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dreadwulf · 3 years

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prompt #1: The Green Knight

(Warning: Major Character Death. Not the Major Character you think. Be warned.)

The Green Chapel stands still and silent when the Golden Knight arrives.

Once he had expected a fine cathedral to await him at the of his journey, but by now he is unsurprised to find a crumbled ruin overgrown with ivy. Only the stone walls remain of this “chapel”. The sunken paving stones admit dirt and weeds between them enough that it is barely distinguishable from the forest floor, and the roof is long since fallen in. Everywhere it is overgrown with thick green leaves and vines, and surrounded by a canopy of trees that opens only enough to admit a slice of night sky directly above.

Ser Jaime Lannister enters watchfully, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The Green Knight is nearly invisible to him at first: concealed in greenery, grown into the landscape as though part of it. The bark of his skin is encrusted with moss, leaving no visible gap between himself and the plants around him. Judging from the growth, the Knight has not moved in a long, long while.

Has he stood exactly here for the entire year, waiting for him? It looks more like a statue, or a tree carving. Something long abandoned. Much longer than a single year.

“Ser Knight,” he announces, “I have arrived per our agreement.”

Silence.

There is only him here, and a tree that looks only a little like a man.

He is early, Ser Jaime realizes. Will be it dawn of the day, or the very hour of their meeting? He may be here for some time. It will be hours to dawn, and it had been another sundown after that when the Green Knight had ridden into Robert’s court on his enormous steed.

One year hence, the Knight had said. Well, at least he is not late.

The pre-dawn hours are quiet here, and the grove is peaceful. The trees overhead open out onto a pretty sprinkling of stars, and all the noise of the forest and the brook which has lead him here has faded away. He can see why the locals call this the Green Chapel. It is the sort of place that encourages one to pray, and to contemplate, at least if one is given to introspection and piety.

Which he is usually not.

The Golden Knight quickly grows restless. Waiting is not a skill of his. He is impatient by nature, impetuous and impulsive. Faced with delay he will rush things ahead, or abandon his course. Unless, as in this case, he has no choice but to wait, and then he will be overcome with unease.

He paces. His fingers twitch. His gaze darts around, landing on this and that.

There is no sign of movement from the Green Knight.

If he had not seen him walking and talking, he might assume this to be only a sculpture, and not a living being. He might wonder if he had been tricked, and if some unseen enemy hovered nearby laughing at his predicament. But he has seen the Green Knight up close, and ran him through with his own blade, and watched as the great gnarled hands pulled the greatsword from his own breast as casually as a thorn from his finger, and tossed the weapon aside as though it were a child’s plaything.

His hands curl around the same greatsword at his belt. He has carried it for a year, this sword. It was his prize for accepting the Green Knight’s challenge, and ostensibly he is here to return it. When he does, the knight will return him the same blow, and stab him through the heart.

Was it worth it? What, after all, did he do with his fine sword?

Ser Jaime sighs and sits on the wet ground. He can grow no more muddy and disheveled than he is already. He left King’s Landing in his extravagant golden armor, wearing his lion’s helm, and riding the finest horse in his stable. But he arrives in the Green Chapel on foot, with no helm, dressed in shabby clothing and battered bits of armor. Even his golden hair is shorn, and only a thin growth of hair remains of his famous golden curls.

The only thing of value remaining to him is the sword. And to be quite honest, the Green Knight is welcome to it. If he could, he would exchange it for something much more valuable that he had found, and then lost, along the way.

It had taken many weeks to get him here. There were some diversions - misadventures, a strange episode in a Keep, and a good deal of wandering around lost - but he has come a very long way from Robert’s Court to find himself here. He had managed the journey only with the help of his squire.

The girl had joined him on the road on the very first day. She was part of the crowd that had followed him from the gates, those knight-hopefuls who so frequently followed his footsteps around the city. Most wanted some of his glory, hoped for it to spill onto them by mere proximity. Some wanted merely to see him meet his fate, others to be part of that tale if they could. But there was very little glory in this journey. They had been beset by bandits, wild animals, bad weather, and strange side-tracks from almost the very start

There had been six, even eight of them at a time, during the ride through the Westerlands, but as he traveled further and further from the capital and the weather worsened their number dwindled, and by the tenth night there was only her. Her name was Brienne. If she had another he has already forgotten it.

She was a strange girl, ungainly large, and dressed all in armor, in imitation of a knight. She had a face like rotten fruit, softly misshapen. Her straw-blonde hair, ruddy and pox-marked skin, and stubborn pout completed the picture. Her very presence proved subtly irritating. If a maid cannot be beautiful she might at least keep herself out of sight; or else be a servant, who are barely women to begin with.

His followers quickly decided to make a servant of her. This did not go well. Ser Jaime came upon her fighting three of the men on the third night. One of them had blood streaming from his nose already, another was sitting on the ground looking dazed from a blow to the head. The last was seemingly unfazed by the fate of the other two, and Ser Jaime observed him take a good punch to the chin that left him spitting out teeth. They were trying to steal her supper, she said. The girl should be cooking for us all, the men said.

“She is my squire”, Ser Jaime told them, deciding upon it at that very moment. “She will cook supper for only me.”

“Like hell I will,” the ungrateful wench spat at him.

Ser Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to be a knight or not? First you must be a squire.”

She did at that. She did wish it, very much. He can see it in her eyes -- striking blue eyes, with a determined gaze.

Brienne did cook his supper, the next night, over the campfire. Not very well, and he did not insist again. But she also tended his armor and sword, and that she did very well indeed. She handled his greatsword with tremendous respect and care, such that it touched him to see. He had long since stopped being impressed by the blade, after carrying it for a year.

Brienne proved a loyal squire, if not the most typical one. When wolves attacked she proved herself courageous, stood herself well in front of older and more experienced men. When there was work to be done she would be first to do it, and without being asked: gathering firewood, tending the horses. Drudgery she avoided, but practical, necessary things she performed without complaint.

She had very blue eyes. Sky eyes, clear and bright. He would have liked to look at them, except that she would be looking back, and that seemed to frighten her. She did not like to look him in the face. A shy maid, for all her armor and prickly temperament. He liked to tease her, and tell bawdy jokes with the other men until her face turned a pleasant pink.

A skirmish with the Brave Companions lost three of his would-be-knights and all of their horses,and it lead to their capture for a brief time. When they managed to escape, they were left traveling afoot, and without their supplies. His other followers drifted off then, losing their taste for adventure. Only the girl remained, and walked beside him along the road North uncomplaining through the long days ahead.

She was good with a blade, better than most. Not so good as Ser Jaime, who had a prodigious talent. But on the occasions he challenged her to spar with him, she got his blood up and roaring in a way he had not felt since he was a young man himself, and all his adventures before him.

She was kind. Too reserved to be gregarious, but generous in spirit. She took pity on every foundling, every poor farmer and milkmaid they encountered along the way. She wanted to help them, rescue them all; if he had not restrained her they would have been fighting for the honor of each individual cow from the Westerlands to the Neck. She was much disappointed that they hadn’t. What is a knight for, if not that?

She would learn, as he once had. The Knights of Robert’s Kingdom were more tarnished than a starry-eyed squire suspected. Heroes and legends in tales were only men in the flesh, and men with a bit of money and renown all went the same way. Given the best of everything they would indulge themselves, would grow greedy, would came to expect what had once been freely given. They fought not for gods and country but for glory, and mainly fought each other. They plundered wealth and women, sat by roaring fires, went slow, went soft, forgot hunger and killing cold.

Honor was a facade, nothing more. To become a knight was to learn it. It made him glad she would never be knighted, and fail that lesson.

“Entertain me, squire,” he said to her as they rode side-by-side, needling her. “I have heard all of the songs and stories of this land, and they bore me. Tell me a tale of yourself, Squire Brienne. What adventures set you on this course to become a knight?”

She bowed her head. “I have no tales to tell, my lord. It is only a wish, and an aspiration. But I have no adventures but the one we are on now. But you, my lord, are a famous knight, and must have many stories to tell. I would be honored to hear them from your own lips.”

Ser Jaime had hundreds of tales. He has boasted of his adventures to innumerable audiences as they looked on him admiringly, the great Golden Knight. Wins at tourney, duels with other knights, riding to war for King Robert. But for some reason, as he turned them over in his mind, he discarded each of his favorite stories one by one. He did not want to tell them now; those stories are not for her.

“I also have no tales to tell,” he said.

“Are you not on a quest, my lord?” She looked over at him quizzically, her blue eyes innocent. “I hear tell you are riding to the Green Chapel in the north…”

“I am, and to meet the Green Knight. But even I am not so bold as to tell that tale when I do not yet know its ending. But it sounds like you could, Squire Brienne.”

Again she frowned at him for that title. But she did know the bare outlines of the story, how the strange Green Knight had rode into King Robert’s court and invited the bravest and boldest of his knights to face him in battle, to strike a single blow and receive a blow in return, and for it they would gain his greatsword as a prize. How the Golden Knight had taken up the challenge, and in a blow of great talent and precision stabbed the Golden Knight through the heart, finding the weakest point in his armor on a single try. But instead of falling down dead, the Green Knight had easily pulled the blade from his own chest and mounted his horse. He told the Golden Knight to meet him in one year at the Green Chapel, where he would return his blow.

“And I see you do not hesitate to keep your word,” Brienne concluded the tale. “You are as bold and brave as all the stories say. But what will you do when you get there?”

“Fight him, I suppose.” Ser Jaime’s hand tensed around the ruby-encrusted pommel of his borrowed sword.

“Ser?” She blinked back at him in confusion.

“What, you expected I would meekly bow my head and be murdered? Of course not.” Ser Jaime’s shoulders shook. “Twas not a fair bargain, when he has such dark magic that he can take a sword through the heart and survive. I have no such magic, and it isn’t a fair exchange.”

“But you did not have to strike a deathblow. By the bounds of the agreement you might have only scratched him, and taken only a scratch in return.”

Well, yes. In hindsight, that would have been wiser. If he had taken the time to think it over, he might have put that together. But by nature he rarely takes that time.

“He was a large and fearsome Knight, and I thought only to prevent the return blow. Of course if I had known he would survive it I would have acted differently. I know it now. And when I see the Knight this time I will fight him with everything I have, and he will fight me with everything He has, and we will see who is the victor.”

“But you made a promise…” She sounded faintly disappointed, and it irritated him greatly.

“It was a trick, girl. A trick to snare a knight by his honor. Would you have me die for a trick? What good will that serve? No, I will keep my appointment as promised, but he will have to work to land his blow against me. I’ll have my skill and my wit to defend me, as he had his magic.”

“Are you not afraid, Ser?”

“Afraid to fight? Never. It will be a fine duel, perhaps the finest of my life, and I am eager for it. It will be the battle that will make my legend, the kind that songs are sung of, and I look forward to that.”

Brienne said that she hoped to see it, and let the matter lie.

She did not see it, of course. They came to the Crossroads instead.

An inn stood at the crossroads, and cast-offs from the Riverlands sheltered there. Orphans and strays. Jaime and Brienne arrived only long enough to see a great many helpless faces before bandits came riding, meaning to plunder the kitchens, and carry off the women and children.

Jaime told the girls to run away as best they could, and aimed to do the same. If they were quick about it, the raiders couldn’t catch them all.

Brienne, on the other hand, meant to defend them. They would not survive alone in the forest, she said, and if the bandits took away the food, the little ones would starve.

“Better the bandits take them then, one or the other,” he said quickly, tugging at her. “But we had best retreat. We will not manage another fight in our condition, and not without more men.”

This was entirely reasonable, to him; better knights than he had often advised the same. There was no glory in failure, and certainly none in a pointless death in the middle of nowhere.

“No.” Brienne grew taller under his grasp, and would not be moved. “What good is a knight if he will not defend the innocent?”

“You stupid girl.” He holds her by the shoulders. “There is nothing you and I alone can do against so many men, no matter how skilled you are with a blade. They will surround us and cut us down -- it won’t even buy any time for your orphans. The best we can do is live to fight another day.”

“Someone must do something,” she says stubbornly. “I will not run.”

“Not to no avail! A battle is bravery, but this is suicide. It’s foolish, meaningless. It will make no difference whether you intervene or not - either way the women are taken and the children are killed. You will only add another body.”

“Someone must fight for them,” she insists. “Even if there is no hope. I am not enough, but if there is no one else, then it will be me.”

With that, she had shoved him in the larder, with a sudden and ferocious strength, and barred the door.

“Let me free, you stupid child!” He slammed his weight into the door sharply with his shoulder, enraged.

He could hear her through the door, her voice steady and clear.

“Someone must fight for them. If there is no one else, then it will be me.”

“Damn you,” he swore at her. “Open the door and I will fight with you. Two against a dozen is better odds than one. Open the door!”

“You have an appointment to keep,” she said, and then there was silence.

Jaime could not see what happened after that, but he could hear it. He could hear the disdainful laughter of the brighands, and the drawing of many blades. He could hear for a time the blades clashing, and much shouting, and one unfamiliar cry of pain, and for a brief moment he was hopeful that she might prevail. She was a talented swordfighter. If they fought her one at a time he had no doubt she could best them.

He could tell, even without seeing, that they did not. The fight turned, became a slaughter. He heard a single cry that he knew in his gut was Brienne, taking a blow she would not survive. There came more noise then, more steel and blows, and then the screams of the women and children being dragged from the Inn.

He screamed too. He wept, and clutched at his useless greatsword in a rage, wanting to throw himself through the door and impale himself on them like an arrow, these animals who would dare to touch a true knight. None of them seemed to hear him, or proved interested in the larder.

He didn’t know how long he had been left sitting there on the floor, with tears on his face and the earthy smell of raw meat weighting him down in the cool darkness. He waited for one of them, any of them, to remember him in the kitchens and come back, but no one did, and that was how he knew that no one remained. He wondered if he would be left there to rot. To moulder away with the bits of cheese and bread that remained there until he was nought but bones and a borrowed sword.

Eventually, quietly, a small boy with enormous eyes unbarred the door, having emerged from his hidey-hole only hours after the vicious intruders had left. Seeing Jaime huddled in the dark, he fled again and hid himself away in the Inn.

Jaime emerged into the twilight reluctantly. When he looked down the road, he imagined he could see them. The prisoners being taken away in the back of some wagon, women and children and women who were really children still, huddled together and weeping, down the long road and away. It was all for nothing, all of this. The brigands had taken them anyway.

There was no glory in this defeat. There was only a bloodstreaked trench in the mud where a terrible battle occurred, and in the middle of it a sad heap of metal. She was unrecognizable there, cut to pieces. Only a few strands of pale blonde hair remained to know her by.

The blacksmith’s armory had implements enough to break the cold ground. He dug a hole right beside the crossroads while the rain bucketed down on him. His chest hurt from the strangled sob caught in it. He put her in the hole and blanketed her again with the mud. If there had been flowers anywhere in that season in all the land he would have found them and laid them there above her grave. One day, he hoped, grass would grow.

It was a meaningless gesture, and made no difference to the blue-eyed girl. But it meant something to Jaime.

It was not meaningless to them, the shivering children and the sad-faced women riding away in the wagons. They had looked back, mournfully, at the place in the road where her body lay. Looked back down the long road, into the distance, through the rain and the trees and the tramping feet of the bandits’ horses and out of sight, and they kept looking. They would look back long after the rain and wind had wiped away any traces of what had happened there. They would not forget. When the enemy came for them, someone took up a blade in their cause. Someone thought they mattered. Someone thought they were worth dying for. They did not face their fate alone.

When evil comes, so long as at least one person stands against it, there is still some light left in the world.

He left the shovel there in the road and went back to the Inn. It took some time to locate the boy and persuade him to come out of the trunk where he had hidden himself. He carried the boy with him North to the next village, where he left him wordlessly at the Sept, and turned North again, alone.

The rain never stops now. The ground is crusted with snow and the air is wet and mossy and somehow the rains never wash anything away. It only soaks into the dirt and grime and ice and blood and weighs it down. Makes it heavier. Makes everything impossibly heavy.

There are more strange things that happen to him then: how the road curves and wanders beneath his feet and doubles him back to the start as though trying to throw him off his course. There were strange dreams, and visions, and he walks in a sort of fever. Nothing seems quite real after the Crossroads, nothing except the sword in his hand and his goal: the Green Chapel. He has an appointment to keep.

He grows only more determined to reach his destination.

The nights grow colder. He wakes up shivering, rolling over, trying to wake the embers of the fire, and every time his eyes open they are looking for the foolish girl in her armor. They find only blackness and he remembers then the crossroads and the hole he dug besides the road.

He missed her terribly.

He misses her still, sitting here before the Green Knight. It is a persistent ache, a weight that grows heavier by the day. It makes him feel ancient to contemplate. He sounds like one of the rusty old knights who cluster around Robert, lamenting the roads not taken, the women they might have settled down with. Lost loves. It has been only days and yet it seems like years ago, and a road already overgrown and impassable. He can see it already, the enormity of his mistake. His life might have become something entirely different, improbably better. The opportunity came to him, and he wasted it.

Brienne. The Maiden Knight. She could have been his lady love and his brother-at-arms all at once. Would anything have been so perfectly suited to him as that? He will never find her like again, and even if he did he would not want it; he will only want her, for the rest of his life.

Jaime muses over these memories through the hours. The journey, the past, the world around him. Time seems to settle into a hazy blur.

The sun rises slowly, impossibly slowly. He cannot see it past the trees, but the world gradually brightens, with gentle insistence. The greens grow ever more lush and verdant all around him. The wall where the Green Knight stands turns from grim grey to a lively grass color, the dark ivy wound around in loops that seem to form an altar of deep mossy overgrowth around the still and sleeping form of the Knight.

His hands worry at the hilt of the greatsword that he had come to return. He might leave the blade on the altar and go. Would that fulfill his word?

What did Jaime do with his famous sword, during the year he had it? Only held it aloft for others to see. Used it to threaten, and to cajole. Boasted of it to other lords. But the only time he had just cause to draw it he had chosen to retreat instead, and in doing lost the only thing of any value he had ever found.

If only he had gone with her. Agreed right at the first, without hesitation. If he had stood at her side it might have ended differently. One had no chance, but two, perhaps, might have survived. He might have taken her with him to the Green Chapel. He might have taken her home to the King. He might have seen her made a knight, and stood proudly beside her at the king’s table. The tales he might have made with her, he would be proud to tell.

The Knight’s form comes into clearer and clearer relief: looming over him, impossibly tall, improbably wide.

Jaime knows with cold certainty that the Knight is going to wake very soon. As the light grows stronger, the Green Chapel is waking around him with a thousand tiny movements. He can almost make out the subtle sound of leaves uncurling to the sun, and worms crawling in the earth.

The sword, Oathkeeper, quivers in his hands, as though outraged. How did he dare to carry that blade to this place intending to lie? To break his promise? More and more he thinks he did not. He came here for something else entirely.

Jaime finds, for the first time that he can remember, his hands are trembling. It is one thing to go to battle, but another entirely to go to an execution. His heart beats in his ears with a deep drumbeat of doom... doom... doom...

He’s not here to fight a duel, is he? What, then, is he here for?

Glory? Judgement? Mercy? Absolution?

Or only the cold, mechanical means of his inevitable end?

Was all this journey only for that? Is he truly here only to get a blade through his chest? And if so, might it be worth his while? After all, is there any better way for a knight to die? Will it not be a fitting end to his legend?

But he isn’t ready to die. Not willingly. Not without redeeming his honor, making something of himself. If he had another year… but would he do any more with that than he had the last? Than he has with all of the years thus far? Is there any amount of time that would make any more of himself than he has already?

The time he needed was these weeks on the road with Brienne. That showed him what kind of man he’d like to be. But he failed her when it mattered most. Perhaps he should be judged for that. Not a year from now, nor twenty. Today.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and paints the Green Chapel gold. The air warms, and birdsong calls to him on the breeze. The day is relentlessly pleasant, with a promise of endless more such days to follow. A bittersweet longing fills him. It has never seemed half so lovely to be alive as it does in this beautiful place. If only he could have brought her here.

I will be brave, he says to himself. Like Brienne.

All at once there is a great creaking sound of wood bending and tearing, and when Jaime looks up the green altar is moving. Green leaves tremble and wave purposefully, and twigs and small branches snap and fall away to rest in the dirt below. The trunk of the altar pulls itself free, excavates itself from the enclosure in the leaves and branches. Limbs pull free, and something nearly human rises out of the green, the bark of its skin glistening, newborn.

The Green Knight is standing.

Jaime looks up, and up, and up, from where he sits on the mossy floor of the green chapel, and his hand grips the hilt of his sword.

He is ready to fight, by instinct, and to flee, by sudden impulse. He is afraid, he realizes, afraid in a way he has never been before. There is more than a blow to the heart to fear here. There is the fate of his soul, which is suddenly entirely in question. Before his journey he had no doubt of his own worth as a knight, and now he is just as certain in the opposite direction. Is he worthy? He is not. He is not.

Slowly, he stands. The sun shines down on him through the same corridor in the trees where he had watched the stars the night previous, and its warmth is a rebuke; why should the sun shine upon one such as him? He is the golden knight no more. He is only a man, a man with a sword that does not belong to him.

His eyes raise last of all.

Jaime finds through the golden light the Green Knight’s face. The eyes first, through a thin bloom of leaves and moss, and then the nose, the jawline. He has never seen it so clearly before, not even when he had stabbed her through the heart. With slow realization his eyes travel down and up again, taking in the shape of his host, and her nature.

The Green Knight is a woman? Why didn’t he realize it before?

It seems only too clear now. The slight narrowing of the waist and wrists, and in the face… not a pretty face, but undeniably feminine. Full lips, round cheeks, and the eyes...

Blue eyes. Beautiful blue, sad blue, noble and sorry. The lost blue of long-forgotten clear skies.

When he sees them his hands stop shaking. All is well. His grand sword slips from his fingers and settles softly in the grass, sinks gently into the ground, is welcomed.

“It’s you,” he says. “I’m glad it’s you.”

The girl from the Crossroads is standing before him.

He doesn’t understand how it is possible. Was she always the Knight? Was all an illusion? Was the Knight in disguise when he met her, or was the Knight once that girl? But it doesn’t matter. Whoever she is, she is here now, and it is good and right that this happen to him.

Her voice is low and rusty, like a hinge that has not moved in many years, and slow in its opening.

“You... kept... our appointment,” the Knight creaks.

His mouth is gone dry. “One year hence. You gave me time enough. And so I am here.”

He thinks he sees her smile, faintly. With the crackling sound of breaking branches, the Knight gestures to his feet.

“You... dropped your sword... my Lord.” Ser Jaime glances down at Oathkeeper, already disappearing beneath the twining vines on the forest floor. “Is it not time... for our blades to cross? A duel to make your legend?”

“I made you a promise,” he says faintly, and puts a hand over his unguarded heart. “It seems my word is all I have, and if it means nothing to anyone else, it means something to me.”

