it was to think you could intrude on a life you abandoned. She thought of her mother, how painful it must be to have an unwanted figure reappear and think money could make up for missed birthdays, lost teeth, graduations.

Arriving was just as bad. A large, extravagant room filled with strangers that all knew who she was. She was the bastard child, swooping in to rob them of the money they had expected to receive. They were separated by lacy veils and expensive suits. Snide glances and low murmurs were the soundtrack to her walk into the private room with the lawyers.

It was a heinous amount of money, a sum that Trixie didn’t expect to earn in her whole life, much less one day. She signed and initialed form after form, still feeling like she was in a fantastical dream. Bank information was discussed, and after arrangements were made, she hurriedly walked to the exit, pushing through the people, a great deal richer, yet still feeling poor. Her eyes were focused on the floor, eager to leave.

Seventeen years’ worth of nights spent asking God why she wasn’t wanted, and all she got was a lousy check.

She was stopped by a middle-aged woman, dressed in all black, with worry lines etched into her skin.

“Hello, Beatrix,” she greeted. She held her hand out for Trixie to take, and she warily shook it. It was cold. “I’m Mrs. Morales, your father’s main business partner. We were very close.”

Her voice held venom behind it, and Trixie bit back asking the whereabouts of Mr. Morales.

“Nice to meet you. I’m sorry for your…I’m sorry.”

“He’s right there, you know,” Mrs. Morales said, pointing a wrinkled finger to a turquoise vase. How awful, Trixie thought. “This must all be so new to you. You’ve inherited such a legacy. I’m sure this…lifestyle will all take some getting used to-”

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Trixie said curtly. She had no intentions of making her way through her father’s business ventures, but now that the scandalous story was out there, she knew she’d be subject to these kinds of people until the buzz died down. Caviar and croquet were not in her plans.

She could do so many things with the money. Go to a nice college, give to the needy, make sure her mother was secure for the rest of her life. She could even buy her grandparents’ old house back.

Trixie rode with her head tilted toward the glass when something caught her eye. One of the houses had a crowd around it, several decorations floating about. She tapped on the back of the driver’s seat.

“Excuse me, can you stop here for just a minute? I need to run in.”

“Miss Mattel, I was told to take you straight home,” he replied without so much as a glance.

“Oh, please? Just for a few minutes. Take a smoke break?” She rolled her eyes when he still didn’t let up off the gas. “I’ll pay you double if you pull over.”

Sure enough, the car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires. He rolled down the window and let his elbow hang out.

“Thank you, I’ll be right back!”

Trixie ran up the path to the house, unsure of why she was really doing this.  The backyard looked familiar, all clipped grass and planted flowers. She saw nice dresses, cakes and balloons, and glancing at a few familiar faces let her fully exhale for the first time that day.

“Trixie Mattel? God, that can’t be you! Come here!”

A blonde woman with pink lips pulled her into a hug, and her expensive perfume reminded Trixie of the past. It was comforting. Her hug was warm and sincere.

“I was in the neighborhood,” she said. “And I figured I dropped by. I’m glad I’m in time for the party.”

“Oh, Yekaterina will be so happy you’re here! If I had any way of getting in touch, I’d have invited you myself.“

She saw her then, standing in the middle of the patio, barefoot. The light breeze caught her long waves and her arms hung by her side regally. People were coming up to her, kissing her cheek, and Trixie couldn’t help but smile.

This girl, Katya, was just as she remembered her. A true ray of sunshine that attracted everyone.

When they were children, they were as close to neighbors as one could get out here. She was one of the Zamolodchikovas, notoriously mysterious. Not even Katya honestly knew what her father did. All anyone really knew about them was that they were connected to a powerful Russian family, and with that came the rumors. Trixie never asked questions. She didn’t need to.

She went to an expensive private school, with a uniform nicer than any of Trixie’s church dresses. But every summer, they came out to this house, her mother desperate for some time away from the hustle and bustle of the social scene. It was for their health and state of mind, she said.