She smiles. An oaken hand reaches out and touches him on the face, gently. “My brave knight.”

Her eyes are the bluest skies he has ever seen. He is not afraid. Not anymore.

“Are you ready?” she asks him, still stroking his cheek.

“Yes.” He is eager for it now. “Strike your blow.”

“Straight through the heart,” she agrees. Then she reaches out with her other hand to touch the other side of his face.

She kisses him.

#dreadwulf fic #jaime lannister #braime

57 notes · View notes

berryblissbby · 3 years

Text

Fiercest; devoted;

Pairing: Princess!reader x Guard/Warrior! Hajime Iwaizumi

Word Count: 9,500

Warnings: Use of blades and knives

A/N: Sooo this is the longest thing I've ever posted on tumblr and one of the longest fics I've ever written. Ive only even written a handful of things to completion before so please be kind (⩾﹏⩽). I'm currently reading TOG and this story was born from me trying to process HOF so if you see some parallels just look away! This is fanfic we borrow, not steal. And finally I must say, must I write a plot? Can’t they just learn to tenderly love each other in the end?

AND! AND! Here's the pinterest board i made for this fic, i'm so sorry that all the references are white people omg, pinterest has shit diversity.

Summary:

The moonlight won’t let you forget, the sunlight brightens the truth.

You are his princess, and he is your warrior. Raised together Hajime is your greatest source of comfort when he suddenly pulls away, igniting your temper and flaring animosity towards each other. Either under the light of the moon, or the rays of the sun, you’ll fight it out, just like always.

You were the princess of an empire. Heir of the kingdom that was the pinnacle of learning, healing and safety for anyone who wished to stay there. Books, music, and art were all treasured, and culture was allowed to thrive and breathe. Your court was beloved, held strong by devotion and loyalty, “the strongest court in the world” the people said. You were loved as well, by your parents and their people. Adored, you were their future.

Hajime was a lesser by his kingdom's terms. In a kingdom of magic wielders, he was unwanted nobility. So he was sent to you, to your kingdom, where compared to your human court, with a little magical blood in him, he would be strong. He was to be your guard, to keep you safe, and when you were ready to rule your bond would be unbreakable.

You were nine and he was thirteen . Delightfully shy- to adults- you lacked true friends. Hiding behind your mother, father or nursemaid, you could be found with your nose in a book. Even at celebrations it was the same, unless you convinced your mother or father to dance with you, much to everyone’s joy.

But then you had Hajime, and even though you were scared, with red rung hands and shifting eyes, he danced with you. Uncoordinated and silly, gentle smiles turning to grins and grins to giggles, you landed on the floor in a heap of laughter. Everyone could tell- when you were with him your timidness melts, and is met with ferocious quips and laughter full of love- that you would grow to be a shining queen. You didn’t worry, your child princess self, because when you were sat on your heaviest burden, your own little throne, he would be behind you. With his chest puffed up, his daggers sharpened and shining. Already your fiercest warrior and most devoted protector.

You grew together, his dark eyes were always watching you, blanketing you in warmth. When you learned how to fight and hold a dagger correctly he practiced with you, until your coordination and form were perfect. When you were strong enough for a sword he was right there as well, much to the captain of the guards dismay. You practiced together, but he never let you win. It was infuriating, his determined expression and unrelenting jabs. But “it’s for your own good” and you knew you'd best him one day.

He snuck into your room, when your chambers were too big, and the darknesses fingers too long. He stayed in the chair in the corner, and listened to you talk until your words slurred and you fell asleep. Your maids usually find him still there, curled up, in the morning.

He was right beside you when you learned how to ride a horse by yourself at ten years old, with shaky hands and gasping breaths. And when you fell off- the one and only time- he picked you right off the ground, dusted off your dress, and growled at the stable master.

He wiped the tears off your face as fast as they fell. Your little hands gripping the front of his shirt begging him not to leave.

Hajime pulled you to his chest, shushing you again. It was awkward, just two little kids clinging to each other, one barely old enough to comfort the other. But you needed him nonetheless.

He was right there the day you got it, hanging off the rails of the round pin, pumping his fist in triumph as you and your horse trotted in circles.

Looking over, a grin breaking across your face, you met his own grin. It sent shivers down your spine, blooming in your tummy. You could see it, with that feral grin on his face, you understood what type of man he would be. He truly was a warrior.

He stood behind you when you first attended state meetings with your father, against the wall with the other guards. You had been terrified. You hadn’t known, really, what they were talking about, and you had been scared that they would ask you questions you wouldn’t know the answer to. But Hajime was there, and that made your words a little more steady.

He was eighteen and you fourteen, budding into adolescence, and it seemed to be everyone’s business. He was turning into a man and you couldn’t help but notice, not that you would ever speak of it.

He was leading you horse, walking you around the gardens. He liked to pick and choose when you should be treated as a princess. With swords in your hands he tended to ignore it, but at times like these, you were an heiress and he was an indentured servant.

“I don’t understand”

“It’s a tragedy, it's supposed to make you sad!” You say. “It’s about the ‘what if’s’ and the yearning, you have to focus on the yearning.” You giggle at your words, as you drag out your syllables.

You were telling him about your latest book, and how it had left you heart broken for the two lovers. With bad timing, and greedy people stealing their chances at love, they could never be together.

You always told Hajime about your books, you couldn’t help talking about the ones that you couldn’t get out of your head. He was an amazing listener, and you appreciated him dearly for it. Even though his face would remain blank and his eyes would shift all around you, looking for threats, he would always pay attention.

He scoffed. “ Well, what if I don’t care about yearning, what if they’re just stupid? The answer was right in front of them.”

“That’s not the point Hajime,” you pout.

He scowls up at you, stopping your horse.

“What?” You can’t help but laugh at both of your dramatics.

“Just don’t let me catch you doing anything dumb like that,” he doesn’t let you answer, starting your horse walking again. ¨Idiots.¨

¨Hajime!¨

You appreciate him, in every sense, always protecting you, in body and soul.

He was twenty and you sixteen. Your temper was epic, it shook the stone walls and snapped as easily as the ribbons on your dresses. But your heart was just as easily broken. You were a slave to your emotions and you could feel it, festering in you. You would never let it show to the court, but your family knew, and so did Hajime. There was little left of the girl who used to hide behind skirts.

You didn´t know if it was a gradual process, or if you woke up to it one day, but suddenly you couldn´t stop watching him. You couldn´t stop admiring him. He was so big, and strong, and he made you laugh so hard. His hands were soft, and large. He was smart, catching things you hadn’t in meetings, and his voice would send shivers down your spine when he whispered in your ear, telling you things about the people you were surrounded by. Things that he had learned to keep you safe; precautions. You couldn't stop your cheeks from heating up anymore, they were perpetually flushed, and it was impossible to hold his gaze. Things that wouldn't have mattered before made you stutter. But what set you off, was when you would look up to him, when you expected to meet those cool eyes, they would be somewhere else.

Before, when you had been upset, you would drag Hajime to the training rooms and throw him a sword. He would let you get a few hits in, before winning, of course. But only after you got everything you needed out. He was the cool water to your raging disposition. He had a sternness to him now, even though his fiery character could rival yours sometimes, he knew when to hold back. And when he did, his easy answers and cool voice were equally frustrating as they were calming. You shared more together while in those practice rooms swinging swords than anywhere else. But now you had lost the thing that had made it better.

Now you only saw him when mandatory, behind your throne and next to you at meals. He seemed to be more interested in the guards and other warriors than you, so you ate in silence and read alone at night. You eventually requested a new guard, and your parents said no. You two were friends, and he was sent here for you, that would not be changing overnight. But he didn't feel like your Hajime anymore, your friend or defender. Because he wasn't paying attention to you anymore, not like he was supposed to. Or how you wanted him too.

It made you burn when you looked up and he wasn't looking at you. The embers in your chest that would flare when you didn't get your way, when someone disagreed with you, when Hajime said something brash, were a roaring fire. You didn't understand why things had changed, where it had come from.

You saw it, when his eyes met the older courtiers- well, older compared to you. You saw the eyes of the women on him, how they trailed over his broad back and strong arms. You knew that the lady’s had started taking their walks through the section of the palace they had previously thought of as unpalatable. They would bat their eyelashes and fan their fans in front of them as they walked past the training rooms, hoping to catch Hajime in only a thin damp shirt. It was infuriating.

You took to ignoring him, long lonely months. It was intense, the war between you both, silently throwing glances at each other, both sets of eyes holding promises of worse words to come. He was a weight behind you at all times, dragging your heart deeper into a pit of solitary despair. He left you whenever he could afford, never letting your parents or the other guards see. You were kept safe, but it wasn’t comforting like before. The walks to your rooms after dinner were the worst, the internal battle inside you was tearing you to shreds. Should you talk to him? Confront him? Bear a dagger and rough it out? But he would leave you by your door and walk away before you could decide anything at all.

You had burned too bright, the fire in you now gone. The fury that had kept you warm was nothing but a cold pit in your chest.

You were all alone, every day that knowledge split you open like a cold blade. You were determined to stay away from him, to not bother him, since he obviously didn’t want anything to do with you. But one day, it all became too much.

You had attended a dinner tonight, with a distant royal family. And they had said things to you that they had no right to say. They had spoken as if they had known you. They knew things about you that made your skin crawl. All of those things were somewhat common knowledge, but then they had started making assumptions about you, asking you things that if you were a queen you would have known the answers to. But you weren’t, you were a stupid little princess, with no one. And you felt so small.

The only thing that made it worse was when you realized you were bracing for something. After every one of their comments, you were waiting for one of Hajime's raging blows. For him let his temper go, just a little. To tell them how it was, to defend you. But it didn’t come, you looked over and he wasn’t paying attention. What happened to your warrior? Your watcher? Your protector?

You remembered a conversation between you and Hajime, before. It was late at night, Hajime was laying on the rug in front of your heart, his arm thrown over his eyes. Your book set to the side.

The candles had all burned low, but the fire stood strong. It casted a blood orange glow across half of his body, the other half a stark blue. You didn’t know if he was asleep, and took your time admiring him.

The side away from you, from your vantage point lounging on the couch, was flushed. His mouth was pulled down slightly, but it didn’t scare you. That looked like you’re Hajime, with sharp teeth and a barking laugh. Who felt everything thrown at him.

You didn’t know how he hid it so well, but he really did experience everything; he might conceal it, but it was in there.

You looked at the other side of him, the one in a cold blue light from the moon coming in your windows. You wondered if that was what other people saw, the straight backed man, who knew who he was and what he stood for.

You said his name gently, he grunted in response.

“Do you remember… that tragedy I read years ago, about the two lovers…” you explained a little more, trailing off.

He took a deep breath saying, “ yes, with the idiots.”

You don’t bother hiding your pursed lips before you say, “what… what would you do in their situation, since they’re such idiots.” You pluck at a thread on the couch, not looking at him.

From your peripheral vision you could see him turn his head to look at the flames, and suddenly a wave of anxiety hits you, you're scared to know his real answer, his honest one.

You get up and walk to the window, and the stark difference in temperature makes you shudder. It was starting to snow, just barely. The moon was so bright, causing the gardens below your window to glow. The marble walkways mirroring back the moon.

“I would…” you look back at him, with a hand still on the window sill, and almost gasp. “I would run too, because I wouldn’t know any better, just like them.” He had sat up and turned away from the fire, his whole front blue and cold.

You couldn’t stand the window anymore, and went to sit by the hearth.

You think he’s run. He’s carried himself as far away from you as he can without abandoning his responsibilities. The gap between you is the largest thing you have ever felt. A dark ravine, and on the other side was him, with his back turned to you. Everything is blue, the moon won’t let you forget, it refuses to shroud out the light, so you can’t remain ignorant. You hate it. And every day, you come closer and closer to falling into that deep crack in the earth, reaching out your arms, stretching your fingers, feeling the rocks shift under your feet, pebbles falling into the dark pit, maybe to never hit the bottom.

You couldn’t calm yourself even hours later, your mind would go back to dinner when you tried to read, and you couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, when it was too late to brandish swords or you were too young to hold one, Hajime and you would walk the palace halls. Running from guards not to be caught, jumping on chairs in forgotten sitting rooms, daring each other to grab things from the kitchen. All before putting his grumpy cool mask back on and escorting you back to your rooms. But you never dared walk the halls yourself, you were always too scared. Hajime... Hajime, he would always take you, and make you feel better.

You had been pacing your rooms, trying to find a way to fix your hurt. Trying to come up with any solution. Sitting down on your bed, you put your head in your hands, pleading with the tears not to fall. You wanted him to make you feel better again, you wanted to feel safe with him behind you, not cold and unwanted.

You didn't know what to do, really, you told yourself as you snuck your way into his rooms, holding your breath the whole way there, still scared. Closing the door behind you you leaned against it, and for a moment, it felt like before. He smelled the same and the room was so warm it made you shiver in satisfaction. But he was a warrior, so your moment of peace didn’t last long as he rolled over, almost reaching for a weapon before he realized who you were.

You tried smiling, but seeing him like that, with his dark hair messy, and cheeks ruddy from sleep just hurt you more. You couldn’t stop the quiver in your lip.

“You've been crying,” he said, pushing himself off the bed slightly. You tried not to watch the blanket fall off his shoulders.

Nodding, you turn your head, wiping away tears with your wrist, not looking him in the eyes. You took a moment, trying to calm yourself and almost took a step towards him, but you caught yourself. That made the tears come faster. If things had been like before, you would have ran to him. You won't have hesitated, you wouldn't be bracing for something foul to come out of his mouth.

But those things didn't matter, not when he finally sat up and opened his arms letting you throw yourself at him.

He rocked you back and forth, pulling you onto his lap, cooing at you. “What’s wrong, what’s the matter my princess.” The vibrato in his voice echoed through you, made you want to melt, but it was also painfully familiar.

His kind words only made you cry harder. How long had it been since you had heard him speak to you at all? And it had to have been even longer since he had been kind to you like this, only reserved for when you were totally alone, and desperately in need.

There was so much wrong, but you could only find it in yourself to shrug. He let out a scoff. Pulling you back, you tried to hide your face, but he grabbed your chin to make you look up. He swiped a thumb under your eye, catching a falling tear. You almost smiled at his frown, how you had missed it, when it only promised light scolding, not cruel disregard.

“I j-just... want you t-to m-make me feel better,” the last word comes out in another desperate sob and he pulled you to him again.

He hummed saying, “Don't tell me someone did this to you.”

You shake your head, burying your face in his chest. You didn't want to face the truth, that he had been so neglectful that he really hadn't seen what had happened at dinner.

“Let's get you to bed, okay?”

You desperately nod, you had missed this so much. You had missed his kindness so much. You almost felt like little kids again, and he led you through the dim hallways clutching your hand. Like when you had first met.

You woke up alone.

Cold, sober reality washed over you like water, slithering down your spine. Oh. Things were not back to before. You hated Before, it taunted you. It laughed at you as you broke each time the word crossed your mind. Before was better, the most shining and brilliant version of what you had lost.

He was escorting you across the castle, and you battled with yourself again. Just like always but worse, now that you knew he was still in there. The contrast ached more. You almost didn't say anything, but you passed by a set of windows and happened to look outside.

It was spring, almost summer, and everything was green again. The hills outside rippled as the green grass swayed. Beyond the grass were wildflowers. You wish you and Hajime could ride out there and lay in them. But you couldn't- or, he wouldn’t.

That makes you stop for some reason, and you walk up to the window looking out. He stops too, remaining behind you.

“Hajime,” You say quietly. He doesn't say anything, facing forward.

He wouldn’t look at you. He refused until you grabbed him as hard as you could with your little hands, not holding back when your nails dug into his wrist and forearm.

He tried pulling back, but you wouldn’t let him. Grabbing one of your wrists he made you yield.

“I’m not... we’re not going to talk about this, not yet,” he said the words with shifting eyes, not able to meet yours for too long. “I can’t.”

You had never minded him when he was his serious self, because you would always see the loving side of him eventually. When you were alone, when it mattered. But this, the firm cold shoulder, it wasn’t the protective one you were used to, it was cruel.

“Well,” you spit out, ripping your wrist from his grip, “ when you can finally tell me your secret, it better be important, because right now I don’t appreciate being ignored- ignored and...” you struggled to find the right words, your chin quivering, eyes filling with tears. Unloved? Unprotected?

“Whatever this is,” you gesture at him, the venom in your voice dissipating with each syllable. Until each blink yielded more tears.

¨You´re dismissed,¨ you tell him, you could make it to tea just fine by yourself.

You were furious, angry, livid. The only thing that dosed the ever flaming embers in your chest was the announcement your father made. You had known it was coming, but him telling everyone solidified it.

He had called you and Hajime to his private rooms a few nights before, you two had met in front of the door.

You were to decide which member of your court would take the oath to be your protector and advisor. Everyone knew it was going to be Hajime, but sometimes a ruler didn't have such loyal followers, and they would choose from a selection. But your father wanted to follow tradition and tell you properly. You had come of age, it would be time for you to take up more responsibility, and this was the first step.

You could feel him standing next to you, facing your father and mother where they sat. The emers in you were doused, replaced by a rush of freezing water that contrasted your hot tears. You couldn't imagine spending the rest of your life like this. You would be a horrible queen if this was the future that awaited you.

Before he made his oath to you, there was to be your birthday celebration. A frantic day of eating, receiving gifts and dancing. Who would you dance with?

Tight lipped, you thanked your parents and walked out. You could hear Hajime behind you, and you didn't try to quiet your ragged breathing as the tears flowed.

They had threatened to fall when your father stood up at dinner and told your court.

It was your birthday, you hadn't danced with Hajime, and you always danced with Hajime. Everytime you could, you let your face relax and your smile melted away. You were exhausted. But someone asked you to dance.

The man no older than Hajime, with fluffy brown hair and beautiful brown eyes, asked you with a hypnotizing smile. He spun you around and said the most outrageous things in your ears, you couldn't help the grin that spread across your face.

You would pass a couple and he would share their most treacherous secrets. Nothing too bad, just outlandish enough that you would blush and want to hit him- only lightly.

He asked you again and again, until you finally had to say no, your face was hot, your skin was covered in a layer of perspiration and you were sure that your hair had fallen out of its updo.

You made your way back to your seat on the dais, next to your parents. You didn't realize that Hajime had moved from his spot on the wall, blending in with the other guards, to stand behind you.

Taking a seat, you hear a scoff. Straightening your back you almost don't believe it. Maybe it was the exercise, or the fact that you were feeling loose after laughing so hard. Or maybe it was because you were actually having fun, but you found that tonight- tonight you had energy.

You could feel it in your chest, that scoff has blown a harsh wind over those embers, fanning them a glowing orange.

“Yes, Hajime,” you say, slightly turning your head in his direction. You tried to keep your tone light.

He grunted, not saying anything. You place your hands in your lap. He won't even give you words.

“Tell me,” you say, face blank, friendly tone gone.

“Nothing, Princess.”

How dare he scoff at you and pretend you were the crazy one.

You spun in your seat. There he was, in his nice uniform, with your kingdom's mascot and colors. Your mascot and colors. Your kingdom's mascot and colors. The kingdoms that you would rule, mascot and colors.

The blades strapped around him were intricate; polished and shrap. He looked straight forward, not acknowledging you. He looks good, something inside of your chest whispered, but was whisked away as your eyes caught on the dagger on his belt, with the same color jews as his uniform

You stood up in a flurry, so fast that he only had time to brace himself before you were grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down to your level. Nails digging into him all the while.

“Follow me,” you say through gritted teeth. Pulling back looking him in the eyes, you tell him exactly what he needed to know. It was an order, an order from his future ruler. The exchange was so fast you knew no one would see it.

Spinning on your heel you walked down the dais and straight into the crowd of dancing people as they desperately tried to not step on you.

“Princess,” Your father said from his seat behind you. You knew he was objecting at your rudeness, but you didn't care, the act of disobedience spurring you on. You hear the music halt, only for a second, but you keep moving.

You could feel everyone's eyes on you as you made your way further and further towards the doors out of the hall. Each breath wasn’t enough oxygen, and your vision spotted, but the chills rippling over your skin were addicting.

You knew Hajime was behind you.

You didn't answer any of his furious remarks as you grabbed his forearm, dragging him through the palace. You turned down a certain hall and he stopped talking.

You threw open the doors of the practice hall, letting go of Hajime’s arm. Marching down the long open space, so big it could probably hold dozens of bodies, you open one of the cabinets across from the row of tall windows. The room was dim, and you don´t think of lighting candles.

Selecting two swords, you slide one to him across the floor, to where he stood still at the door. He stopped it carefully with his boot, as it spun towards him.

Looking up from the sword, he says, ”No.”

“Pick up the sword, Hajime,” You say from across the room, sword in your hand. You’re not sure why you threw it at him, he already had one on his hip. Maybe because it was unfair, that he could always have one and you could not.

He scoffed at you, leaving it on the ground.

“Pick it up,” You growled.

He didn't have time to roll his eyes before the twin dagger to the one on his belt landed in the door frame, next to his head.

You watched his eyes flick to your hand, smoothing out your skirts, hiding the slit that led to your thigh. You switched your sword back to your dominant hand, breathing already ragged, not looking away from those sharp eyes as he picked the sword off the ground.

You stayed exactly where you were as he walked towards you.

“You are b-”

“I don't want to hear any of what you have to say about my behavior.”

He rolled his eyes, stopping in front of you, getting into his proper stance. You mimicked him.

“You are being a brat.”

You swing for him, and he easily blocks, sending your sword arcing through the air, still in your hand. He sends a shallow jab at you, which you take a step back from.

“What right do you have judging the people I spend my time with?” You say, jabbing right back at him, which he blocks with a sweep of his sword. “And when am I not?”

You go for his left, which he dodges, and as he came around spinning to face you again, he swung low at the wide skirts of your dress. You hear it rip and feel the cold air hit your calves. Taking two steps back he observes you, lowering his sword, intentions clear.

He thought that would end your little fight.

He thought that the ruining of your dress would make you stop, that you were shallow enough to ask for his mercy just because of a tear in your skirts. It made you furious, knowing he wasn't taking this seriously.

You feint lunging at him, he swung from the right, and you blocked, swords suspended in the air for just a moment.

“Stop it.” You say, voice almost a whisper.

You grunt and pull back. Circling each other, you watch as the moonlight brightens his face. The circling continues, and no words are exchanged, giving you time to think about what had been said, only making you more upset.

You had faults, in moments like these, you couldn't hide your next move, anger making you just want to act. You swing at him, and he blocks. While your sword is up, he takes the chance to roll, and shove you backwards away from him. A dirty trick.

“Stop what?” He says to you, looking at you from where you had stumbled a few steps away, face blank.

You looked at him, with his back to the windows, face shrouded in darkness, and you hated him.

Before you could think about it, before you could flinch and regret your actions, your arms were arching up, throwing your sword across the room. Watching as Hajime involuntarily followed its arch through the air, sinning blade spinning over handle, until it landed in a clatter. You watched him all the while, and saw his shocked expression before he could hide it.

“I am your princess,” You growl, his head snapping back to you.

“I am your princess!” You yell, taking a step towards him, chest pressed to his.

“I am your Princess!” You scream, shoving him backwards toward the large windows.

You pressed against him, leaning him back against the window sill. You stretch to your tiptoes, your hands clutching his shirt as you stare into his eyes. With all the venom you can manage, panting, you say, “I am your princess! I am your princess and you will do as I say!”

“What are you doing?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed. You barely hear his words, or his sword clatter to the ground, your breathing too ragged, your heart beat too loud. You could feel it, in every part of your body, it echoed through you.

And in that moment you can almost see him. That flash in his eyes, that tone of voice, his breath fanning over your face. He was your Hajime, only for a second.

“Stop it,” you say, losing momentum with each word, “stop it.”

He finally tugs himself free, ripping your hands from him. He doesn't let go as he presses you a few steps back and leans down to look into your eyes.

His eyes were dark, and you lost him again, the Hajime you want. You yearned to bang on his chest and beg for him back, but you don't dare break the delicate dance you two were in.

“I see them,” you hiss, trying to get in his face, “I see how they look at you.”

“Who?” He spits.

“Your courtiers.” You say the words as if it's a curse.

He throws your hands down, taking steps to the door, still facing you.

“Nothing?” You ask. “You never have anything to say anymore.”

“Why does it matter?” Squaring his shoulders he looks at you straight on.

“Wh-”

“Why does it matter if they look at me?”

“It- I-”

“Tell me why it matters, Princess, and maybe we can talk. I don't want part in your tantrums.”

You watch him walk away, listening to every fading step, until you only have your breathing to fill the silence.

You couldn’t stop thinking about that night, it made you sick, haunting you with the memories of what you had said to each other.

Maybe you had been wrong. Wrong to order him to follow you, wrong to act so brash, wrong to scream at him, and to accuse him of those things.

You scolded yourself for acting that way, to let your temper control you. It had felt good, until you had crashed.

The option-less future spread in front of you. What would you do? Exhaustion was seeping into you, a new type of tired, one that you would do anything to amend.

If your temper wouldn’t fix your problems, you would have to try something else, even if it burned you from the inside out.

You called him to your rooms, something you had never done before. There was no need to call upon each other, you always knew where the other was

Hajime found you in the chair in the corner, the one he used to stay in; you rarely used it.

The last rays of evening sunlight were shining in your windows, cascading over your body.

Your face was illuminated by the sun, every beautiful line and imperfection was open in the light. It made you glow, like you should have been kept in a painting so you could be adored forevermore. You were golden, hair caught fire, glowing like a beacon of truth. The heir of an empire, the hope of thousands.

“Majesty,” he bowed, something he had only done a handful of times, for special occasions. It felt forgien and stiff doing it there.

“Iwaizumi” you said, it sounded like a song, a sigh and a prayer and a plea. But it wasn’t right.

When was the last time you had called him that? Never, a furious voice in the back of his mind told him.

“It’s almost time for me to choose.”

He stood up straighter, meeting your eyes for the first time. There wasn’t that look in them like before, of hurt and hardness. Determination that you would power through. It was just a fact.

It was almost time for you to choose the person of your court to swear a never ending bond with. To protect each other, in body and soul, to in turn protect your kingdom.

You looked down at your hands, and he was compelled to take a step forward to make sure he heard you, but not too close. He had a feeling that if he took another step he would see your red rung eyes, and he didn’t want to think about that.

“I want it to be you… I'm sorry for that night, for yelling, and trying to cut you into pieces. But…” You take a deep breath and look out the window. “ I don’t know what’s changed, and I’m so sorry for how I’ve acted, and whatever I’ve done, but I want it to be you”

With those last words you looked him in the eyes. The anger was gone, and all he saw was a tired princess. His tired princess. You didn’t break his gaze, not saying anything more .

He almost wanted to question you, the maturity in your words shocking. But he stayed quiet; that wasn’t his place anymore.

You had said your peace, he knew, as he looked into your eyes, with your face passive. It was his turn now, to come to you and bear his teeth, to gouge the hurt out of his chest in to lay it bare for both of you.

Hajime had a memory he kept close to him, right on his hip. He might have kept it on his ribs, the ones that protected his heart, if that was where you kept daggers.

It was the winter solstice celebration from years before. Hajime and you were in your parents' private rooms, giving gifts.The two of you sat on the floor next to the fire, with your parents on the couch in front of you.

“Now this one is for both of you.” Your mother explained, handing you both identical boxes. “Open them at the same time.”

You gave Hajime one look before tearing into yours. He didn’t get to see your reaction as he worked on delicately undoing the ribbons, but he heard your gasp.

Resting in your hands was an exquisite, shining dagger. You gently held it up, and both your heads turned in to stare at it.

“Oh my…” You gawked.

Hajime went back to his gift and opened it to an identical dagger. Twins.

He held his up, and you two compared.

They had blades of shimmering silver, with curved tips that looked sharp enough to split hairs. The handles were of matching silver formed into delicate patterns, inland with jewels that matched your kingdom's colors. The metal reflected the light of the fire behind you, flickering gold and orange, like the blades held the sun.

Looking up to your parents your father explained. “I had those made for the two of you.”

You waited, but that was all he offered. Hajime watched you balance the dagger in your hand, turning it over and examining it.

“They’re beautiful.” You say.

“I would hope that you don’t use them on each other, and only wear them for celebrations, but I doubt that is something that will happen.”

Hajime chuckled, looking down at his own dagger. The king might not have said it, but he had a feeling he knew what the daggers were for.

They were the two of you. Cut from the same stone, at each other with blades as sharp as diamonds, all while in your shining castle.

They were to remind you where you came from, that you two were one in the same, and that you were to work together. Much better to mar an enemy with the same blade than have the one that matches your in your gut.

“Thank you,” he said.

Hajime looked at you, and you were smiling. Leaning over, your grin was feral, and he couldn’t help the electricity that went down his spine.

“Do you know what this means?” You ask. “I need to get my dresses tailored.”

Hajime ruffled your hair, but your smile was burned into his memory. One in the same. Maybe his future queen really would be as strong as him.

Hajime could learn to like that.

Hajime was trained by your father and his men to be a warrior. Your warrior. While you were trained in how to fight men across oceans and continents, he was taught how to fight men with steel and teeth. You did give him a run for his money when you brawled, but he knew that he would never want to be facing you in a killing field, with an army at your disposal.

Your cleverness was beyond him, not that you would ever give yourself credit for it. But you were still young, and when he caught something that you had missed in meetings or conversations, the sparkle in your eye, the way he knew you were in awe of him, was addictive.

In all honesty, Hajime wasn’t your only lover, or admirer, you had many. Your parents were kind to you, your father could often be found making you giggle, especially when you were seated next to him at meetings. Your mother and you discussed books and music. You would often receive compliments from your father’s advisors and friends, which always made you blush in thanks. And your mothers lady’s loved to give you advice about clothes and any romantic endeavors you might go one. Not that there were many. The boys liked winking at you, and making you blush. Hajime tried his best to keep that to a minimum. Your court did love you, they loved the princess that was bashful and kind, but had the cleverest ideas at council meetings. You were the beautiful shining light, in your beautiful shining castle, and you would keep your court strong.

Those were all things that Hajime knew well. Painfully well. Because he was always the first to notice. He had seen how they all cared and vowed to make sure that you would stay that way, that you were protected and cared for. So your light never went out, so your kingdom was always strong. He would do what he must, he would not let your court fall.

So when he had looked at you and the light in your eyes had changed, he felt responsible.

It wasn’t a bad change, just different. It only took him a short amount of time to pinpoint what it was.

He couldn’t love you, not like that. He couldn’t let himself break you, because he knew he’d manage somehow, he was always a little heavy handed.

What protector would he be if he broke your heart? If he was the first one to weaken you? To welcome you into the cruel world you would be entering, of choosing the best of horrible options, of lying and deceiving? He would not be the one to welcome you to that.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe you could take it. He wouldn’t be the one introducing you to the hurt, he could be the one to guide you through it.

He was surprised when he found you, always too afraid to wander the place at night. You were in a sitting room, long forgotten by the court, locked away and covered in sheets.

It was one of the rooms you would play in as children, with the furniture pushed to one corner; each and every one of the walls between the tall windows was covered in paintings.

By now both of you had them memorized, whether that be by sunlight, candle light or moon light, both of you knew each of them well.

You were only looking at one, standing right in front of it, your favorite painting of them all.

Hajime watched you, in the light of the moon, stare at the picture. Your profile was perfectly outlined by the stark light.

“Tell me about her again,” he asked, voice carrying across the room.

You spare him a glance before turning back to the painting.

You take a step closer and take a breath. “Her name was Kiyoko.”

You bring your hand up, and with only a finger you delicately trace the frame.

“She was the most beautiful woman in the land, and the man who painted her was in love with her, but there were few who weren’t.”

Hajime didn’t have to see the picture to know what it looked like, he had spent plenty of time looking at it with you. The girl was beautiful, with silky black hair, pale skin, and eyes that felt like they knew all, like they were windows into the fiercest storm.

He knew the curve of her lips and the mole on her chin, and the pastel color of her dress. She was framed in a sea of greenery; plants, grass and trees all around her. Despite her pale dress and cool eyes she was surrounded by orange flowers, and in the corner of the painting, were perched crows.

He wasn’t sure what made you stare at that painting like you did. Like you could see details that weren’t there. You had always said that when you looked at it, you longed for the frame to expand, for the picture to grow wider, to see what she saw.

You also had a thousand questions for her, you wanted to know her as intimately as you knew her face. But she never answered, staring back with those eyes, until only Hajime was left to answer your questions.

“She was loved by everyone, it was said that you would be blessed if she acknowledged you, and if she spoke to you, you were destined for the most devine heaven.” You move your finger from the frame to the painting, looking like you would touch it, but you don’t, only coming infinitely close.

“She married the man she loved, and had a laugh that sounded like bells.” You bring your hand down and step back from the painting.

“You would be her most devoted admirer.” Hajime said.

“I already am,” you smile looking down at your hands, “but I think she would have deserved a beautiful friendship.”

It wasn’t a real story, her name was Kiyoko, that was the name of the painting, but each time you told it, it was different.

Looking up to reply to Hajime, you met his eyes. On his face was a smile that delicately curved, turning his mouth up.

That smile… the curve of his mouth, the sharp teeth behind it. It made your knees week, the relief of seeing it again.

He took steps towards you, until you were standing shoulder to shoulder looking at her again.

“What do the crows mean,” he asked, encouraging you to keep going.

You take a moment before answering. “They’re her other admirers, only to ever love her from afar.”

He hummed, and you swear you could feel it in your bones.

You turn to look at him, right in the eyes.

“It matters… it mattered because you weren’t looking at me.”

He tried to speak, but you stopped him. “No, listen to me.”

He wouldn’t look away from your eyes, face cool.

“I couldn’t- can’t- you just… you weren’t looking at me, and I didn’t know what to do. It’s unbearable.” Your words were so quiet, always so quiet in moments like these

It seemed like he couldn’t bear to break the silence as he said with narrowed eyes. “You think I don’t know, that I didn’t see?”

“You won’t break me Hajime,” you say with a scoff. He almost flinced, coming close but stopping. Like you had seen right through him when he wasn’t expecting.

“You don’t know that,” he hissed, “I know, saw it, everything, and I made that decision. I won’t be the one to introduce you to that, to be the first one to hurt you.”

He spoke with his hands, and you watched them as they moved. They were so wide, well taken care of, you remember them being softer than expected.

“You’re supposed to protect me,” you grit through your teeth. You don’t know if he can tell how flushed you are, but you know he can see the silver lining your eyes.

“H-how am I supposed to protect this kingdom, t-this court without you! I can’t do it without you.”

“You’ll do just fine,” he said, standing up straighter.

“Don’t say that! Why would you- why would you say something like that.”

It was getting hard to get the words out, every time he spoke you ached more and more.

He was panting, like those words had winded him. His face was hard, unyielding. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and covered your wobbling mouth. A sick imitation of a comforting embrace

He didn’t know what to do. His princess was shattering right in front of him and there was nothing he could do.

There was no one to point a blade at, no where to keep you safe. Looking at the tears in your eyes, he knew that this had been happening for a while. You were begging him to take his words back, any of them, but he wouldn’t let himself.

Hajime resisted the urge to look down at his hands. He’d always been heavy handed, that's what he had said to himself. He was trying to shield you, gods-dammit, but those hands had done more harm than good when it really mattered.

All he could do was watch you crumble in on yourself, while he stood feet away.

He was clueless. He always knew what to do. Your faithful, balanced Hajime was at a loss.

You could see it, you blinked and you were there. No longer in that moon-bathed room, but outside, children again.

How old were you? Nine? Eleven? How old was he? Thirteen? Fifteen? You were just children; the same as always. Had you even grown up, were you always clutching each other like this? So dependent yet so unaware of each other?

You had never seen him like this, he lived with a sword in his hand and a shield on his back. His upper lip stiff, his will unmoving.

But the man standing in front of you was desperate, with his hands splayed in front of him, like they would burn you if he got too close.

Why couldn’’t you just say it, why were you two always dancing around it? Your own choreography, your own sacred, unique steps.

“I’m tired,” you say, shoulders dropping, eyes lifting to the ceiling.

“I am too,” Hajime admitted.

You closed your eyes tight, feeling more tears fall from your lashes. And when you opened them again, you were met with steel. Not like the steel of blades, but unforged steel, ready to be shaped, reborn.

Looking into those eyes, the irises that framed hurricanes, it felt like those roaring winds blew right through you. Breathing life into you, fanning your flames. Maybe she could answer just one question for you.

This is the last time, you vowed to yourself, no matter how it ends.

Hajime didn’t ask questions as you dragged him through the palace, his presence giving you a little more confidence than before.

Up and up you went, just when he thought you were done taking him up stairs you found another set, and headed right to the top. You only felt him hesitate once, but you didn’t look back, and he followed. You made it to the top. A tower that was once a sentries station.

“How did you… isn’t there someone working here?” Hajime asked.

You didn’t have to look at him to see the crease in his brow. “No, there’s no need to have anyone up here.”

Your kingdom had been peaceful for years, if any attacks were to come, they would not be so often as to need guards on the lookout every day. Hajime knew that, so you followed. “I haven’t been sleeping, so I’ve just been walking around at night… and I wound up here.”

He didn’t say anything, but you knew what he was thinking. You never walked alone, the fact that you had been in that sitting room tonight was shocking. But you? Wondering up here?

On one hand, you hoped that he was feeling guilty. On the other, you felt horrible for tearing him up like that. But you knew that was how he was feeling, he wouldn’t push it to the side this time. Not with it spelled out in front of him.

Crossing his arms and leaning back, he gave you a look of disapproval, but you were no stranger to those cunning eyes. You tried not to dwell on the picture before you, slowly focusing into something- someone you recognized.

You walked up to the window, leaning against it, staring at the slowly brightening horizon.

“Just tell me why.” Was all you said.

Hajime stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with you, hand on the cool window sill. The warmth that encompassed Hajime's side almost made him purr, you were so close.

He took a moment to look at the view, the mountains in the distance, silhouetted by the rising sun. The dark sky was slowly becoming a splash of deep colors.

“I don’t just protect you, your life isn't your own. What I do affects you, what I see keeps you safe. What I let you do… it could change so much. If I stumble, if I overlook something- so much is at steak. And I know what you were thinking when you looked at me.” He paused as you nodded, and watched your eyes move from the horizon to the city nestled below the palace. “So I stopped, and you were pissed.”

“I’ll be disappointed if you say you didn’t see that coming.”

“Well, it worked to my advantage… until you woke me up that night…”

Your smile melted, but you didn’t say anything. Maybe he was bracing for something, that crackling irritation he was used to. But it didn’t come.

Hajime stiled. Maybe this wasn’t him talking to his princess anymore, as you listened, as he spoke, he realized it was his queen in front of him.

“You hurt me. You were mine and then suddenly you weren’t.” He sat there and listened as your voice cracked

“I’m sorry”

You turned to look at him. “You can’t break me that easy Hajime, we’re one and the same, in sword and devotion. I want you at my back, I want you protecting me. I need you to want the same. I thought- I thought we agreed on that. So please… let me choose you.”

“Please let me be your princess, please let me choose you, I want you to protect me, the right way.”

With you next to him he could see the sunlight reflected in your eyes, how it made them sparkle, how the roofs of your city seemed to wink up at you with the last slivers of moon light. Telling him how much hope they had for you, how they knew that their princess would keep them safe.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

With that admission, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing him as hard as you could. You took a few breaths before pulling back, still keeping your arms around him, looking into his eyes.

“Let me be your princess Haji, please.” It was like you were looking for something in his eyes, not breaking the connection.

“Always,” he whispered, leaning closer, not looking away.

“But you aren’t my princess.” He watched your eyes flutter and he drew closer and closer, wrapping his arms around you, keeping you right against him. “You're my queen.”

He met your lips, and you were the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He didn’t think he could ever forgive himself if he made you feel like you had again.

And as the sun created the mountains, and it's morning rays illuminated you and Hajime, he knew that his hands might have broken you, but they had also put you back together.

Pulling away from Hajime, you try not to look as out of breath as you felt. You stared into his slate eyes and felt like he had never left, that the time between you that had hurt you was just a memory, a distant past.

They say you can’t remember pain. Maybe its to give you the courage to forgive, to be able to try again.

You watched his mouth as he said, “I'm a fool.”

“Then that would make me a fool too,” you muse, tone playful.

“No,” he said, shaking his head slightly, furrow in his brow. “We can’t have a queen who's a fool.”

“Then what am I?”

“An idiot,” you watched his mouth as he said it. His smile was crooked, like he was trying to hide it.

“Like the lovers,” You breathe, your own smile spreading across your face.

“Like the lovers,” he repeated.

The word lovers echoed in your head when you decided you wanted to kiss him again.

With each breath, you felt the embers inside of you cool to ashes, blowing in the wind like ash.

You might have lied, that night wouldn't be your last fight, but it would never be like that ever again.

Hajime and you were once again in the practice hall, but this time things were different. You were both giddy, as the early morning sun glinted in your eyes. You tumbled and swung your swords at each other, but this time it was laughter shared between you, not savage words.

You felt like you two were dancing again. With your dress whispering around your legs, and the dagger that matched Hajimes visible around your hip, you felt like you had that night as children, when Hajime first taught you to laugh.

You weren’t upset, or nervous this time, as you gave each other bruises and sore shoulders. Because later that morning at the ceremony you knew who would be standing next to you, with his back straight and his shoulders down. Your fiercest warrior and most devoted lover.

#hajime iwaizumi #hajime iwaizumi x reader #hajime iwaizumi x you #haikyuu!!#haikyu x reader #hajime imagines #hajime x reader #hq iwaizumi #iwaizumi x y/n #iwazumi x reader #iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi fanfic #iwaizumi imagine #iwaizumi haijime x reader #iwazumi hajime #iwazumi x you #my stuff #my wriring

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gallickingun · 4 years

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legacy || dragon prince!kirishima

SUMMARY: After an arranged marriage to the Prince of Dragons, Kirishima Eijirou, you decide you do not want to live your life in a loveless relationship, so you attempt to get to know him. After some time, you realize that he was keeping something very important from you. How are you supposed to help him if he won’t come clean?

PAIRING: Dragon Prince!Kirishima x Princess!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: language, smut, breeding kink (so much breeding), etc. WORD COUNT: 13.5k+

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

Author’s Note: This is a prompt fill for THESE prompts that I just couldn’t chill out with. I didn’t want this to get confused with @makoodles Dragon Dick Kiri! This Kirishima has normal anatomy 👀 but go give her’s a read as well, it’s so frickin’ good.

༶•┈⛧ ┈♛ ♛ ┈⛧┈•༶

An arranged marriage to the Prince of Dragons wasn’t how you saw the start of the rest of your life going.

You expected to have more time before you would be called to responsibility, to the throne, to your people. You wanted to live your life, to frolic through the meadows and taste the sweet mead drinks the cooks are always going on about. You wanted to be free.

You did not want to find yourself forced into a white dress, a bunch of flowers in your hand, as you recite the sacred betrothal vows to a man you’ve never met before.

His name is Kirishima Eijirou.

At least he’s handsome.

And beyond his good looks, Kirishima has a charming air about him as well. He is kind to all the servants and never asks for their help unless it’s entirely required. He even goes so far as to request separate bedrooms for the two of you, knowing exactly what might be expected of you if you were to sleep together.

When you approached him about it, he bowed his head, “I know that you did not enter this matrimony by choice, milady. I would hate to force you into anything you did not ask for.”

You would be lying if you denied that your heart skipped a beat.

Kirishima makes himself useful around the castle, tending to the gardens with the other landscapers, using his enhanced strength and hard, scaly skin to chop down trees and uproot stumps. He even brings the ladies in the kitchen spices from other parts of the kingdom and animals that the other hunters had not been able to slay.

His fierce instincts and amazing strength have made him quite the match for the kingdom; almost as if he were exactly what you needed. The citizens have never been more excited for a new king to rise, practically salivating as Kirishima passes through the town on his daily walks. You watch on from your tower window, leaning over the edge of the cobblestone to squint as you make out his bulky frame mounting a horse and exiting the castle gates.

Many a night passes and you feel uneasy at the distance between you. He is your husband, and yet you are sure that you have not had a conversation lasting more than a few syllables with him. You are sure that even the commoners know him better than you do.

Everyone in the kingdom adores Kirishima, although they could care less for the mouthy knight he’s brought along with him. A blonde, stout man you’ve come to know as Bakugou Katsuki. He is Kirishima’s protector and right-hand, following him around like a shadow, throwing his opinions and criticisms out with little care to the sensitive ears they may fall upon.

“Bakugou?” you ask one afternoon, crossing your arms as you stand beside him, Kirishima helping to dig trenches using his scaled, hardened hands. You tilt your head to consider the blonde, your irises finding a crimson color, harsh and unbending, much unlike your betrothed’s warm gaze, “Does Kirishima care for me?”

His throat bobs and a strangled sound comes from it, “Excuse me?”

“Kirishima keeps his distance from me,” you muse, licking your lips as you turn from him to focus on the man you find yourself fascinated with even more as each day passes. “I just want to know if he is uncomfortable around me.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You unceremoniously smack his arm, “Stop being belligerent and answer me!”

“Bloody hell,” Bakugou takes a step away from you, “yes, Kirishima is uncomfortable around you, but not for the reason you think, wench.”

Your narrowed eyes spur him to speak again, “He thinks fondly of you, if that’s what you wish to know. Eijirou just has a strange way of showing it. Now, can we please stop talking about this emotional shit?”

There is no answer from your lips, only the absence of your presence at his side. Bakugou huffs out a relieved sigh and watches as you hitch your skirt up and run towards his friend and ruler. He shakes his head when you stumble into Kirishima’s arms, rolling his eyes as he begins his afternoon patrol of the grounds.