Each year, June would roll around, then July, and several Augusts were spent playing pretend. They’d have tea parties and go on adventures until dark. She was a year ahead in school, and demanded that Trixie sit in the grass while she played schoolteacher, drawing out lessons in chalk. They’d laugh all day, forming a formidable team against Katya’s older brother when he decided to be a nuisance.

It had been five years since she’d seen Katya. This was a woman, not a little girl, who sang songs of praise as she was handed gift after gift. But she had the same smile, and it made Trixie feel nostalgic.

They were from different worlds, and the city streets were endless, so once Trixie’s mother had packed them up and sold the house, there should be no reason to ever see Katya again. Yet, here she was.

She left Katya’s mother with a polite nod and approached her nervously. She would surely remember her. They were best friends.

“Happy birthday,” she said shyly.

It took a few seconds of a crooked head before she was being smothered in a hug, the shorter girl knocking the air out of Trixie.

“Oh, thank God! Finally, someone who isn’t a total bore.”

Trixie smiled. She was still overzealous.

“How are you?” She asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring a present…”

Katya shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Don’t even worry. I have presents coming out of my ears.”

It was a good-sized crowd, Trixie thought. People of all ages sipping on wine and devouring tiny sandwiches. The children chased each other with water guns. She didn’t recognize any of them. Katya grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the side of the house. They grabbed two glasses of lemonade from a man carrying a tray.

Backs up against the house, they worked on catching up. There were dandelions sprouting up from the dirt, and Trixie plucked one, blowing on it gently.

They watched it disperse, floating all throughout the air, and she wished for a sense of direction.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Katya said, awkwardly swishing the drink inside her glass.

“Thanks, I guess,” Trixie shrugged. “I don’t really know how to feel about it.” Katya hummed in agreement.

“Word on the street is that he left you a shitload of money. Guess you’re one of us now.”

“I don’t think so,” Trixie frowned. “I think that’s more of a state of mind, than what’s in your bank account.”

The other girl sighed deeply and leaned into her side.

“Everyone is gonna be talking about you. Your name is out there. With that much dough, people will try and make connections.” She was looking to the sky now. “Funny how you can be surrounded by so many things and still feel alone.”

“You’re not alone, though,” Trixie protested. “You have so many friends. And your brother, where is he?”

“Around, I guess. He’s engaged to my friend Ginger now. Do you remember her?”

Trixie flushed.

She had never met Ginger, but she’d heard many stories. They were partners in crime, and every time Katya gushed about some adventure they’d gone on together, Trixie felt a pit of jealousy in her stomach.

Their last summer before Trixie had left, Katya came bounding up the concrete steps to her porch, red in the face.

“What’s the matter?” She asked her, sitting curiously in her grandmother’s wicker chair. Katya was pacing, arms crossed over her chest.

“Ginger kissed my brother!” She fumed. “Can you believe that? He’s disgusting. I don’t know why anyone would want to. What a waste of a first kiss. She was so excited, too!”

Trixie was twelve. Several people at school held hands and kissed, calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. There were even a couple of love triangles, and the drama left her feeling dizzy. Still, she had a longing to know what it was like.

“Did she like it?”

“That’s the worst part,” Katya groaned. “She said it was amazing! I mean, he has chapped lips and bad breath. I bet his slimy tongue was all over her backstabbing face. You know, totally wrong.”

Dating was completely off limits to Trixie until she was older, and based on her mother’s experiences, it was understandable.

“I, um, I’ve never kissed anyone,” she sheepishly admitted. “I don’t know the right way.”

Before she knew it, Katya stomped over to her and took her face in her hands. She somehow kissed her both hard and sweet, and when she pulled away, Trixie’s head was spinning.

“That’s the right way. When it makes you feel something!”

Now, Trixie was sipping on her lemonade to try and suck the memory dry. If Katya had forgotten, she certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. It had been years, but it never truly left Trixie’s mind.

It was a defining moment in her life. The kiss that led to the discovery of her feelings for girls. Nothing since had been half as intense.

“It’s okay if you don’t, it’s been a long time,” Katya said. Trixie had completely forgotten to respond. Maybe it was better that she didn’t. With a bright smile, Katya told her that she figured that would all be changing now. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”