“Whoa,” the prince’s arms are sturdy as he catches you before you can face plant into the trench he’s dug, “are you okay?”

Your body relishes in the warmth he provides, fingers clinging onto his shoulders, feeling the ridges of the hard, corded muscle beneath you, “Y-Yes, I am fine! I need to ask you something, though.”

“Yes, Princess?” Kirishima, ever the gentleman, holds you steady, guiding you back to some sense of normalcy. He is fighting a smile at your bedraggled appearance, the corners of his lips twitching as he looks down his nose at you, the black metal guard around his face making his features even more sharp.

The core of you churns with molten lava at the sight of his handsome features, the tendrils of smoke from the sloshing heat curling up your throat until it forces your mouth open, “W-Would you like to go for a picnic?”

Kirishima has never looked more surprised and amused. His hand absentmindedly rubs over your elbow and bicep, sending small jolts of electricity through to your bones until you can feel them rattling around in the cage of your body. He stutters when he speaks, “A-A picnic? As in, eating together? A-Alone?”

“Yes,” you flush, your cheeks burning brightly at the confession, “I think we’ve earned a little time away, don’t you think?”

His face goes the same color as his hair, his pink tongue passing over his lower lip as he considers you, shifting uncomfortably from foot-to-foot as he chooses his words wisely, “Princess, you don’t have to humor me. I know my place.”

“Your place is with me,” you bolster your spine so you can look him in the eyes, barely distracted by the small scales that cover his temples and jawline. “And I want to know my husband. Is that a crime? Shall you have me thrown in the dungeon?”

The black pupils in the center of his orbs dilate, his shoulders shifting as he considers your words and your tone. Kirishima shakes his head after he’s processed what you’re saying, taking a step closer so your chest almost brushes his when you take heaving breaths, “No, I think it sounds like a wonderful idea. How does veal and fruit sound?”

“Like heaven.”

It is not much later in the afternoon when Kirishima stops by the stables to collect you, a woven wicker basket cradled in one of his hands, full to the brim with a plethora of things hidden under the lid. He packs the basket and a few blankets onto the backside of the horse that he brought with him when he merged his belongings with yours. He pats the horse’s backside, “All right, Red. Be nice. This is the princess you’re carrying.”

You laugh, covering your mouth with your palm as you step forward. Your free hand brushes over Red’s snout and down her mane, “And that’s the prince, you know. Precious cargo.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got my thick skin,” he shrugs, reaching out a hand for you to take, “plus Red knows I’m the one with the sugar cubes, so she’ll be sweet on me.”

Your palm rests in his as you stride towards him, the proximity of your bodies now intoxicating as his natural heat radiates between the two of you. The base of your throat bobs as emotion gathers in your esophagus, cutting off your breathing. Your eyes flutter somewhere between open and closed when you try to look at him directly, unable to focus when he’s so close to you.

Kirishima is no small man, your eye-level meeting his collarbones. His hands dwarf yours easily, his stout body thick with muscle and sinew, dense bones holding him together. You suppose it’s thanks to his animalistic ancestry.

Each kingdom descended from some form of ancient animal, and Kirishima’s was the dragons. And so, he inherited the qualities of that very beast, starting with his intense body heat and the scales that litter his skin in small patches. They are black in color at a first glance, but when he shifts beneath the sunbeams, you notice they have a red iridescence to them. You are thankful to find that he has no tail or snout, saving those features for a much more human-looking set.

Kirishima rests his palms on your hips, almost able to wrap his digits completely around the circumference of your waist as he hoists you onto his horse. His quaking digits roam down the thick of your thigh, thumbs brushing up against the skin to treasure it. You have to stop yourself from keening into his touch, seeming desperate, by white knuckling your hands around the saddle.

He clambers up after you, slinging one leg before propping himself up to rest behind you. Leaning forward, he grabs the reigns, his chest pressing firmly into your back. You force yourself to regulate your breathing, the scent and feel of him making your head dizzy. Kirishima scoots forward and the curve of his crotch is pressing into your spine as he spurs Red forward with a gentle slap of the reigns.

You squeal, your hands instinctively reaching out to wrap around his forearms, the tips of your fingers dragging over the dark scales he sports at the junctures of his arms. His muscles twitch under your touch and your breath hitches. The bottom of his chin is hovering just above your shoulder, his cheek threatening your personal space while his chest falls flush with your back, “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah, sorry,” you manage an awkward laugh, blinking to clear your vision. “Sorry, I just wasn’t ready.”

Kirishima holds the reigns in one hand, using the other to wrap around your waist, effectively silencing you as your heart beats heavy in your chest, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

It is easy to melt back into him, a shuddering breath making your shoulders shake. You rest your hands over the top of his thick arm, thumbs finding his veins and bones to trace while you wait for your end destination to come in sight. You avoid paying too close attention to the ebony scales that glimmer in the afternoon sun, shifting from black to red when you look acutely.

The sun is setting when he finally stops Red at the edge of a lake, golden glow shining from the surface of the water and making it difficult to see. Kirishima helps you down before grabbing the picnic basket and tying Red up around the trunk of a tree. In the meantime, you work at setting out the blanket on the ground, tugging out the corners so it’s fully splayed open.

Conversation flows easy for the two of you as you lay out on the ground, face turned toward the sun as is sinks lower in the afternoon sky. You close your eyes and drink in the sunbeams, your hands tucked behind your head. Kirishima is waving his hands around, holding grapes between one set of fingers and a slice of bread in the other.

You laugh, a full-bellied giggle that you have not felt in what seems like years. When the laughter settles, you turn your head to see Kirishima already looking down at you, a soft but sad expression tugging on his features. You tilt your head, blinking a few times before asking him, “What is on your mind?”

“Why are you doing this?” he blurts unabashedly.

The inside of your mouth turns to ash, as if you’ve licked the inside of the oven and can’t get the taste off of your tongue. You swallow the growing lump in your throat and reach a hand up to rub at your face as nerves start to eat away at your belly.

“Can a princess not have a picnic with her husband?” Your voice has risen an octave and it’s obvious he notices because he leans in further, as if silently asking you to further explain. You huff, rolling your eyes, “I just want to get to know you, Kirishima. If we’re to be wed for the rest of our lives, don’t you think we should learn a little about one another?!”

Kirishima sits up straighter, his eyes unable to find a part of you to focus on as his gaze wanders. You turn on your side, reaching out to press your palm to his thigh, but he halts you with his warm touch and saddened words, “I assumed you would have nothing to do with me. Arranged marriages aren’t usually filled with companionship.”

You lean forward, your mouth against his knuckles as you exhale, “I think we’d like each other if we had the chance, arranged marriage or not.”

A silence hangs in the air, Kirishima’s hand heavy beneath yours. You feel the muscles in his leg twitch as your thumb brushes down over his shin. It’s like you are waiting sparks to ignite in midair and take the both of you down, the imminent danger of his response sending a burning chill down your spine. You fear you may have misjudged him, or perhaps his companion misspoke with the intent to turn the two of you against one another.

“Kirishima,” you try again, sitting up on your knees so you can look him in the eyes much easier, “listen, I-”

His thumb against your lower lip gives you pause, your eyes crossing as you try to look down at the offending digit. Kirishima looks up at you, a glimmer in his vermilion irises, “I want you to call me Eijirou.”

Your heart stops beating within your chest at the admission of his given name. You had heard Bakugou say it, and of course when you learned who you would be marrying, you were informed of the nomenclature. However, you never assumed that you would be gifted the privilege to use it so soon.

“Eijirou,” you test it out on your tongue, rolling the name around like honey, “I like that.”

A smile tugs on the corners of his lips and you see the faintest brush of dimples. You lean your body forward to press a kiss to his cheek, just barely brushing the corner of his mouth, “Nice to meet you, Eijirou. I’m your wife.”

He chuckles, reaching out to shake your hand, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. How do you do?”

“I’d be doing much better with some berries between my teeth,” you lean back, brushing your thumb over the back of his palm, “but I’m doing just fine, now that I’ve got you.”

The smile on Kirishima’s face puts the sunshine to shame.

༶•┈⛧┈♛ ♛┈⛧┈┈•༶

It had been months since that picnic by the lake, and you and Kirishima had grown rather close. He chases your lips behind closed doors and your hands are insatiable as they roam his body beneath his tunic. You know the taste of his skin by heart, and he knows the innermost parts of you better than you do.

So him pulling away now has you perplexed.

You pace back and forth in front of his private chambers, the place where he is allowed to go when he needs to contemplate war plans and farming plots and taxation of the citizens. However, he has been holed up behind the thick wooden door for six days straight, and you know that something is wrong.

Bakugou is posted up in front of the door, a mess of limbs as he whittles away at a slab of wood, working on turning it into something much more intricate. His head raises so he can roll his eyes at your unease, “Relax, Princess. He’ll be out of there in another week or two.”

“What does that even mean?!” you snap, your eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. You feel yourself breaking from the inside out – you thought you had made so much progress, that maybe you and Kirishima were really moving forward, learning how to co-habitate and rule together. Your voice is crazed and you throw your palms face-up towards the knight, “Weeks? This is absurd!”

You narrow your eyes at the door like it has wronged you, keeping you from your lover, and you are barreling towards it before Bakugou can stop you.

“Eijirou!”

Bursting through the door, you’re surprised to find that he is not sitting at his desk, pouring over world maps and charts. Rather, he’s not anywhere to be seen at all. You shut and lock the door behind you just as Bakugou has gotten to his feet, narrowing your eyes at him as it clicks shut.

You hear a whimpering sound off in the distance, and you follow it.

There is a secluded area you know is hidden behind the bookshelf – a secret room built by your father so he can escape even the already secretive confines of his study. You pull the familiar lever at the base of the bookcase and the entire structure begins to shudder as the door is opened. A familiar head of red hair is lowered, his chin to his chest as sobs rack his body, broad shoulders shaking as he sniffles.

“Eiji?” your voice is quiet, afraid to disrupt the moment. He is bare at the torso, his hands cradled in front of him, but you can only make out the muscled expanse of his back, “Eijirou, why are you-”

“I-I didn’t want you in here,” he mumbles through labored breaths. When he turns his head you can make out the glistening tears running down his face, “Y-You smell so strongly and I don’t know if I can control myself.”

“Excuse you?” Your voice is more of a bark than a question, stepping further into the small space so you’re stood beside him, “I smell? You could have just told me, for Christ’s sakes, Eiji-holy shit.”

Your eyes are drawn to the center of his hips, where he’s currently cradling his cock between his hands. The head of it is engorged and blushed, leaking pearlescent fluid that leaks down the shaft, coating one of the more prominent veins on the underside. Your throat bobs at the sight of him, taking in his girth with your own two eyes, trying to rationalize why you’d never seen his lower body without clothing until just now.

“I-I’m sorry, listen, it’s just…” Kirishima is in tears, his voice strained as he stands to his feet, “I-I’m in a fucking rut and it’s horrible and you shouldn’t have to witness it, let alone be a part of it. I wanted to wait it out in here so I could stay away from you.”

You step closer to him, your hands hovering in midair as you’re not sure which part of him to grab for first. Your entire anatomy is on fire at the visual of his thick cock leaking pre and throbbing with the need to spill his seed. The base of him leads way to a set of weighty balls, and you can only imagine the sheer amount of come that he has stored up in them.

“Stay away from me? Eiji,” you whisper, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He recoils, another sniffle as he turns his head, but you persist regardless, “Am I not your wife? Is this not my job?”

He stands to his feet, his trousers taut against his thighs as he tries to pull them back up his legs, “Exactly! This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you! It’s not a job, Princess, nothing in this realm should ever feel like a job. It should be fun, and I can promise you this won’t be fun for you.”

“Rut?” you redirect the conversation, coming to stand in front of him with your hand on his wrist to keep him from pulling his pants back over his cock. “Wh-Tell me what that means, exactly?”

Kirishima inhales deeply, his chest expanding, and then reaches down to take his dick in his hand, stroking it once to show you the length of it, “It’s whatever part of me is intertwined with dragon, I have these annual cycles where I’m drawn to my-fuck, this is so strange to say out loud-my mate.”

You want to reach down to hold his throbbing length in your hands but the look in his eyes says that he isn’t done. Kirishima gulps as he looks across at you, glittering ruby eyes filled to the brim with emotion, “It’s a mating cycle, outside of that I’m not really sure. I go into a rut for a couple of weeks each year, ever since I went through the change, and my body has this intense desire to impregnate a mate.”

The talk coming from him is oddly arousing, and you find yourself growing slick between your thighs. You hover closer to him now, the head of his cock brushing up against your belly as your hands start to roam over his bare chest, “Please, show me what you need, whatever it is, and I’ll help you. You’re in pain, Eijirou.”

He winces on cue, turning his head before you can see the extent of his discomfort. Kirishima shakes his head, “Listen, I-I’ve been doing this alone for years, I can handle it.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to!” You try and reason with him, reaching up to take his cheeks in your hands, redirecting his attention, “I’m your wife, Eijirou.”

A tear wells up in either of his eyes, making his irises look like they are glittering in the candlelight of the secret room, “Yes, but you’re not my mate.”

Those few words topple you over like a horse has just run over your chest. The breath has been knocked out of you, stolen from your lungs, and you take a step back to steady yourself before you fall. Kirishima’s eyesight falters as he realizes what he’s just said, but he makes no move to correct himself. Rather, he stands taller, straightening his spine like he’s ready to go to war, to lead thousands of men into a battle he’s not sure he can win.

You have a choice to make now – you can stand here and fight, or you can flee through the secret passage and hide in your own chambers until his rut is over.

“Eijirou,” you grit your teeth, tears flowing down your cheeks, and look him in the eyes, “I’m not leaving you.”

Fight it is, then.

Kirishima looks stunned, so you take advantage of his stillness to rush at him, cupping his face with your hands and bruising his lips in a kiss. His hips roll forward and his cock is sheathed between your thighs, so you squeeze yourself tight around him, grabbing at his wrists before he can pull himself away. The whimper he lets loose from his mouth is wanton, his body practically shivering with the need to swallow you whole.

You kiss him until he’s shaking, his hands white-knuckled as he bars himself from grabbing every inch of your body like his primal nature pushes him to. When you pull away from him, you look up into his eyes and see hesitation keeping his pupils dilated to where you can still make out his crimson irises.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I-I can’t do that to you, not now, not when I think-”

He stops himself before he finishes his sentence, but in your heart, you know what he’s going to say. You smile, praying that he receives some warmth and comfort from the gesture, and brush your thumbs against his wrists where you hold his hands by his sides, “You won’t hurt me. I trust you.”

It’s as if he’s resigned himself to this truth, that you will not leave unless he forces you, and he does not believe that it’s his place to coerce you into doing anything you haven’t already decided for yourself. Kirishima stands tall and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as if taking in the moment. You hear him count a few numbers in an ancient dialect before he peels back his lids and his darkened eyes meet yours, lust swirling around like thunderclouds and his irises have deepened to a maroon shade.

“Are you sure?” he asks, one final time, hands still by his sides, “Once we start, I might not be able to stop.”

That sentence alone is enough to send a chill down your spine.

You nod, trying not to seem too eager by keeping your feet flat to the ground, “Yes, Eijirou, please. I want you to do whatever you need to, please use me.”

The sound of your voice so willing and wanton makes Kirishima’s blood run hot in his veins, thudding against his ears until he can hardly hear anything else. He steps forward, his chest flush with yours, and his shaking hands finally make contact with your body.

He is insatiable when he finally grabs a hold of you, palming at you like an animal. Kirishima captures your mouth in a searing kiss, moaning as soon as your lips part in a gasp. He backs you into the desk he was sitting against when you first came in, your ass knocking against the wood in his haste. A low growl bubbles up in his chest until he nips at your lower lip and you whimper, then the sound fades to a moan.

“Fuck, Princess,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes already blitzed out as he looks down at you, “I want to taste you.”

Your eyes are wide as you blink up at him, your fingers in his hair to sift through the dark red strands. You find yourself nodding your head eagerly, squirming up onto the top of the desk to give him a better angle. Kirishima smiles wide enough that you can see his sharper canines, gums bared as he grins. He lowers himself to his knees, and something about seeing him in such a vulnerable position makes your head spin.

Kirishima pushes the hem of your skirt up and over your thighs, bunching up the material in one hand as the other parades over your soft undergarments. He visibly shivers when the pad of his middle finger brushes over the wet patch on the fabric, his tongue parting his lips as he dampens them.

He mutters a string of ancient curse words in a dialect you cannot comprehend, but it still arouses you, nonetheless. You help him with your dress, tucking it behind your back, before reaching out to run your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer to your core.

You give him a soft, “Eiji, please,” before you hear the tearing of fabric, and your cunt is bared to the cold air.

A gasp parts your lips, but you throw your head back when his tongue first makes contact with your slick folds. You whine into the air, the sound dying out as it travels, and your grip in his hair tightens to a pressure that should be painful, but his thick skin gives him a better barrier for pain.

Kirishima hums against your clit, running the coarse pad of his tongue over the sensitive bud before diving back into your sopping core. He moans as your taste coats his tongue, bringing one of his hands up to your belly so he can brush his thumb along your clit for further stimulation, the coarse feeling of his scaled elbow grating over your thigh giving you goosebumps. His free set of fingers dig into every part of your leg that he can find, roaming from your calves to your thighs to your ass, kneading the plush skin beneath his hardened fingertips.

You clench around his tongue, the thick muscle stimulating even the deepest parts of you. You mewl out his name, uncaring as to how loud you’re being, which only seems to spur him on, the pace of his tongue quickening as his thumb grinds mercilessly against your clit. You cant your hips upward against his mouth, begging for even more friction, and he chuckles, the sound sending reverberating pleasure through your core.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Kirishima’s voice is gentle as he turns his attention to your thighs, kissing the innermost parts as he slips a thick finger between your folds, “I want you to come undone for me, yeah? Think you can do that?”

A nod brings your vision back down to him, to look into his eyes as you rock against his knuckles. He bares his teeth to your thigh before sucking your supple skin between his lips. The combination of pleasure from your cunt mixed with the pain from his biting and sucking of your thigh brings you closer to your high, your vision blurred by ecstasy. You moan, tightening every muscle in your body in hopes that it will push you over the edge, but Kirishima’s hand runs over your taut skin in a soothing motion, rubbing the pads of his fingers deep into your muscles as if to try and calm you down.

“Relax,” he kisses over the dark red mark now splotched against your thigh, “I’ve got you, I’m gonna take care of you.”

You believe him, between his earnest expression and the honest hoarseness behind his words. You swallow thickly, forcing the growing lump in your throat back down into your chest. The contours of your body are less noticeable once you’ve eased your muscles, and Kirishima takes it as a sign for him to quicken the pace of his fingers in your pussy, leaning forward to suck at your clit with his teeth and tongue.

He can feel your walls tightening as he stretches you out with another finger, the spongy texture of your insides giving away the closeness to your end. Smirking around your skin, Kirishima hums, sending you crashing carelessly towards your orgasm.

The sound of his name falling obscenely from your lips makes his cock harden and twitch between his legs. He grunts as he ruts forward against your shin, the head of his dick smearing pre-come against your smooth skin. You suck in a breath at the feeling, falling forward so your lips are in his hair, whispering murmurs of praise and begging as you feel your core writhe with pleasure.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, hearing your whines from above, “c’mon, Princess, come for me.”

You do as your told, the glutinous walls within you coated with your arousal, milky fluid seeping from your body until it has coated his palm. Kirishima reaches up with his clean hand to thread it through your hair, pulling you gently so he can stand to his feet. You watch as he pumps his cock with the palm that is slick with your silvery strands of spend, the head of him engorged and angry red in color. Your mouth salivates at the thought of him splitting you wide open with the thick girth of him, and for a moment you’re unsure if you’ll be able to take him as easily as you originally believed.

Kirishima wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you to him so he can hoist you off of the desk and walk you towards the small bed staggered in the corner of the room. He lowers you down easily, the rippling muscles of his biceps drawing your eye as he strains himself to keep you safe. You lean up and kiss him on the mouth, swallowing his growling sounds into the recesses of your throat so they may thrum up and down your spine, sending a second shock-wave towards your core.

You notice that Kirishima is eyeing a very specific point on your throat as he leans back onto his thick thighs, taking in your already weakened body. You reach up and palm at his chest, redirecting his attention to your eyes, “Eijirou, what is it?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, leaning down to kiss up from your navel to your chest, “you’re just beautiful.”

His words make your body blush from head to toe, your feet curling up as he shuffles himself out of his pants. You take the moment to hoist your dress over your head, both of your clothes left in a pile on the floor as you reconnect your bodies with a kiss.

Something about this time makes his skin hotter to the touch, you notice, and his muscles are practically ripping at the seams, threatening to bust out if he tries any harder to keep himself restrained. You lick at the fullness of his lower lip, “Eijirou, I need you. Please.”

The pleading nature of your voice only feeds his feral nature, the instinctive side of him wanting to rip you to shreds until you’re screaming his name, crying fat tears as he presses into you and fills you to the brim with his spend. Kirishima has to squeeze his eyes shut to stave off the primal need that stirs him, instead focusing on the way his heart beats faster when you’re around, and how the glimmer in your eyes never ceases to amaze him.

Kirishima angles his hips backward so he can push the tip of his cock between your sopping heat, his restraint feathering out the deeper he slides into you. A gentle gasp from your lips stops him, his hips stilled as he peels his eyes open to look down at you, “A-Am I hurting you?”

“No, fuck, Eijirou, I want you,” you scramble to grab at whatever part of him you can find, fingernails digging roughly into his biceps, “I need you in me, I need you to take me. I’m yours.”

That is the last straw to break the proverbial camel’s back. Kirishima sheathes his cock within your heat with one smooth stroke, the stretch of your tight pussy making the shaft of his dick throb noticeably. You reel forward, your forehead smacking into his chest at the sudden obtrusion from within you. Your body takes over then, trying your hardest to kiss and lick and touch any patch of skin that is close enough.

The prince wraps an arm around your back, holding you sturdily with a palm splayed out between your shoulders, easily keeping you in place as he starts to jut his hips forward, “So fuckin’ tight, angel, such a good little girl, takin’ my cock like this. Fuck I want to-”

He stops himself by dropping his forehead to your shoulder, whining as his thick cock pounds repeatedly into your pussy. You grab at his hair to pull him away from you, desperate to look him in the eyes, “Eiji, tell me.”

There are tears settled in the corners of his irises with the desperate need for more that his body cries out for. Kirishima shakes his head and kisses you on the mouth, nails biting into your back as his cock makes your insides keen. He loses himself in the stretch of you, the tightness of your core making his whole body boil, his skin teeming with sweat as he rucks into you.

“Damnit,” he whimpers as you clench around him, drawing his dick back into your core as he tries to snap his hips backward, “I want to breed you, so fuckin’ bad, Princess.”

It is like he expects you to retreat once he’s said it, as if the thought of it might scare you off. On the contrary, all it does is spur you forward. You kiss him like your life depends on it, rolling your hips up to meet his until he is stroking the hidden part of you near your spine, the head of his cock inflamed and beading with pre-come even as he’s buried to the hilt within you.

The weight of his balls is more intense now, throbbing with his seed, slapping into your ass as he ruts forward, taking your body and molding it with his intentions. You hiss as the veins forking along the underside of his cock drag salaciously against your folds, but he merely takes advantage of the parting of your lips to delve his tongue into your mouth. He maps out each of your molars and then down to the back of your throat, moans spoken into the confines of your jaws so that the world may never hear them, only you.

You know that you are going to have to be the one to tell him that this is okay, that you want him to destroy your body with his touch. Every hair stands on end, even with him holding back, and you can only imagine how worked your bones will feel once he’s actually given you his all. Kirishima is feverish around you, hot and sweating as he works the both of you towards the point of coming undone. You relinquish yourself from his kiss, leaning your head back so you can look him in the eyes.

“Breed me, Eijirou,” your voice is hoarse when you speak, near cracking as you beg him, desperate tears glittering in the corners of your eyes, “I want you to fill me up with your come, please. Stuff me full of it.”

Kirishima’s palm rests at your abdomen, and you notice it for the first time. You wonder what is going through his mind; if he is thinking about the way his cock fills your stomach, or if he is plagued by the idea of you full with his child, pregnant and swollen at the navel. He rubs the heel of it over the expanse of your belly, finding every available patch of skin to caress with his touch, the hardened tips of his fingers raking thin red lines into your skin.

A part of you wants them to never go away, marking you as his, letting all the others know who you belong to.

“I want your baby, Eiji. Won’t you give me one?” Your voice is quiet, timid, unsure if this is how he wants this night to go. You lick your lips and look up at him bashfully, tiny tear tracks spilled over your cheeks in rivulets, “I want you to breed me full, Eijirou. I want you to fill up my cunt with your seed until I’m dripping, please, won’t you?”

Your begging mixed with his feral desire brings his teeth down to your neck, bared but not piercing, not yet. He whimpers as he slips his mouth closed, nosing over the area, licking at it like an animal, “You’d be so pretty when you’re full of me, absolutely beautiful.”

You turn your head so you can kiss him on the temple, feeling his hesitation beneath the pads of your fingers, “I’m your wife, Eiji, but I want to be your mate, too.”

A strangled sound is mangled in his throat, but he pulls away from you to look you in the eye nonetheless, “Wh-What are…Princess, listen, I don’t want you to think-”

“I love you.”

His irises engulf his pupils as his eyes widen, stuttering breaths parting his lips. His gaze is frantic, unable to find one part of your face to hone in on, the three words that you’ve uttered into the air giving him serious pause. His heart starts pumping furiously in his chest, threatening to beat right out of the cage of his ribs if he isn’t careful to calm it.

You are frightened that you’ve been too honest, that you’ve bared your soul too far and there is no coming back. Fear forces your words down into your chest, unable to cry out an apology at going too far too soon. Your hands on his arms pull away, digging into the sheets so you have something to take out your inner turmoil on.

“Y-You want…” Kirishima shakes his head, swallowing thickly so his throat bobs, “You want me?”

The incredulous snort that makes your nostrils flare cannot be contained. You look down to where he is balls deep in your cunt, and then back up to hold his gaze, “Eijirou, is that really even a question?”

He’s stuttering out some sort of response, but you can’t be bothered to listen, so you drag him forward by the nape of his neck, cementing your mouth to his. You wrap your legs around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into the firm muscle of his ass to pull him back to you, to encourage his movements. Kirishima is tentative this time, unsure of himself but his animalistic nature still brings him back to pump his cock within your heat.

“I love you,” you murmur into his lips, twirling your fingers through his hair, “if you love me too, then I want whatever you have to offer, whatever you need to give me so I can finally be yours.”

With every word you speak, the animal gnawing at the back of Kirishima’s consciousness grows less tame. It is begging, with claws at his throat, to take you for all you’re worth, until you’re bone dry and pleading for him to relinquish you. He bares his teeth and the instinct curling around his spine, making him seem stronger, wider, somehow gives way to the true nature of this rut he’s told you about.

It’s a mixture of excitement and fear, and you feel a rush of heat flood your core.

Kirishima groans, gnashing his teeth as he drops his head so your foreheads are pressed to one another. You can sense he’s still holding back, still a touch embarrassed, so you knead your fingers into the tops of his shoulders, begging with the touch of his muscles for him to claim you once and for all.

“Kiri,” your voice is strong even though you’re whispering, “what do you want to do to me? Don’t you want me?”

“Fuck, of course I do,” Kirishima kisses you soundly on the mouth, as if he must reassure you, as if you were doubting him. “I want you, every day for the rest of my life. B-But I can’t…a mate is for life, angel.”

The way he says it suggests that you don’t already know, or that it may come as a surprise to you. You smile, wrapping your arms around his back so you can lean up, arching your spine so your torsos are flush with one another. You’ve never felt the desire to be so close to someone, but it is as if this is not even close enough. You wish there were a better way to prove to him that he is the end of the line for you, that you could never want anyone else.

“I love you,” you repeat, palming the corded muscle of his back as if it might pump the confession into him by the osmosis of your sweat, “You are the first thing I want to see in the morning when I wake, and the last thing I gaze at in the night before I fall asleep. You are the end to all my beginnings, Eijirou.”

Kirishima groans at your confession, his needy body unable to create the same kind of eloquent response as he holds his hips still, unwilling to ruin your beautiful moment. His nose brushes along the bridge of yours, a question lodged in his throat and unwilling to be bared. You nudge the bow of your lips against his cheek, murmuring kind praises into his ear, “Tell me what you want, what you need, Eijirou. I want to give it to you, whatever it is.”

“C-Can I mark you?” his voice is bedraggled, just on the cusp of breaking.

“Please,” you ask of him, craning your head so your neck is available. “I want to be yours, and I want everyone else to know.”

It seems that is all the encouragement he needs, baring his fanged teeth to the thin skin of your neck, tongue tracing over your jugular as he prepares the area for his biting kiss. He nudges his nose against your earlobe, that same ancient tongue from earlier sending a shiver down your spine as he speaks.

You are not prepared for the searing pain that rips through your body when he finally tears into you. A cry parts your lips and your cunt squeezes him so tightly that he almost slips from within you. Your hand rips through his hair, the other occupied with his shoulder, nails bludgeoning his hardened skin until you draw blood. You want to throw your head back but you know that will only make it all worse, his teeth will shred your skin until you are but a flayed piece of meat lying beneath him.

“Kiri,” you whine, turning your head to nestle you lips into the edge of his hair that curls around his ear, kissing at whatever surface you can find.

He hums in response, unable to give you words as he sucks and pulls at the skin. You feel your mind cloud the longer he has dug into you, the tendrils of need writhing around your cerebrum until you can no longer think clearly. The one thing on your mind is the very thing between his legs, and you whisper words of want into his ear, praying that he can hear you through his animalistic marking.

The palm of his hand digs further into your belly, until he can feel the tip of his cock underneath his fingers. Kirishima growls around your neck, the timbre of his voice shaking your very bones. You swallow, dipping your fingers further into the skin of his shoulders, “Kirishima, move.”

His hips are listening even if he does not give an indication that he’s heard you. He uses his hands to prop up your legs, the tips of his digits bruising your skin with their intensity, until your knees are almost parallel with the mattress. The only reason they aren’t digging into your chest is because he’s still slotted there, gnashing away at the sensitive skin of your neck. His body is lumbering and thick, dense from his neck to his ankles.

Kirishima makes you feel small, in every sense of the word. Even as a princess, you did not feel dainty, you’ve never been a precious flower that someone else has to protect. You’ve always stumbled a little, faltered when you should be standing upright, and your parents have had to reprimand you for your unladylike tendencies more than once.

But here, lying underneath his hulking form, your fingers seem tinier, more elegant, and even as your knees dig into his ribs, he does not falter, does not wince. You cannot put him in pain, between his hard exterior and his intense primal nature, and it makes you feel like a porcelain doll.

And once his cock plunges back within your tight, wet heat, you are reminded of how massive he truly is.

The tip of his cock butterflies you wide open, shattering your limited stretch and prying you open with each quivering inch of his thick girth. He overwhelms you, so much so that your head topples backward to dig further into the pillow, as if running away from him might soothe the ache between your legs. Even that is a mistake, because once you’ve shifted, his teeth scrape down the sensitive skin of your collarbones, angry red marks left in their wake.

He leans back to examine his hard work, eyes roaming the juncture of your neck and shoulder where the shape of his teeth is like a shadow. A guttural growl emanates from his throat, the air sparking with electricity at the sound of it. You swallow the thick, pent-up arousal in your throat and breathe heavily, somewhat thankful to be rid of his mouth even though a part of you would frenetically like to bring it back. Your throat is throbbing, and you think you could count the number of teeth he was able to sink into you based on the pain of it alone.

“Princess,” he gasps as he takes in the pulsating mark now claiming you as his, “I-I’m sorry, d-did I-”

You shake your head and pull at him in every way possible, your body crying out for more of him in every sense of the word. Kirishima moans as you kiss him again, pushing your tongue between his teeth to try and taste the familiar warmth of his mouth. You moan, your body finding his easily, comfortable and wanting as you careen forward, the throbbing circular mark on your shoulder long forgotten. You have to come up for air much sooner than you like, still reeling from his marking of your body.

Kirishima’s palm is digging into your stomach again, nails biting into your smooth skin as his cock pulses, and he squints harshly as he pulls away to look you in the eyes. The sight of you splayed out beneath him, completely at his mercy, makes his balls throb and he snaps his hips up into you again out of pure primal need alone. Your body jostles, breasts bouncing and thighs rippling, as his cock bottoms out into your cunt, the tip of him bursting with arousal and finding your cervix.

“Oh shit,” he drops his head to your chest, curling himself upward so your hips are flush, his hip bones bruising your thighs as he unceremoniously crumbles into you. Your hands are on him in an instant, trying to understand what could have possibly happened to make him so vulnerable.

You barely have time to say his name before he’s whining, sucking your nipple between the bite of his teeth out of the sole desire to muffle his needy pants. Your hand sifts through his hair, head thrown back while you enjoy the ministrations of his tongue around your chest. He mumbles out words that you can’t quite make out, but with the way his cock is throbbing between your walls and the motions of his hand and mouth on your breast, you don’t care much to understand what drivel he’s spinning.

It is only when you feel the inside of your body flood with heat that you understand.

“Eijirou,” you call to him, forcing his head away from your nipple with the gentle tug of your hands, “d-did you just-”

He looks like he could cry, his head hung in shame, “Yes.”

You want to laugh at his pitiful nature, but you can’t, not knowing what the would do to his self-esteem. Instead, you roll your hips up to try and milk him of his release, encouraging him to start rocking your body with his arousing rhythm until he is completely spent within you.

“You said you wanted to breed me, didn’t you?” you question roughly in his ear, your head tilted to where he’s tucked into your collarbone. You kiss his hair, desperate to clutch onto him as you feel his cock softening, peeling away from your tight hole. The feel of come seeping from your cunt makes you squirm, “Eijirou?”

Kirishima tilts his head back and looks you in the eyes, reddened orbs practically devastated. He nods, “Y-Yeah, but I just-”

“Again.”

His throat bobs, eyes widening at your notion. He turns his head to survey your body, littered with bruises and bite marks and it hasn’t been but one round of his cock buried to the hilt within you. His eyes catch on the marking on your shoulder and his cock stirs again, “A-Again?”

“Breed me,” you grit between your teeth, “please, Eijirou. I want you to put a baby in me.”

The biting nature of his fingertips is not lost on you as he pushes your thighs back so your knees are pressed into the mattress. His thick body is wavering above you, eyes unable and unwilling to look away from you as he starts to roll his hips again, slowly so he does not lose the slick that he has gathered from the both of you.

Kirishima swallows one last pensive breath and then it’s like a switch has gone off in his mind, like he’s finally letting the caged beast out to take over, controlling his ministrations. You arch your back so you can feel his hardened nipples against your chest, one of his hands slowly creeping up your torso until he’s found the bruised, marred skin of your neck beneath his fingertips.

“Look so beautiful, love,” Kirishima kisses your forehead, like a proverbial final word before he devours you whole. “I can’t wait to wreck this pretty pussy of yours, mark this body up until no one has any question of who you belong to.”

His uncharacteristically harsh words make your core tighten and your toes curl. You nod, starting to beg for it, the words just barely tipping over the edge of your tongue when he clamps his hand down on the mark of your neck. You feel white-hot pain shoot forth from the area, coating your body in a wave of agony as the pulsing spreads downward.

A broken whimper escapes your gritted teeth, eyes screwed shut when his blunt fingernails dip further into the area, almost like he’s testing to see how far you can take it before he has to relent. He is unkind when he grabs your thigh, pushing it up into your chest as he resumes his slow pace from before. His cock is already beginning to harden again, twitching relentlessly against your glutinous walls, coated with both your arousal and his spend.

“Eijirou,” you want to beg for him but you can barely push out the broken syllables of his name. Tears coat your cheeks but you don’t mind the blurred vision as you gaze up at him. It makes him shine, like the starlight he truly is. Your face breaks into a smile, despite the absolute torment you feel wracking your body. You would endure anything for him, any sort of discomfort or torture, if it meant that you could be this close to him forever.

Kirishima kisses you square on the mouth, “Hush, angel, let me take care of you.”

Your jaw snaps shut, the muscles along the angle of your face shuddering under the pressure of your gritted teeth. Kirishima smiles warmly at you, the last shred of his humanity remaining before he plunges his thumb into the direct center of your marking, digging his fingernail into the bruised skin. You yelp, your cunt clenching around his cock as he pushes deeper into you.

The entirety of your body is so compliant, molded around his frame, practically fluid as you conform to the positions his hands push you into. Kirishima licks a heated stripe along the column of your neck, leaving behind a wet patch that runs cold when he breathes over it. You dig your hands back against his shoulders, raking the tips of your nails along the length of his back and shoulders.

Kirishima gasps audibly at the newfound tightness of your core at his ministrations. He uses his free palm to reach down and grind his thumb against your hooded clit. He nudges his nose along your jawline, breathing coming in heavy pants as he pummels you into the soft plush of the mattress beneath your shoulders. The snap of his hips does not let your backside rest, your body hovering a few inches from the mattress.

It’s as if he cannot get enough of you, even so much so that he won’t allow your frame to fall too far from him. Kirishima must keep you close, he has no other option. The feral animal clawing at what little shred of his resolve that remains whispers in his ear to put a new mark on every visible inch of your skin until you are nothing but a black and blue mess, blubbering and begging beneath him.

“Such a pretty little thing when you come undone for me,” Kirishima murmurs against the shell of your ear, the sultry sound of his voice intermingled with his panting sending a rolling wave of pleasure down your spine until your toes are curling around the sheets. “You like it when I’m this deep inside of you? Not letting your pussy breathe?”

You are nodding even if you don’t fully understand what he’s saying. You would agree to anything, that much you are aware of, and you know that he is keen to that fact as well. Kirishima is still careful with you, somehow aware enough of your limitations to revere you and reel himself in when he feels he might be going too far. The blitzed-out look in your eyes tells him all that he needs to know – you have slipped beneath the surface into that subservient headspace that he’s seen you on the cusp of so many times when he’s had you knuckle deep and coming around his fingers. The very essence of his being tells him to work you for every tear, ever drop of arousal, that you can create, to bludgeon your body until you are begging him to give you a moment to breathe, and then deny you of it.

Kirishima’s hand that has been pressed against your wound now turns to curl around your throat, fingers squeezing your neck until you are gasping for breath. Your eyes flutter somewhere between open and closed as your mouth gapes open wide, bobbing like a fish out of water as you struggle to inhale the slightest amount of oxygen. Your hands flop from his body to the mattress, curling around the sheets until he hears them rip between your nails.

“Look at you, Princess,” he nudges your cheek until you’re looking him in the eyes again, “can’t even speak in full sentences. So whipped for my cock, huh? Tell me what you want me to do to you, if you can talk.”

Drool dribbles from either corner of your mouth and when you shake your head, it creates damp splotches on the pillowcase. Kirishima chuckles, pushing the base of his thumb against the fleshy underside of your chin, forcing your head still so he can glower down at you, crimson eyes shining. The heel of his palm stays jutted against your esophagus, limiting your breathing as he loiters over you.

The words that come out of your mouth are mere wheezing syllables, unable to be understood in their broken form. Tears form in your eyes, clumping on your lashes, at the pure frustration that you can’t tell him exactly what you’d like him to do to you. You whine, the sound breaking in the middle when Kirishima tightens his grip on your throat. You peel your eyes open to see a darkness settled in his irises, their normally crimson color turned almost to black in his lustful state.

It should make you upset, that he’s losing himself, but instead, it just stokes the fire in your belly until the flames are raging up into your throat. The smoke of it all builds behind your eyes and in your mouth until you have to open everything, whining and moaning and writhing like your life depends on it. All the while, Kirishima has set a steady, bruising pace of his cock dragging against your walls, the forked veins on the underside of him giving you additional friction. You want to grab at him, to tug on his body until he melts into you, but your arms are limp, practically your whole body is at the intense ministrations of his hands and hips.

Finally, after your vision begins to blur and your eyelids slip closed at the feel of the remaining oxygen leaving your throat, Kirishima relents his grip and a rush of air floods your lungs. You gasp and choke, the motions making your cunt clamp tightly around his cock, giving Kirishima the push he needs to bottom out within you again, holding himself still until you can catch your breath.

“Such a good girl,” Kirishima is whispering the words hoarsely as his mouth roams your cheek and neck and collarbones. He plants wet, sloppy kisses against your skin like he does not have time to think about the affections.

You whine when you feel his tongue dart from between his lips to lavish attention to the wound on your shoulder, the bite mark from his pointed teeth leading way to bruising and little trails of crimson seeping down from your shoulder to the mattress. He licks at it, half out of wanting to hear you moan when he puts too much pressure on the bruise and half out of guilt for hurting you.

His name comes from your lips and it makes his cock stir against your cervix, “Tell me what you want, angel, I need to know.”

You are aware the duality of that statement. He needs to know because he needs permission, even if his current state won’t allow him to admit it. You find it in you to reach a hand up to sift through his hair, palming at the back of his head to give him some ease with your touch.

“I want you to come in me, Eijirou,” your voice is panting, a mix of exhaustion and longing making you sound fatigued. You feel tears push out of the edges of your eyes at the pure need you have for him to make all of this a reality, “Come in me, Eiji, I want you to give me a baby. I want you to breed me until I’m full of your child, over and over again. I want you to fill me up un-ah!”

Kirishima ruts forward and you swear you feel something within you tear at the pure size of him. He nips at your jaw, nosing along your neck, brushing against it whenever he pulses forward. The salacious sounds filling the air only contribute to your arousal, floods of slick washing over his dick as he slots in and out of you.

He grunts, “So fuckin’ tight,” before his hands travel down towards your thighs, pushing them back until he has you folded so only your shoulders are against the bed. You whimper as you turn, your mark pushed against the mattress until it is pulsing with pain.

“I’m gonna come in this tight, wet little hole until you’re leaking, until you taste it.” Kirishima can feel the impending doom of his spend when his cock twitches within your quivering heat. You try and clamp your walls down around him to keep his length sheathed within you for longer, but it’s of no use. He has set a bruising pace that he intends on following through with until you are screaming and his come is coating your soft insides.

Your toes are pointed toward the ceiling, curling downward when he slams into you. The pace of his hips is menacing, something you should fear, because the feel of him makes you think he might rip you open. But, you’re sure you’d let him split you down the middle and you’d still say thank you. Mumbles of incoherent drivel pour from your mouth along with your rivulets of drool and tears.

Kirishima chuckles, “Look at you, a beautiful mess for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? I can’t wait to fill this precious cunt up. I’ll give you as many babies as you can hold.”

The call to your womb must be strong, because he stays slotted within you for a moment, fingers rolling around your thighs as he takes you in. His crimson irises dole over your body, from your plush lips to your plump chest, on downward to the gentle bump of your belly as his cock nudges within you. Kirishima abandons your thighs for your stomach, raking his nails along the unmarked plane of skin, thin angry lines left behind when he pulls away.

You reach forward to wrap your fingers around his wrist, keeping his touch pointed on your navel, “I want to have your baby, Eijirou. All of them, as many as you can give me. Please, I’m just a vessel for you to use.”

His eyes deepen at that sentiment, but something else passes through them. He catches his lip within the bite of his teeth before leaning down to kiss you, palm turned against your stomach so his knuckles drag along your skin, but he can slot his fingers between yours and squeeze.

“You are so much more than that,” he whispers into your mouth, as if the words may stay caged in there forever for you to marinate on them. He kisses your cheeks, the tears sticking on his lips, his voice thick when he speaks, “You’ll be the prettiest mama out there, you know? So beautiful and round, absolutely breathtaking when you have to waddle around, you’re so full.”

Kirishima is close to whimpering, eyes screwed shut as he speaks his heart, “I love you, Princess, god, you mean the world to me.”

Your fingers find purchase against his shoulders, the scratched skin beneath the pads of your digits making you salivate. You’ve marked him, too, even if it’s not the same. You want to spend the rest of your life repeating it over and over, marking him every time he finds you beneath the sheets, so that the others may know that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him. The two of you are completely intertwined in every facet of the word, limbs and hearts woven into the same piece of soul fabric, begging to be together until the end of time.

The edges of your vision begin to dither as you come closer to your climax. You swallow the lump in your throat and whimper, “Kirishima, I think I might-”

He is listening, the hand not currently wrapped around yours reaching between your slick bodies to thumb at your clit. A bruising kiss is pressed firmly to your mouth, dampening your lewd sounds as you writhe under his bulky body, hardly moving but trying desperately all the same. You can’t help it as your mouth parts to lick at seam of his lips, but he willingly opens his mouth to you, receiving the pointed lapping of your tongue as he slowly begins to rut back into you.

“I want you to beg for what you want,” he gasps into your teeth, the tip of your noses clashing as the sound of his weighty balls slap against the curve of your ass. He can taste the saltiness of your tears as your mouths meld together, and it makes him smirk, “Are you cryin’? Like a sweet little bitch, crying for my cock?”

You want to answer him, to tell him how much you love every part of him, to shower his body in praise until you’ve gone mute, but your throat is hoarse and your mind is hazy, and you can’t form words. Instead, you tilt your head and kiss him harder, your tongue swiping over his as you try to convey how you’re feeling into this kiss, attempting to make his world spin. You want to give him a small taste of what he has done to you, even if it will never truly meet the searing reality of his hold he’s got on you, body, mind and soul.

“Cry for me, darling,” Kirishima coos as his mouth travels down the curve of your jaw until his teeth meet the juncture of your neck and ear, “I want Bakugou to hear you when I stuff your cunt full, all the way from out in the hallway. Gonna put my child in you while you sob for my cock, begging me to keep fucking you deeper and deeper into this bed.”

You can hardly create coherent sentences, between his mouth and hands and cock all working at your relentlessly, the ministrations of his body creating a throbbing euphoria between your hips. You whine at the idea of having to say much of anything right now, let alone an understandable string of words.

His balls are weighty as they slap against your backside, the sound making your throat bob, and he growls, “Beg for me, like the little whore you are.”

The nipping of his teeth against your mouth makes your cunt spasm, and Kirishima lets loose a strangled sound from the back of his throat. Based on the whimpering curtail of his voice, you can tell that he’s close to coming a second time. Your body tenses, every muscle coiled tightly as you edge yourself to a release. You have to close your eyes so the white-hot arousal boiling in your core can’t blur your vision.

“Y-Your come, your cock,” is all you can find yourself repeating over and over, your being too fucked-out to say much of anything else. Hot tears leak down your temples, exhausted sobs making your voice shake when you scream for him, throat close to shattering in its hoarseness.

Kirishima leans back so he can preen, his cock stretching you even further in this position. Your eyes bug out before you can squint your lids closed again. He chuckles, the sound dark and ominous as it reverberates around in the room, “Do you know how fuckin’ hard it’s been to control myself around you? God, I’ve been wanting to fuck you like this for months, breed you like a good little bitch in heat, give you loads of my come until you’re bursting at the seams with it.”

His lewd words are what bring you toppling over the edge, the thought of his come leaking out of your abused pussy, him plugging you up with his cock and rutting up into you again until he’s brought on another release from within himself. Your palms slap his biceps as you grip onto him, afraid he might actually push you through the mattress with the ferocity of his hips. There’s no doubt in your mind that you will have blooming bruises all over your body, marking you up like flowers spread throughout a garden.

“Fucking hell at this sloppy pussy, Princess,” Kirishima’s hands on your thighs tighten, biting deep into the muscle until you swear he hits bone, “I’m gonna breed you up so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Keep you hidden in here, fuck you endlessly, until you’re begging me to quit.”

“No,” you gasp out, your voice crackling even on the single syllable, “don’t stop.”

Kirishima smirks down at you, “Careful what you wish for, Princess.”

You are shaking your head, silently encouraging him because your voice is shot to hell. You dig your nails into his biceps, shaking him just enough that he understands your subtext, starting to rock his hips against your ass, the thick shaft of his cock slipping along your inner walls as he works you closer to the crest of climax.

It’s just on the precipice of your body, your entire form overheated with the flames of arousal. You want to cry, the end so close and yet feeling so unachievable. Kirishima releases one of your thighs to attend to your clit, the pace of his circling finger matching that of his cock pounding into your heat. With each thrust, you see another wave of stars in the air above you. Even in the low candlelight of this secret room, you can see the glimmering in Kirishima’s irises, as if he has his own galaxy tucked away in his pupils, bringing it out for you and for you only.

Kirishima curses, dropping his head to watch his cock slip from your wet core, silvery strands of slick the only thing connecting him to you now, “Gotta stop clenching so hard, sweetheart,” somehow he manages to push himself back into you, despite the size of your hole. Kirishima grabs one of your ankles and settles it on his shoulder, turning to kiss the joint, “Such a tight little pussy, but so fucking sloppy. You’re dripping.”

His nose nudges along the length of your calf as he picks up his pace, rutting into you with purpose. You wonder how much of his animalistic nature will bleed into the other aspects of your life, but you don’t have much time to ponder before the coiling heat of your orgasm is beginning to build up and cloud your consciousness. Your jaw hangs slack and Kirishima takes the opportunity to slip his index and fourth finger between your lips, the golden ring on his finger cool on the heated pad of your tongue.

“There you go,” he murmurs absentmindedly, tilting his head to consider you. You circle one hand around his wrist, pushing him further into the hollows of your cheeks. His eyes widen at the action and it makes his hips falter in their pacing.

Kirishima can feel the tightening of your cunt around his cock, and the tears in your eyes, and he knows that you’re close, “C’mon, angel, I want you to come on my cock. You feel so fuckin’ good around me, holding me tight.”

You sniffle, drool creating a silvery rivulet down your cheek, “Eijirou, please,” you are whimpering into his knuckles, praying that you don’t bite down on him too hard.

“S’okay,” Kirishima’s voice is kind, in stark contrast to the harsh nature of his dick as it jackhammers into you. “Bite me, I’ll be okay. I just want to make you come.”

Listening to his plea, you grind your teeth together around his knuckles, biting into his skin until you taste metal. The release of pressure gives way to an earth-shattering orgasm, your cunt spasming around his cock until you can feel your arousal seeping out of your body, dripping onto the mattress beneath you. You suck on Kirishima’s fingers, tonguing his knuckles to distract yourself from screaming.

“Good girl,” he coos, thumb grazing your cheek and chin as he continues to rock into your core. You are still gushing when he tenses up, thighs rippling as he readies himself to come for the second time. Kirishima’s voice is hoarse, near a growl as he looks down at you, a blubbering, hiccuping mess beneath him, “F-Fuck, Princess, you’re gonna look so beautiful when you’re full with our child. I can’t wait to stuff you full over and over again, until you’re bursting at the seams.”

You start to plead, your words nothing more than blather, foaming at the mouth as you whine for his spend, tears beading at the corners of your eyes in your desperation. Your nails rake down the length of his muscled back, your heels dipping into the flesh of his ass to keep him pinned to you, for just a moment of reprieve from his agonizingly thick length. The forked veins running along either side of his cock make your walls quiver as your abused insides beg for a break.

When he feels a newfound tightness as he tries to withdraw from you, he seethes through his teeth, “Shit, sweetheart. St-Stop clenching, or else I’ll have to fuck you all over again.”

There’s a pause, a stilling of his body, as he looks down at you, drooling and crying around his knuckles. He chuckles, the sound reverberating his chest in such a way that shakes the very room. Your body tenses at the timbre, eyes struggling to focus on one specific point on his face as he ravishes you with his carmine irises.

“Actually,” he tilts his head, shoving his fingers further down your throat until you are gagging around his digits, “go ahead, push it out, it just means I get to breed this tight little pussy all over again.”

Kirishima leans forward, brushing his mouth against your jaw as he sheathes himself within you inch by inch, slow and salacious, “Don’t worry, I’ll fill you to the fucking brim anyway, angel. You want this load?”

You can’t help the instant wanton words that fly from your mouth, sparking in the midst of the two of you, pouring out of your chest like fire. You whine and keen, sucking his knuckles into the hollows of your cheeks to try and bring him closer to the precipice of pleasure, to give him the same radical sensation that he has given you twice now.

“Give it,” you force the words out despite his thick digits pushing down on the muscle of your tongue, “please, Eiji, I-I want your ba-oh.”

He growls, bludgeoning his cock into your cunt as he starts coming undone within you. A blooming heat starts in your core and blossoms upward until you think smoke may come out of your nostrils. It clouds your mind, the slightest bit of consciousness creeping forward so you can enjoy the way he paints your walls with his spend, filling you just as he promised.

“Take it,” he snarls, sharpened teeth making your back arch, “take my fucking load.”

Your legs wobble, but you keep yourself wrapped around him, allowing him to ride out his pleasure until his hips are sloppy, thighs brushing your bruised ass a final time before he drops his head to your chest. He is hot, unbearably warm, but you endure it because it means he is here.

His hands brush down from the backs of your knees until he is pushing you back into the mattress, allowing your body to rest, limp against the sheets. Kirishima kisses the swell of your breast, imagining how full they’ll be once your womb has been filled and your body starts to change. He could cry at the thought of it, his animalistic side attempting to take over his consciousness, warm at the thought of you carrying on his lineage, giving him heir after heir.

Kirishima hums against your sternum, hands encompassing your sides in full, fingers splayed across your ribs, “Such a pretty little thing, angel. You’re perfect. I love you.”

He starts to pull from you but you whine, clenching around him so tightly that your combined arousal seeps from your cunt, dripping down the curve of your ass. Your nails bite into his biceps, clutching onto him like an anchor, “Please don’t leave me, Eijirou.”

“Hey,” his voice is soothing, nose nudging over your jugular. He presses himself back into you, filling you up even as he starts to soften, “I’m right here, sweetheart. I promise I’m not going anywhere. Not now, and not ever. You’re mine, my mate.”

You swear you see the curling wisps of flames seeping from his teeth and tongue, the dragon in him coming forth in a surge of possessiveness. His eyes drop to the piercing bite adorning your shoulder, a mix of blood and bruising on display, the mating mark stirring his cock within your cunt again and you’re afraid he might already be starting up for a third round.

Tilting your head skyward, you beseech him for his mouth, pursing your lips just enough that he understands your silent plea. Kirishima’s smirk melts into a smile, dimples piercing his cheeks, and he meets you halfway, slotting his mouth to yours. The warmth of your lips meld together, noses bumping and teeth clashing, but you do not care because at least he is buried to the hilt within you and his body is flush with your own. You see stars as you are deprived of oxygen, but this might be the most pleasant way to go – full to the brim of him, his mouth starving you, your entire being swallowed by the essence of him.

“You don’t quit that, I’ll take you again, right now,” Kirishima is growling as his mouth finds your mark again, pressing a harsh kiss to the purpled skin, “You’re so perfect, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Tears well up in your eyes, and you’re not sure what specific event has stirred them on, but you let them fall nonetheless. Kirishima is quick to kiss them away before they can stain your pillowcase, whispering kindness as he brushes his mouth against each of your eyelids, “I can’t believe you’re all mine.”

“Always, Eijirou,” you whisper into thin air, your voice reaching his ears and sending a bolt of lightning down his spine, “I’ve always been yours, from the moment I saw you, I belonged to you.”

“And I have always been yours too.” Kirishima brushes his nose against the bridge of your face, “I can’t wait to build a legacy with you.”

The thudding of footsteps echoes down the hall, drawing carmine irises up from their previously hooded position. He rolls his eyes, standing to his feet, sword weighing heavy on his belt, “What is it?”

“Very important news,” the younger man’s throat bobs as he stutter steps backward, “The, uh, the ball that’s being held later-”

The blonde wags his finger in midair, a chuckle parting his smirking mouth, “Go find someone else to figure that shit out. You’ll regret it if you go in there now.”

A widened stare follows his finger to the door, where the wood is shaking just enough that he can get the hint. The knight in front of him chuckles, sitting back down in his chair, crossing his leg over his knee, “Yeah, I wouldn’t disturb him during his breeding season if I were you.”

a/n: yeah, so this was supposed to be 2k. obviously that didn’t happen, lol. i hope you guys like my first true kiri fic :)

tagging: @mirakumiruku @kamehamethot @1-800-callmekatsuki @shoutogepi @freckledoriya @writeiolite @kingtamakimurder @cutesuki--bakugou

#kirishima x reader #kirishima smut #kirishima eijirou x reader #kirishima eijirou smut #bnha smut #bnha x reader #kirishima bnha #morgan writes bnha #kirishima x you #kirishima eijirou x you #my writing

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

Text

Not Bad

Prompts: Hihi, i have a Merlin prompt if you're interested. Merlin thinks he's a bad person bec he was taught that magic is bad, but also Bec of all the stuff he did/does to keep Arthur safe and ig throw in some touch starved!Merlin too for fun. But the knights compliment/hug/etc all the time and Merlin just doesn't understand what he's supposed to do with this, so the solution is to breakdown crying and try to convince the knights he's the bad person he sees himself as and the knights are just like "but you're wrong and he's 25 reasons why you're wrong" Plz, thx, love your writing - anon

im a fuckin sucker for soft knights & arthur w merlin so, if ur still takings reqs, i would love to see when the knights realize merlin still views himself as a "monster" like is hinted in first ep (? i thinkk, im rusty on my merlin trivia)- is it a passing comment he makes and they realize all together? knight cuddle pile? just give the poor boy some love - anon

if you'd want to write it i'd love to see the collective moment that the knights realize that merlin is self-harming in some way (in my brain this is probably in like a denial-of-things type thing that he probably doesn't even see as self-harm bc he's an idiot, could even be something like healing everyone else w magic but refusing to heal himself... idk feel free to do whatever you see fit!). i can only imagine they'd be frustrated with him and themselves but theyre just loving large idiots (': - anon

ahh yes all the prompts

Read on Ao3 Part 2

Warnings: implied/referenced self-harm in the form of intentionally depriving oneself of physical contact because THAT COUNTS

Pairings: merthur, can be platonic or romantic I don't care

Word Count: 3462

Arthur is confused, very upset, and nothing is alright anymore, thank you very much.

Because you see, despite the image that he tries to present—emphasis on the word ‘try’, there, according to his knights—he does care an awful lot about his people, especially his one particular person that happens to be able to say an awful lot without saying anything.

Merlin. He’s talking about Merlin, in case you hadn’t noticed.

The problem is that for all the man can ramble on about seemingly anything, at any time, he’s remarkably good at saying absolutely nothing about himself. He claims he’s an open book, but he’s certainly in a language that Arthur doesn’t know how to read.

He does know how to read, just to clarify. That isn’t the issue here.

No, no, the issue is that after months, years, almost a decade of Merlin by his side, watching his back, taking care of him, he’s discovered that there’s a secret that Merlin’s keeping from him. One he never intended to tell Arthur.

And before you panic, no, he’s not talking about Merlin’s magic.

Come on, it’s not like it’s not obvious, the man isn’t exactly good at hiding it. Does he seriously believe Arthur can’t see the tree branches that miraculously pick themselves up and fly at the nearest bandit or the spears that fling themselves at the foe about to behind Gwaine? Or the chores that mysteriously get done too fast for Merlin and far too efficiently? Or the way certain magical ailments seem to vanish mysteriously along with his idiot of a servant only to be greeted with a soft shrug when he pokes?

Merlin’s eyes also turn gold, that’s pretty neat.

So Merlin has magic.

Yes, we know, we had a small tantrum over the fact that he told Lancelot first, but it’s fine. Quite frankly, a lot of things make more sense now.

Except for this. Not this.

Merlin is hiding the secret that he believes he’s a bad person.

Now, Arthur’s not sure if you’ve met Merlin, but the man isn’t exactly the image of the evildoer that springs to mind when someone says ‘bad person.’

The Witch Finder, now there’s a bad person. Storming into Camelot, preying on the fear of the people, bribing and threatening and drugging people, torturing them, and condemning them to death just for the sake of a few coins.

Merlin did storm into Camelot, that is true, but he decided to pick a fight with the crown prince and then save his life. He’s not here for coin—if he were, they wouldn’t have had that small, er, issue about the steward not paying him anything for his work for the past eight years, honestly—and he’s certainly not preying on anyone’s fears. Except perhaps Arthur’s fear of losing his dignity.

The look on his father’s face when Merlin dodged the pillow…

Speaking of his father…there’s another one.

His father did not prey as openly on the people’s fear—or as obviously as Aredian, but prey on them he did. He was a strong king, sometimes too strong. He was a blind king, saw the people as nothing more than subjects, not the living breathing humans they are. He remembers Morgana’s voice, saying that authority should derive from the consent of the governed, not from the threat of force.

He always wanted to see Uther’s face when his ward—when his daughter said that to him.

And what he’s done to Morgana…

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head. Perhaps the very truth that he resents the idea of thinking about what Uther did to Morgana, to him…perhaps that is enough.

Those are bad people. At least to Arthur.

Merlin, on the other hand…

Merlin came into Camelot, knowing that if it was discovered that he has magic, he would be burnt at the stake. He came, not with any aspirations of glory, simply because he trusted his mother when she told him to come to Gaius. He came and he was given a job he never asked for, one he had no idea how to do, and stayed.

Merlin learned. Slowly, perhaps, but he learned. Now he has enough knowledge on what a servant should do to break the rules in the most spectacular fashion. Arthur smiles, biting back the chuckle at seeing George dressed up like Merlin and acting perfectly proper and the urge Arthur had to throw him out of the room.

And that’s not even mentioning what he does when he’s not following Arthur around.

Merlin learned. Merlin stayed.

Not just for Gaius, but for Arthur.

Arthur leans onto his desk, staring out into the courtyard where Merlin is tending to the knights’ horses as they mount up for patrol. He watches Leon step a little closer, lowering his head to mutter something to him, watching Gwaine clap Merlin on the shoulder.

Watches Merlin flinch a little too hard.

Watches Leon’s brow furrow and Gwaine take a step back.

This. This is the problem.

Merlin believes he’s a bad person. Which is wrong, but for some reason, he does.

And because Merlin believes he’s a bad person, he believes that anytime one of the knights touches him—or anyone touches him—it will be to hurt him.

How did they come to this conclusion, you may ask?

Arthur bites back a snarl as he turns away from the window.

It had started with the complements.

Gwaine, to no one’s surprise, was quite fond of flirting with anyone and everyone that would let him, Merlin no exception. Talking about Merlin’s looks, his personality, his work ethic, anything, and everything. Merlin would flush, bright red, ears and all, mumbling to himself.

But then Percival had said something and Merlin pushed him away—well, prodded his arm, no one really moves Percival without Percival letting them—and shook his head. Percival had shrugged but the rest of them had noticed the tension in Merlin’s shoulders.

Then Elyan complemented Merlin’s tracking abilities and Merlin hadn’t even acknowledged it, instead insisting that they keep moving before it got too dark to see and they’d be forced to make camp in the woods. They’d agreed, pressing on, but noting the way that Merlin refused to say so much as thank you.

Leon’s perceptiveness should be considered magical. Seriously, Arthur’s not entirely convinced the man can’t see into people’s heads, what with the information he’s able to produce out of nothing more than the twitch of a finger or the slightest huff of breath. But he sees the way Merlin shies away from any display of affection, even as he gently repeats it, watching Merlin turn his back and get back to work.

Arthur never saw what happened with Lancelot. All he knows is that one night, out in the woods, the two of them had gone off to collect firewood and Merlin had been hiding red-rimmed eyes when he returned, a few paces ahead of Lancelot, not ten minutes later. Arthur had glared but the forlorn confusion on Lancelot’s face had given him pause.

Then it was the touching.

One would expect Merlin to be a quite tactile person, and he is. He’s all shoulder nudges and pokes and prods and gentle shoves to get people to move where he wants them to go. And it’s not like the man has much concept of personal space.

No, some of that is not Arthur’s fault, how dare you?

But when someone else tries it, Merlin tenses reflexively, already moving before their hands make contact. He gives everyone he can a wide berth, scuttling around the outside of rooms until one of them breaks and tells him to come here, Merlin, it’s alright, we won’t hurt you. His face never quite believes them.

The strangest thing is how much of it Merlin makes small adjustments for.

He always wears those god-awful tunics, that he won’t let Arthur replace with fabric that doesn’t feel like it’s a burlap sack, with the sleeves pulled all the way down and those kerchiefs tied around his neck. Arthur’s seen his sleeves rolled up before, but only when Merlin’s working and he hasn’t realized Arthur’s there yet. It’s not like Arthur doesn’t know Merlin has forearms, but Merlin will always jump and guiltily roll his sleeves down.

He doesn’t notice why until he accidentally brushes Merlin’s bare skin once and Merlin all but tears away like he’s been burned.

He doesn’t know why.

Merlin has a secret. The secret is that he believes he’s a bad person. That means he can’t accept compliments and he can’t let them touch him.

This is a problem, because Arthur would very much like for Merlin to believe that he isn’t a bad person.

This is also a problem because Arthur has no idea how to do that.

He looks up when there’s a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

“Sire?” Leon steps through. “May we come in?”

Arthur nods, his eyebrows raising as all of his knights spill into the room.

“Shall I assume you’re on the warpath again?”

“Nah,” Gwaine grumbles, throwing himself into a chair, “know this isn’t your fault.”

Leon shakes his head. “It’s Merlin, sire, we’re…concerned.”

Arthur just sighs and tells them what’s been buzzing around his head for the past…however long it’s been. The knights nod.

“He doesn’t like to be touched when he doesn’t expect it,” Lancelot offers, “but when I ask…he doesn’t seem to want to agree either.”

“But he does,” Gwaine argues, “you’ve seen the way he stares at us when we hug each other, he looks like a poor child that’s never had a hug in his life!”

“Which isn’t true.” Elyan folds his arms. “Gwen’s hugged him.”

“We’ve all hugged him.”

“But he still thinks we’re going to hurt him.”

“Well,” Arthur mutters, “we can’t exactly blame him for being paranoid, can we?”

“If you lot are going to talk about me behind my back like it’s a war council, then yeah, I reserve the right to be paranoid.”

“Merlin!”

“Thank god, where’ve you been?”

“I thought we were meeting by the stables.”

“Did you get hurt?”

Merlin raises his hands and takes a step back. “Whoa, can I get through the door first before the interrogation starts?”

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Arthur says, glaring at the knights, “we’re concerned.”

“Uh-huh,” Merlin mutters, weaving through them to the table so he can set down the thing hooked over his arm, “yes, I’m all too familiar with your concern.”

Arthur frowns. “What does that mean?”

Merlin waves a hand. “Oh, just that it’s a prelude to more chores and things to do.”

Is that…true?

“Yes.”

Did he say that out loud?

“Also yes.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Merlin, we’re not coming up with lists and lists for chores for you to do.”

“Really? With how many you all constantly give me, here I finally thought I’d cracked the code as to why.”

Leon steps forward. “We’re not coming up with things to give you, Merlin, nor are we intending to gossip behind your back.”

“So what are you doing?”

“We’re worried,” Lancelot repeats, “about you.”

“Well, I’m right as rain, no need to worry.”

“Lie.”

Merlin’s eyes go wide and he stares at Leon. The knight smiles ruefully and takes another little step forward.

“Lie,” he repeats gently, “you don’t have to lie to us, Merlin.”

Merlin’s mouth thins. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you, then.”

“Why not—“

“No,” Arthur breaks in, causing Merlin to swing his head around again, “no, if Merlin doesn’t want to tell us he doesn’t have to.”

Gwaine looks on the verge of protest, but another look from Lancelot is enough to quell him. He sinks into the chair and tosses an apple to Merlin.

“At least eat something,” he says by way of explanation, “you’ve not eaten anything since lunch.”

Merlin looks very confused—good, now he’s just like the rest of them—but bites into the apple nonetheless. His gaze travels around the room before coming to rest on Leon.

“Why are you all concerned?”

“Because you won’t let us complement you, Merlin,” Leon says softly, “you believe that every time we touch you we intend to hurt you, and you believe that this is deserved because you are a bad person.”

The flabbergasted look on Merlin’s face is almost enough to make Arthur laugh. Almost.

“How…”

“We notice things, Merlin,” Leon says patiently, “we notice you.”

Lancelot snorts. “Good going, mate, you’ll freak him out.”

“Um—there’s nothing worth noticing about me—“

“Not we all know that’s not true,” Gwaine says, and if it had been any other time it would’ve sounded like the next pick-up line at the tavern, “you’re worth noticing, Merlin.”

Merlin’s gaze darts back and forth, finding no disagreement in any faces.

“What—what were you concerned about?”

“Aside from what we just told you?”

“But I don’t—why is that a problem?”

Arthur swallows a curse. “Are you asking why we’re upset that you believe you’re a bad person and you deserve to be treated badly?”

“…yes?”

“Because you’re not a bad person,” Elyan says, “and you don’t deserve to feel like everyone’s about to hurt you.”

Gods, the look of disbelief on Merlin’s face hurts.

“You don’t know that,” he says lowly, setting the apple down, “you don’t know that.”

“Sure we do.” Elyan uncrosses his arms. “We know you, Merlin.”

“I don’t think you do.”

A look passes around the group of knights. Elyan smiles.

“I know that Gwen came home and told me she’d made a friend the first week you arrived in Camelot. I know that you’ve reminded us what family means. I know that you care, Merlin, about your friends, because they’re important to you.”

Merlin blinks in confusion.

“I know you’re a strong man,” Percival says, “and not just because you can lift the packs for the horses without complaining. But you work hard, because you know you can, and so that people don’t have to. You provide what you can because you know what it’s like to have nothing.”

“I—I—“

“I know you’re brave,” Lancelot says softly, standing, “I know you feel the same fear that we all do and you stare it straight in the face.”

He pauses, takes one step closer.

“I know you don’t chase the glory of being brave, but the feeling of being brave and using it.”

“Guys, I—“

“I know what you’ve done.”

Merlin’s face goes pale at Leon’s words.

The knight tilts his head to the side and smiles.

“I’ve been around the longest,” he says in a near whisper, “and I have seen the changes from when you arrived in Camelot until now. I’ve seen the differences, not just in the other men in this room but in Camelot.”

He lays a hand on his chest.

“I know that you’ve made me prouder to serve this kingdom than many others that have tried.”

Poor Merlin is shaking right now, his fingers trembling on the edge of the table. He looks around in confusion, terribly frightened, sending more aches through Arthur’s chest.

“You wouldn’t say that—“ he gasps— “you wouldn’t say that if you knew the truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That—that I—“ Merlin’s breaths start to ring in the chamber— “I—I—“

“That you have magic?”

Merlin’s head jerks around to stare at Arthur. Arthur raises his hands and takes a step closer. Merlin flinches.

“It’s alright, Merlin,” Arthur says softly, “I’m not angry. I’m not going to hurt you. You have magic, though, right?”

“Yes—yes, I—but I’ve only ever used it for—for you Arthur, I—“

“Easy,” he soothes, fighting the urge to reach out and pull him close, “I know. It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” Merlin all but whimpers, “it’s not okay, it’s bad, it’s bad and I’m bad, I’m bad—“

“You’re not.”

“I am!”

Merlin yanks his arms to his sides, curling them tightly around himself, much to the protest of the knights. His fingers whiten as he clutches the sides of his tunic.

“I’m bad, bad people get hurt, you don’t—you don’t touch bad people.”

“Merlin,” Arthur breaks in softly, “Merlin, sweetheart, I’m going to come over to you.”

He can hear the quickly stifled gasps and Gwaine’s ‘oh shit’ as he inches towards Merlin. The poor man doesn’t move, but the tremors get worse and worse the closer Arthur gets.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs, “I won’t hurt you, sweetheart, do you believe me? That I won’t hurt you?”

“I—I—“

“Because I won’t,” he promises, still fighting the urge to swoop the poor thing into a hug, “I’ll never hurt you, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not bad, Merlin, and you certainly don’t deserve to be hurt.”

“You don’t know that,” comes the strangled whisper, “you don’t know what I’ve done.”

“But I know you, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, “and that’s enough.”

He can’t stop the concerned noise at Merlin’s huff of disbelief.

“It’s enough, sweetheart, it’s—hey! Easy, easy,” he soothes as Merlin’s knees buckle and he catches him before he can hit the ground, “I’ve got you, shh, shh, you’re alright.”

“Oh,” Lancelot murmurs as Merlin starts to shiver terribly, “oh, Merlin, you’re touch starved.”

“Touch starved?”

“He’s not been touched for a very long time,” Lancelot murmurs, hustling to join them on the floor, scooping Merlin’s legs into his lap, “and so he’s not used to it, but he needs it.”

“We all need touch?”

“Yes, otherwise our bodies get…unhappy.” Lancelot shakes his head. “I’m sure Gaius could explain it more. The short version is humans aren’t built to hold each other at arm’s length.”

Arthur tightens his grip on the lapful of shaking Merlin he has. There’s a cold nose buried in the crook of his neck, arms looping awkwardly around his shoulders. Distantly, he hears the scufflings of the other knights as they move closer.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” he fins himself whispering, “we’ve got you, we won’t hurt you, you’re safe, you’re good, we have you, it’s alright, now…”

Poor Merlin is still shuddering terribly.

“Shh, shh, easy, just try and relax, we have you…”

Since when has Merlin been this cold?

“Oh, I’m definitely hugging you every day,” Gwaine mutters, helping to prop Merlin up away from the table.

“Why—“ Merlin swallows— “why are you all so warm?”

“You’re cold,” Arthur says, “we’re helping.”

“I’m—I’m—what is it? Touch—touch—“

“Touch starved,” Lancelot offers gently, “yes, Merlin.”

“You’re helping?”

Gwaine shifts behind him. “We’re helping.”

“You’re not…mad?”

“No, Merlin, we’re not mad.”

“I’m not bad?”

Arthur tightens his grip. “Never, Merlin.”

“You—I can—I can stay?”

“Yes, Merlin,” comes the chorus of knights, “for as long as you like.”

Arthur is still upset, very confused, and more than a little overprotective right now.

But so is Merlin.

And they’re…they’re starting to figure it out.

One thing’s for sure: Arthur’s definitely pulling Merlin into bed to cuddle with him instead of getting up in the morning.

#merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #arthur pendragon #merthur fic #merthur #fic #dragonbabbles

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

By the king’s hand 🐍 V

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers (this chapter, slight oral, handjob/fingering, degradation)

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You leave the capital but you can’t break away from your keeper.

Note: Hopefully I can work on my masterlist updates today! So keep an eye out on @darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The king hadn’t been gone long before your departure was set and the palace set to readying the horses and their riders. Loki presented you with a maid’s dress and apron and had you dress the part for the journey to his brother’s manor of Thunder Lodge.

“Keep your head down,” he bid as you changed, “If any should wonder why you are unfamiliar, you will explain that you have recently been re-allocated among the staff. When we do arrive, if any do question your duties, you will say you tend to one of the lords.”

There were a dozen servants in the cart with you, packed in among chests and other luggage. As you rocked with its motion, you could see him and hear his voice still.

“Do not mention me. Once all is settled, you will join me and remain in my chambers until we return to the road.” He fixed his hair in the glass as he spoke. He was agitated as he continued to find ways to keep his hands busy. “And at last, I might show you truly the extent of your sentence.”

You squeezed your thighs together as you pressed yourself to the side of the cart. You could remember so clearly the way his tongue felt and that joyous flame which had overtaken our core. It made you sweat to think on it and his promises of more only added to your unwanted fervour. Your spite was splintered by your sinful want.

The secrecy made it feel worse. It assured you that it was wrong. Certainly, a bed warmer was not unheard of, mistresses far more common, but Loki’s insistence upon deception made you anxious. Perhaps, it added to his amusement. Or perhaps he was ashamed to lay with a commoner. It truly didn’t matter so you pondered little on his whims.

Camp was made just after dark. The moon beamed down on the party and you slept among the staff and the horses. You didn’t expect Loki to call for you nor were you disappointed. Yet you thought of him. You couldn’t shake him.

Even as you thought of sneaking away, he lingered in your mind. He warned you that you would not go unobserved and you hadn’t. You noticed the guard and how he stayed close to the servants’ cart. His grey eyes as they found you amid the bunch. He was one of esteemed warriors assigned to the king’s personal guard and yet he wore the mail of the common palace sentinel. You both wore disguises and both knew each other to be interlopers.

The party rose with the sun. It wasn’t long before you were in the cart again. You dozed for some minutes but woke as you were jostled roughly. You watched the winding path and the trees peter out to tall grasses and fields of yellow, blue, and red petals.

Your vision streaked as your head spun; something about this trip made you anxious, not that you had felt anything but in the last days. There was a foreboding deep in your stomach and it had you fidgeting as sweat beaded under the collar of your dress.

You had never been far from the capital, you never had the reason or the means. You were further then than you had ever been. The great stone pillars of Hammers Bough rose around you and opened up to the city that marked the threshold of Thunder Lodge.

The oldest of the royal houses, Thunder Lodge was an implacable fortress said to be built on the will of the gods. It had once been the capital until a great storm swept in from the sea and flooded out the city. It had since been rebuilt but the royals and their court had since moved to the current capital of Starseed.

The gates of the royal abode were open as the king’s retinue approached and within, silks hung from the walls bearing the crest of the major houses of the realm. The sky was dimming as the sun began its decline and the August afternoon began to cool. The progression had made good time on the road but still with little time to prepare for the next day’s events.

At the rear of the train, you peered past the horses and the nobles and their carriages as a booming voice broke over the din. The blonde prince greeted his dark-haired brother before he could dismount and nearly pulled him from his saddle with his gruff handshake. Loki righted himself and slid down to his feet. The two men were similar in height, though Thor was twice as broad.

As the lords and their wives, daughters, and sons, began to deploy, you lost sight of the sons of Odin. You were forced from your haze by the servant next to you and you hopped down from the cart as the others began to unload the chests. You joined them, straining beneath the great weight as your skirts bunched between your legs with each bend.

You wiped your dusty hands on your apron as you caught your breath and readied to care a heavy chest up through the servants’ doors with another girl in brown wool. You paused as you caught the eye of the covert guard. He fingered the pommel of his sword as he squinted at you. The dented armor of his disguise did little to disassemble his stature.

You grabbed the leather handle of the chest and heaved it from the dirt. You followed the other girl along the line of servants to the doors. Inside, the resident staff directed the visitors and instructed them according to their master. The servants who had no specific liege, were to remain in the kitchens.

You let the other girl, Hanna, take the lead and left the chest in Lady Ulna’s chambers. You returned to the lower floors and exited through the same doors. Slowly, the toil was thinning as the nobles were welcomed through the front doors.

As you neared the cart, you were caught by your arm and thrust behind it. The armored guard shoved you against the wood as his hand returned to his sword.

“Stay,” he snarled. “Can’t have you getting lost.”

You stared up at him. A dark haired man with broad shoulders and a thick beard beneath his helm. He was similar to Thor in build, perhaps bigger.

“He thinks I will run?”

“He knows you to be a trespasser,” the man shrugged, “It is not beyond you to stray.”

“And you think I could outpace you?” You scoffed. “I haven’t tried upon this journey.”

“There has been little opportunity to do thus and I assure you, you wouldn’t make it two steps beyond my grasp, girl,” he glanced around and watched the other servants. “The king has assigned you as my personal duty. It is not what I’d prefer but I have always served well and you would not stain my reputation.”

You said nothing and crossed your arms as you leaned against the cart. He felt around at his belt and dug out a strip of dried meat from a leather pouch. He chewed and grumbled as the din of voices faded beyond the tall door of the palace and the servants went about their labor.

“Alright, best have you away,” he made to grab you again and you drew away.

“I can follow,” you assured him, “You don’t need to drag me.”

His nostrils flared and he shook his head. “I should like to,” he muttered but didn’t try again as he waved you back down to the servants doors.

Within, he asked a scullery where the king would be lodged and nodded at her directions. He continued on, prodding you back into step and strayed away from the path of other servants.

“She said the other way,” you intoned.

“I know my way,” he growled, “Now, quiet, girl.”

He led you up a winding staircase wordlessly, trailing behind you in his armour. When you reached the top, he ducked through the low archway and led you through the maze like corridors until he happened upon the more lively passages. A pair of doors was open as the guard approached the boy Hal who stood by the frame.

“Magnus,” Hal’s voice cracked as he saw the guard and his eyes peeked at you.

“The king does not want any suspicion. Keep her hidden in the bedchamber as the luggage is unloaded. I will be close.” He nudged you forward. “Hurry, before she is noticed.”

Hal nodded and waved you within. The boy was terrified of the much larger guard and you couldn’t blame him. You stepped through the doors as the servant scurried to open the bedchamber doors. Magnus lingered by the entrance as his armor clinked against the stone.

“Please, miss, the king would be unhappy if you are discovered.” Hal warned. “You must remain and keep quiet.”

You wondered at why such caution was being taken but merely nodded. The boy was only doing his duty and he was surrounded by cruel men. You walked the perimeter of the bedchamber and turned back to him.

“We both know the king to be mean-hearted,” you said, “I will do as you say.”

“I must close the doors,” he said as he retreated.

You tilted your head and spun back. You went to the window as the doors shut with a click. You gazed out from behind the silk drapes and that same stone set in your heart. A foreign prison was no less a trap.

🐍

When the servants finished their work, Hal knocked and asked after you. He was a kind boy, not very talkative, and nearly completely silent in the presence of the king. You affirmed that you were as well as you could be and he left to return with a plate for your supper. You sat at the small round table in the bedchamber as he set down the covered dish.

“What duties await you now?” you asked.

He blanched and blinked. He lowered his head as his muddy brown hair fell over his forehead. “I will wait for the king.”

“Will you sit with me?”

He raised his head and gaped at you. “I don’t-- I don’t know that it is permitted.”

“You are not allowed to speak with me?”

“The king has never said it but I do not… speak with many.” He confessed.

“Oh,” you lifted the lid of the plate, “Well, there is very much food here and I have a small stomach. I will need someone to share with and I must admit, I am lonely for company.”

“I don’t know,” he rubbed his hands together nervously.

“I will take the blame for it, if the king is displeased.” You offered, “What good does it do you sitting in the next room alone?”

His brows drew together and he looked around. Cautiously, he pulled out the other chair and sat. You pushed the plate to the middle of the table and took a chunk of cheese. He shyly took a slice of the thick bread and bit into it. You could see he was nervous. You caught his eyes on you several times and a blush upon his cheeks.

“I’m not a whore,” you said sharply. “The king might put me in the position but… I am just a woman.”

“I didn’t--”

“Well, we both know why I am here but I can’t bear you looking at me so.” You reproached. “I used to make pots and the like. I worked in a shop. I suspect I am little different than you.”

“The king says you are a criminal,” Hal nibbled between words.

“Well, in a sense, yes,” you tapped the table with your fingertips, “I ventured onto castle grounds without permission but it is no great crime.” You bent your arm on the wood and cupped your chin. “Does the king say anything else of me?”

“Not to me,” Hal took a carrot from the plate, “He commands me, that is all.”

“As he does me.” You sat up, “We are both bound to his will.”

The boy glanced away guiltily. “I don’t think you a whore. I’m sorry.”

“It is fine,” you assured him, “I am not offended. I would not share my plate if I was.”

He chewed for a time and took another morsel from the plate. Finally, he dared to look at you again.

“I’ve heard him… hurt you.” Hal said quietly, “You shouldn’t goad him so.”

You chuckled and took a deep breath. “It is not hard to do so.”

“But if you were more amenable--”

“You are young. You can’t understand,” you wiped your hands on your apron, “But my resistance is all I have. And there is nothing the king can offer me but pain, so I’d rather meet it with gull than grace.”

Hal frowned. He thought but only looked more confused. He sniffed and shifted in his seat.

“I should go prepare for the king,” he stood, “He is of little patience when his brother is near.”

“Alright,” you sat back, “I will not mention this to him.”

“Thank you,” Hal neared the door and paused as he looked back. He smiled before he ducked into the receiving chamber and your lips curved slightly in kind. Then his words settled in your mind, ‘prepare for the king’. You would have to deal with Loki eventually.

🐍

The door slammed and had you rigid. You spent the hours since your arrival pacing the room and watching through the window. Hal appeared once more to clear your plate but didn’t say much as he returned to the task of unpacking the king’s luggage.

You heard Loki’s voice from the receiving chamber and you went to the bedroom door. You peered through as he swayed on his feet and Hal struggled to unclasp his cap from his shoulders. The king was barely aware of the boy as he drunkenly smiled at the walls.

Finally, Hal freed the length of green silk and hung it. The king staggered forward and caught himself against the settee. His eyes flicked up and caught yours. He smirked and stood straight. He raised a finger.

“Boy, you can go. I trust I can tend to myself tonight,” Loki declared, “And I have help should I require it.”

Hal bowed his head with a quiet ‘your majesty’. He peeked over at you as he went to the door. He reluctantly left you and the door closed gently in his stead. The king ambled forward and reached out for you as he stumbled. You could only catch him as he threatened to topple.

“Look at you, mouse,” he slurred, “Dressed as a maid. How silly!”

He leaned on you heavily and too afraid to drop him, you turned and angled him into the bedroom. His arms fell down your back and he squeezed your ass through the layers of wool and linen. You grimaced and managed to get him onto one of the chairs. He sat sideways and slumped against the back with an arm bent over the top.

He hiccupped and pushed his legs apart. He swung his leg as he looked at you and hummed.

“Do take off that ridiculous attire,” he slithered, “You will serve me but I expect more than a dusting.”

You stared at him and hesitated. You touched the apron across your front and he sat up and snapped his fingers.

“I am your king!” He proclaimed. “I have bid you undress for me, wench!”

He slapped his thigh and you flinched. You reached back and untied the apron. You turned and tossed it over the low bench against the wall. You undid the straps of your smock and shimmied out of the skirt. You left it atop the apron and removed the long white linen underdress. Your shift slipped easily down your figure as you spun back to him and raised your chin.

You slid your feet from your slippers and rolled down the stockings. You stood naked and glared at him as he admired you. Your crossed your arms as his gaze made you shiver and he grabbed onto the chair as he nearly fell over.

“Here,” he waved you forward with two fingers, “Get me out of this...” he pushed himself to his feet with effort, “Shit!”

His voice warbled between quiet and loud as the alcohol made him clumsy. You crossed to him and his hands clapped your shoulders as he held himself up. You looked up at him as he leaned dangerously and reached up to unbutton the high collar of his overcoat. His hands fluttered up your neck and cradled your face.

He bent and his nose touched yours. He smiled and swayed you with him.

“You’re mad at me.” He sang. “I do love it when you sneer so.”

“I’m not mad,” you worked down the front of his jacket, “You need to stand straight so I can get this off.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” he stood and let his arms drop so you could push the brocade down them. “Or perhaps you are impatient. You wish a repeat of our last meeting.” He snickered, “Does your cunt ache for me?”

You tore his coat off entirely and strode away to hang it over a chair. When you returned to him, he bent for you to remove his tunic and his hands grazed you sides.

“I did expect a slap for that one,” he taunted, “I will only have to try harder…” He looked down, “Speaking of hard.”

His trousers tented as you unlaced them. He sat for you to slide his boots off with his socks and stood again as you pushed his leggings down. His erect member was hard to ignore as he was completely naked and unstable. You looked him in the face and narrowed your eyes.

“I am not angry at you because I despise you already,” you said, “It is hatred you feel from me.”

He chuckled and pulled you to him, his arms around your waist as he pressed himself to you.

“You hate what I make you feel because you are too proud to admit that you want me,” he purred, “And too afraid of what you’ve never known.”

“Oh, let go of me, you drunken fool,” you pushed on his arms. “You are like to have us both on the floor.”

He winked and slapped your ass again. He drew away but took your hand as he did. He neared the bed and sloppily snuffed the lamp with a blow. The chamber was dark as he flopped onto the mattress and dragged you down beside him. You snarled as he rolled you against him and stretched your arm across him. His other hand danced over the scars along your back.

“I am drunk,” he admitted and played with your hand, “I had to imbibe to bear my brother’s nonsense.” He guided your hand down and closed it around his cock. “And I do require a release as I find myself riled.”

You gripped him but did not move your hand as his fell away. You breathed darkly over his chest and his other arm hugged you tighter.

“Would you rather your mouth?” He taunted, he slipped his arm beneath yours and turned his body slightly, “Or you do long for reciprocity?”

He pushed his fingers between your legs and found your bud. You squeezed your thighs against him and he rubbed you roughly.

“Go on, don’t just hold it,” he hissed as toyed with you.

Slowly, you moved your hand up and down his length. Your legs twitched as your cunt slickened beneath his touch. He explored your folds as he held you to him and you stroked him almost without thought. Your hand kept time with him as he lured you to the edge and dangled you there. His breath smelled of wine as his grazed your skin and he pressed his nose against your hair.

“Come on,” he whispered, “Almost there.”

He shoved his hand between your legs and felt along your entrance. He pushed a finger inside and you gasped. Your rhythm faltered but he urged you on with a groan. You were too overwhelmed to stop. That unearthly delight began to gather in your loins, deeper as he slid another finger into and rocked his hand against your clit.

You rasped, then moaned, and felt his body begin to quake. The noise of your wet cunt underlined your heady pants and he had you on your back as he turned onto his side and kept you against him. Your legs splayed open around his hand and your eyes lolled back in your head.

You exclaimed as your walls clenched his fingers and you came. He climaxed in quick succession as warmth seeped down your palm and coated his member. He spasmed and pulled away from you as he grew overly sensitive but kept his fingers inside of you. He stilled his hand and sunk to his knuckles as he explored your depths.

“I can only imagine how you’ll feel around my cock,” he said. “But I should like to remember the first.”

He slipped his hand away from your cunt and sighed as he rolled onto his back. He lifted his fingers to his lips and licked them. He purred and sucked them clean before trailing down to his pelvis. He tutted.

“I am a mess,” he said, “You’ve made a mess of me.”

You sat up, trembling and turned to climb off the bed. “I will fetch a cloth then--”

“You will not,” he grabbed your arm as you held your wet hand aloft. “You will clean me up yourself.”

“Wha--”

“Your mouth,” he pushed your hand towards your face. “Taste me.”

You stared at the silhouette of your hand in horror. You hoped he could not see your face. You gulped and brought your hand to your lips. You touched your finger with the tip of your tongue and reluctantly dragged it over your skin. He released you and pushed himself up on his elbows as he watched you in the dim.

One, two, three, four fingers and your thumb. You lowered your hand in shame and he nodded at his loins. You stifled a grumble and bent over him. His cum had cooled and was sticky as you closed your eyes to the revolting task. He groaned as you tried not to hear him and when you finished, he pet your head like an obedient dog.

“Ah,” he sighed and drew you up against him once more, “I feel it. You are mad now.” He yawned and tickled your hip, “Perhaps we might take it up on the morrow.”

“You are vile,” you sneered.

He snickered and pinched your ass. “I never denied such a claim, little mouse.”

#loki #dark!loki #dark loki #loki x reader #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #mcu #marvel #thor #by the king's hand #series #medieval #medieval au #medieval!au #king!loki

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rolandtowen · 3 years

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Prince Zuko was a harsh, entitled boy.

Firelord Zuko is a ruler who makes amends. - a study in the various side characters that Zuko came across in his banishment, and how he repays his past actions.

Read Chapter One on ao3 or under the cut! TW for referenced non-con and colonialism

[I believe @flamehotman and @flameomcfirey wanted to be tagged?]

Chapter One: Song

We will get there when we get there, don't you worry Feel bad about the things we do along the way But not really that bad We inhaled the frozen air Lord, send me a mechanic if I'm not beyond repair

- The Mountain Goats

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon.

Zuko was meeting with the agricultural council, a collection of both scholars and farmers, to discuss best practices for renewing the Fire Nations agricultural trade. For so many decades, the Fire Nation out-sourced its agriculture to land in the colonies and imported much of its food. But with the land being given back, the Fire Nation was either going to have to begin growing its own food again, or import their food at a fair price. The economic committee decided on Monday that reviving the Fire Nation farms would be far more cost effective - and of course, would create more jobs in the Fire Nation. With the war over, the number of soldiers that the military required had dropped dramatically, and there were many citizens without work. Zuko had instated severance benefits for unemployed soldiers - the ones not found guilty of war crimes of course, mostly the young recruits - but it couldn't last forever.

It was maddening. Every time Zuko unraveled one problem, he undoubtedly found or created another one. He was trying, really trying, to keep his people safe. But he also had a duty to the rest of the world. The nations that his lineage colonized, pillaged, and destroyed. He resists the urge to write to Aang, to ask him how he does it, how he balances all of the nations in every action he takes. But Aang is busy, all of his friends are, spread thin to the four corners of the world.

Uncle visits him occasionally, when the letters from staff concerned about Zuko's health pile up on his desk. One too many servants have found him, asleep at his desk, face down in treaty papers. But Uncle has his hands full. He already splits his time enough between the Jasmine Dragon and Ember Island, looking after Azula.

Azula.

She was improving, and that's really all Zuko can ask for. He sees her a couple of times a month, pours her a cup of tea, and they sit on the balcony of their vacation-house-turned-mental-retreat. Most of the time, they don't talk. Zuko won't push her; he remembers his silence in his first few months of being banished, how Uncle had to coax him to say anything at meals. Sometimes the only words he uttered in a day were in prayer before meditation. Zuko had thought to himself, speaking out got me into this mess: I'll never speak again.

He's not sure what words were exchanged between Azula and Ozai before he left her and went to burn down the Earth Kingdom, but he can guess it wasn't good. Few of his father's words were.

So they sit and drink their tea. Sometimes, on a good day, Zuko will fix up Azula's hair for her, and she'll reveal some bits of information that he files away for future examination. Something like, I saw Mom before you came with Master Katara. Or she'll double check her reality, asking, you let Ty Lee and Mai out of jail, right? and Zuko will say yes, her friends are safe, they should be visiting any day now.

As painful as seeing her may be, spending time with Azula is far preferable to sitting through an agricultural council meeting.

He looks down at the paper in front of him, a comprehensive budget list for all of the supplies needed to revitalize the Fire Nation's agricultural sphere. Dozens of machines that he's sure Sokka had a hand in inventing, hundreds of varieties of seeds that Omashu is generously selling to them, and -

Thousands of ostrich-horses.

"Councilor Yichen, can you elaborate on the number of animals in this budget? Certainly with the machines we'll provide, farmers will not need so many working livestock."

Councilor Yichen stands, giving a little bow in Zuko's direction. "Of course, Lord Zuko. While the machines will certainly boost productivity, we only have enough for one per farming village at this point. Each family needs at least one working animal, if not to plow the fields, then to transport goods. We decided on ostrich-horses on a recommendation from farmers in the Earth Kingdom colonies, who found them to be invaluable. An ostrich-horse is, in many ways, more valuable than a machine."

Zuko's stomach settles uncomfortably, but he isn't entirely sure why. "Thank you, Councilor. I understand now."

Yichen gives another little bow before he sits, and the rest of the meeting goes as planned, with the exception of a strange seed of unknown guilt now growing in Zuko's stomach.

"Uncle, do you remember when you made tea out of that poisonous plant?"

Uncle laughs, hands faltering as he pours Zuko a cup of jasmine tea. "I remember, Nephew. How could I ever forget?"

"Do you remember the girl who helped you?"

Uncle takes a sip of the warm tea. "Song. Her mother made the best roast duck." He looks at Zuko out of the corner of his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

Zuko looks out over the gardens. He's able to see the whole palace grounds from where they're seated on the second-floor balcony, watching the sun rise. As far as the eye can see, Zuko is upheld as a flawless ruler, his word taken as law. He's sick of it.

"I stole her ostrich-horse," he murmurs into his tea, taking a sip to calm his nerves. "I just remembered, in that agricultural meeting a few days ago. I - I never knew how essential those were to farmers, I just thought I was taking their ride." He turns to fully face his Uncle. "But I think I took a lot more than that."

Uncle meets his eyes with understanding. "And now you want to give it back."

"I know there's no way for me to fully apologize for how I acted in exile, but it feels like I have to try." The cup quivers a bit in his hands, and so his hands drop to his lap. "I'll need someone to watching over the Nation while I'm gone."

Uncle places one of his warm hands over Zuko's shaking ones. "I'm sure I can deal with your advisors for a few days." He squeezes his hand just slightly around Zuko's. "I'm proud to see that even in a few short months, your wisdom as a ruler is growing. Go, make your amends. The Nation will be here when you return." Uncle calls for Zuko's secretary and tells her to clear as much of the Firelord's schedule as she can for the next week. Their voices fade into the background as Zuko stares into his tea, wracking his brain to try and figure out how to track down just one girl in the entire Earth Kingdom. Sending scouts or soldiers from town to town is a recipe for disaster, and the Earth Kingdom villages have been traumatized enough. He supposes he could always call in a ride on his favorite air bison but - this feels like something he should do on his own.

If Song hates him, it might be hard for her to show it in front of the Avatar.

So he'll go alone. No friends, no royal guard. He'll come into Song's town the same way he came last time - defenseless. She can hate him if she wants, he'll give her that.

And he'll try to give back what he took from her.

He packs light, pulling an old tunic and boots from the back of his wardrobe. Though they've been thoroughly cleaned by the palace staff, the scent of campfires and smoke linger upon them. He grabs a cloak - the Earth Kingdom will be starting to chill at this time of year - and he slips out of the palace, using the servant's entrance to get onto the streets unseen.

Autumn comes quietly in the Earth Kingdom. The trees slowly lose their color, giving the last of their strength into vibrant leaves. Soldiers previously conscripted to fight in the war have either returned to their families or have gone to tend to the scorched earth where the Phoenix King made landfall. They clear the debris of fallen airships, making room for the earth to slowly restore herself.

Song envies those soldiers.

Their lives have changed with the ending of the war, but Song's life continues on, its mundane routine continuing over and over again. She cares for a small garden, crafts herbal remedies for her neighbors, and tries to make her mother comfortable. She curses the Spirits for their cruel sense of humor - her mother survives the greatest war ever seen, lives through the attempted invasion of her homeland, only to be struck down by frailty months after the end of it all. Hasn't she suffered enough? Song has whispered those words to the woods on her way to the well time and time again. Now, her body is just - stopping.

Her mother is dying and there's nothing she can do.

Song knows all living things have their time. And she's seen too many living beings go before their rightful time. But she never imagined her mother's time would be in a time of peace. Wasn't ending the war supposed to stop all this pain? Apparently not. She tries not to become bitter, knows that that's the last thing her mother would want for her, but - it hurts. And there's not a damn thing she can do about it.

The leaves from dying trees crackle under her feet.

She arrives at the well, alone. Her hometown is just barely beginning to wake up, rising from its slumber as mothers bring in dry clothes from the clotheslines and fathers begin to toil in the fields. Children run freely from street to street, with a joy that was forbidden during the Fire Nation's occupation. They're kicking at a ball, passing it from one pair of bare feet to another, and Song smiles at them. Someday, maybe.

She sets her water jug on the stone wall of the well and begins to lower the bucket before hearing the ball make impact and a man's voice grunt, "oof!". She spins rapidly around to see a young man, rear planted firmly in the dirt, one hand rubbing at his forehead while the other wipes at a watering eye. The group of children stand, frozen, and she gives them a look, and unspoken command to stay and apologize to the man they just hit with their ball.

"Here, take my hand," Song holds out her right hand, and the man takes it. When the young man meets her eyes, she almost drops him back in the dirt. He has those amber eyes, and she can just see under his loose hair - a burn scar. "Lee?!"

He stands, brushing dust from his cloak, and she catches the hints of red fabric that lie beneath. She recoils. He sighs. "Um, about that." Song sees his hands tremble against his cloak. "My name's not Lee - and I'm from the Fire Nation."

Song reacts as if she'd been slapped. She trips backwards, away from Not Lee, landing hard against the stone of the well. Her leg is aching, feels like its on fire all over again, looking into those amber eyes.

"How could you? I let you into my home." She braces her hands against the well, her leg threatening to give out at any moment. "Now it all makes sense, that you stole from me. That's all you ashmakers are good for." She spits, and it lands on his scarred cheek. "You take land that isn't yours, take women that aren't yours, you take lives!" Her leg finally collapses, and she sinks to the ground with her back against the well. Not Lee makes a move, and she throws her hands up. "Don't you touch me," she grits out, clutching at her leg. He stills, and she wraps her arms around herself, bringing her knees to her chest. "I pitied you, you know? I thought your mother must've been - I looked at your eyes and thought you were a victim like me, like my mother." Her whole body is trembling, but she doesn't care. "But I bet you know who your father is, I bet you're proud to have his eyes."

Not Lee mirrors her, curling in on himself, not even bothering to wipe his face clean. "I do know who my father is, but I'm not proud of him." He looks up to meet her eyes, and Song is struck by how young he looks. When she'd last seen him, he'd looked gaunt, malnourished, with sharp cheekbones. Now, his face had filled out and he looks - young? The scar makes him look older as well, but when you look on the opposite side of his face - all she can see is a kid, couldn't be older than a teenager.

And he was crying.

Stubborn as he is, Not Lee is resolutely ignoring the tears slowly falling from his eyes, but nevertheless - they fell. Song didn't expect that reaction. Tears are not what she expected from a Fire National. Anger, rage, violence - those are the things she's tasted at the hands of firebenders, but this? This is new.

"I'm sorry," Not Lee whispers, looking at his feet. "I came to apologize, I wanted to repay you for your kindness and return what I took. But I think I've overstayed my welcome." He scrubs at his face roughly with the heel of one hand. "But I am, truly sorry. I acted selfishly the last time I was in your home, and I took advantage of your compassion. And I understand that my nation has done even worse. I'm trying to make it better." He pulls his hair back with a band. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I would like to purchase you a new ostrich-horse. And anything else you or your mother may require."

Without warning, Not Lee shifts from his seat position to a bowing one, kneeling with his head pressed to the dry earth. Song stares at him for a small eternity, before realizing that he's waiting, unmoving, for her response. For her judgement.

She lets out a small breath. "Okay," his eyes flick up to hers and her stomach twists. The way he bows is so precise - it must have been drilled into him hundreds of times before. Another thing she wouldn't have expected from a firebender. "Come to dinner."

He stands after she does and gives another slight bow. As they begin the walk back to Song's home, he offers to carry her water jug, and Song feels more weight than one lifted from her.

"What did you say your name was again, young man?" Mei pokes at Zuko's shoulder as she hobbles to the table.

"Mom, I'm sorry about her, she's getting older," Song sets a bowl of fragrant roast duck in front of him and Zuko feels his mouth begin to water.

"No, it's okay, I don't think I've actually properly introduced myself." He takes a quick sip of tea - bracing himself for whatever will happen next - and calmly sets the mug back down. "My name is Zuko," he begins slowly. "AndI'mkindoftheFirelord."

There's the sound of Song dropping a bowl in the kitchen, and Mei leans in a bit closer to Zuko.

"Sorry, dear, could you say that again? My ears aren't what they used to be."

Zuko opens his mouth to respond, but Song slowly enters the room, her eyes narrowed in on Zuko. "You said - you're the firelord?" He nods at her, waiting for her to swing a knife at him, kick him out of their home, call some earthbenders to rough him up -

Before his panic can start to set in, Song runs out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Zuko looks helplessly at Mei.

"Give her a moment." Mei brings her pair of chopsticks to her mouth. "Hmm, she still doesn't make it as well as I used to."

"What about you? Do you hate me?"

Mei sighs, putting her bowl down. "I'm too old for hate, dear. My time in this world is almost over. I can't spend it hating world rulers." She takes a sip of her tea. "But Song? She -" Mei sighs again. "She's been hurt deeply by the Fire Nation, in more ways than one. And it isn't just you. But for a long time, the monarchy has been the embodiment of everything terrible that's ever happened to her. And now you're here, standing in front of her."

Zuko nods. "I understand. And I am sorry, to you as well. I don't think I fully understood the reach of the war. I was always taught that the army acted with honor, that women and children were untouchable." He looks down at his folded hands. "I can see that was false."

"Unfortunately, you are correct." She reaches between them to refill Zuko's cup, then Song's, and hands them both to him. "Go to her. A bit of tea should help bring you some good favor."

The screen door opens and closes, and Zuko finds himself out on the porch. Song sits on the edge, absently massaging her leg, peering into the darkness of the forest.

"Can I join you?"

She shrugs, and he takes that as a yes. Handing over her tea, Zuko sits besides her and tries to find what she sees in the darkness.

For a few minutes, the only sounds are those of them drinking and crickets chirping. Then Song speaks.

"His name was Bao."

Treasured. Precious. Rare.

"That's a lovely name."

"What happened to him?" Song turns abruptly to look at him with shining eyes. "Did he...?"

Zuko shakes his head emphatically. "My Uncle and I traded him to a florist for safe passage to Ba Sing Se. The florist seemed like a good man."

"You went to Ba Sing Se?"

Zuko runs one hand down the back of his neck. "I might have conquered it, actually?"

Sing snorts. "That part I've heard about. You've lived an interesting life, Zuko."

"If by 'interesting' you mean messy, then yes." He sighs. "You had no reason to trust me. Why did you let me back into your home?"

Song laughs, tinged with bitterness. "My mother says I'm too trusting, too gullible." She swirls the dregs of her tea around the bottom of her cup. "But I think there's strength in being kind. And I really did want to forgive you. But you have to be ready."

"And do you think I am?"

She smiles softly at him. "For me, yes. But my guess is I'm not the only person you hurt in exile." She gulps down her remaining tea. "They may not be as forgiving as I am."

"I'm preparing myself for that possibility."

"Does it scare you?"

Zuko ponders it. "I think it does. The idea that I've hurt someone innocent so badly that they may never be able to move past it... that keeps me up at night."

Songs turns towards him, tucking her knees up to her chest. "We can't control how other people see us in this life. How they react to our actions is up to them - all that we can control is our response. You have to be ready to accept that someone may not be ready to forgive you, and you can't let that eat you up." She stares at him intently. "You have to confident that your own actions are enough. That they're good."

It's Zuko's turn to laugh sourly. "Easier said than done," his hand wanders to his scar. "Sometimes I'm still not sure if what I'm doing is right."

"You don't have to do it alone, you know," Song gives him an understanding look. "You need other people around you, Zuko, to remind you what's good."

He huffs, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Do you want to be one of those people?"

"I think you have more than enough goodness surrounding you already. You just have to be confident enough to ask." She sighs, looking back out into the darkness. "Besides, I have to stay here with my mother. She doesn't have long."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do? I could send my healers -"

She shakes her head, cutting him off midsentence. "It's her time." She begins to rub at her scars again. "I just didn't know how much it would hurt. We finally have some peace, and suddenly it's her time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, not for this. It's due to you that she'll be able to die during peacetime." Her hands come to her eyes, wiping tears away before they can spill down her cheeks. "Her biggest fear was that she'd die and leave me alone to fend for myself during the war. You released her from that fear. Of course I forgive you, Zuko. My mother's no longer scared of dying because of you."

The two of them are silent for a long time, watching fireflies flicker off and on in the trees, listening to the crickets sing.

"I'm going to find Bao for you."

Song looks up in surprise. "You don't have to-"

"I want to, I'm sure he's still out there somewhere." Zuko rises from his seat. "If you ever need anything, anything, you write directly to me. I'll tell my staff that you're a priority."

"Are you leaving?" Song stands as well. "You could stay, if you want."

Zuko shakes his head silently. "I have to get back, and travelling by night is best for a Firelord who doesn't want his identity revealed," he smiles, his scarred skin relaxing into it. With that, he pulls his hair out of its topknot, grabs his pack and swords, and starts to disappear into the night.

"Firelord Zuko?" He stops and turns back at the sound of Song's voice. She makes the sign of the flame and bows. "Thank you, for everything." He bows back, lower than protocol dictates, but he doesn't care.

Three weeks pass, and the air has turned bitterly cold.

Song again makes her daily trip to the village well, with snow crunching under her feet instead of dead leaves. The soldiers have returned from their work in restoring fields for the season, and so the village feels alive when she steps into it. Despite the chill, children still run in the street, under the watchful eye of their mothers and fathers. Song feels a twinge of longing, but she tries to focus on the happiness she feels for the children instead. Song sets her water jug on the side of the well, breathing hot air into her palms to warm her hands after touching the freezing stone.

"Excuse me, miss, are you Song?" A voice comes from behind her, and she turns to see two men dressed in red tunics.

"I am," she replies, tucking her hands into the pockets of her hanbok. "And you are?"

They bow to her. "We come on behalf of Firelord Zuko, to deliver a gift." A third man rounds the corner with an ostrich-horse on a tether. "We found him at a desert settlement, he's been well taken care of, but if there's anything you need -"

They're cut off as Song runs to throw her arms around the neck of the ostrich-horse. "Bao!" She strokes his beak, looking into his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

Bao cocks his head to the side, pupils widening as he chirps softly, and then he lets out a loud whinny, pushing his head into Song's chest. He purrs, closing his eyes and relaxes against her.

"Sweet Bao, it's really me, you're really home," Song can feel her eyes dampening, but holds it together as one of the men hands her a bit of parchment.

"A note from the Firelord. He wanted us to remind you that you can write to him anytime you need anything."

Song nods. "And tell him I said 'thank-you' again." Bao whinnies loudly again, and she adds on, "Bao says 'thank-you' too."

"Of course, miss." With a synchronized bow, the men depart, and Song unrolls the parchment.

Song,

I've followed your advice and surrounded myself with good people. It helps.

Give my best to your mother - my Uncle still talks about her roast duck sometimes. I've established a fund specially for women and child victims of the war, inspired by some of what you and Mei shared with me. Write me if you feel like you or anyone in your village wants to apply for it.

And, thank you for trusting and forgiving me. I'll try to keep earning it.

May the Spirits continually bless you,

Zuko

She tucks the parchment into her pocket, fills her jug, and finds herself back in Bao's familiar saddle after more than a year. "Come on, Bao," she says as she takes the lead into her hands, guiding them back to the empty farmhouse.

"Let's go home."

[if you read through this whole thing, go drink some water! I'll know if u don't :) ]

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write-r-die · 3 years

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Prisoner - Part 9

FEBRUARY, 1067 - NORMAN CONQUEST OF ENGLAND

Henry Cavill is a respected Norman baron who has been tasked with finding Thomasin Latymer, an ill-tempered Saxon noblewoman, and returning her to London so the king can marry her off to a cruel Norman invader. The two grow close during the long journey, and Henry puts his own life in danger (more than once) to protect the woman he loves.

Masterlist

“We’ve finally run out of wine,” Roger said mournfully. “I knew sooner or later this moment would come, but now that it’s here I must say I’m grieved for the loss.”

Charlie smiled but didn’t open his eyes. “Shut your eyes. You can dream about all the wine we’ll have in London. They’re all doing it.”

He referred to the sleeping men all around them. They were sprawled out in strange positions even though they were all packed together in two or three large clumps to keep warm. After the events of the last few days – and specifically yesterday afternoon – they were too tired to care if Hammond and the Saxons came back and killed them.

The nuns’ presence was somehow reassuring, too. Surely no one in their right mind would attack a bride of the Church, but that wasn’t the only reason they were relaxed. Sister Aldith and the young nun – she called herself a postulant – had gone around tending to the men’s wounds regardless of how small they were. Sister Aldith was quite maternal, and the men all subconsciously decided that there was nothing to fear with their mother watching over them.

“I wonder if we’ll ever make it to London,” Roger said ruefully. The sky had just begun to lighten; dawn was only an hour or so away and he dreaded the thought of facing another long day.

“We will,” said Charlie. “I will get back to London and have a large drink and a hot bath if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Is that Henry coming out of Lady Thomasin’s tent?”

Charlie cracked his eyes open. Henry was walking toward them and Charlie could already tell he was in a mood.

Henry carefully picked his way through the labyrinth of bodies to reach his brother and friend. Kal, too large and awkward to wade into the crowd, patrolled the perimeter of sleeping men to ensure all were accounted for and sleeping soundly.

“Good morning,” Roger said brightly.

“It’s not morning,” Charlie said pointedly, shutting his eyes again.

“He’s right,” Henry agreed. “There’s no reason for you to be cheery at this ungodly hour, Roger.”

“I’m always cheery.”

“What were you doing in Lady Thomasin’s tent?” Charlie asked.

“Just wanted to be sure all was well.”

“And is it?” asked Roger.

“It was until I woke her,” Henry replied. “I’m going to ride ahead to London. I’ll be there in two days if I only take a handful of men with me.”

“In a hurry?” Roger asked.

“It’s a good idea,” Charlie said. “King William will be wondering where we are. The last thing we need is for him to send someone to fetch us.” And the sooner Henry was in London, the sooner he could ask for her hand, the sooner Charlie’s weeks-long headache over Henry’s shameless pining would be over. “By my reckoning, it will take us four or so more days to get there depending on how long we have to wait for Thomasin to heal enough to ride.”

“And how long it will take to escort the nuns back to their convent,” Roger added.

Henry took a deep breath through his nose. The last thing he wanted to think about was that convent. He had no doubt Thomasin could get away from Charlie and Roger if she wanted to – she need only make up some excuse to set foot on church grounds and she would be granted sanctuary. He just didn’t want to picture it.

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you leaving now?”

“Yes. The sooner the better.”

“All right, then,” said Roger. “We’ll see you in a few days.”

Henry grunted in reply. Then, a moment later, “Make sure she doesn’t get shot again.”

“What are you thinking about?” Stephanie asked.

She woke only a few minutes after Henry left. She’d slept late by the convent’s standards; she would ordinarily be more than halfway through mass in the chapel by now. Instead she was working to mend Thomasin’s gown. It was beyond saving at this point, but it had to hold up until she reached London.

Thomasin lay half on her back and half on her side. She sighed through her nose. “Henry. He called me Tom.”

“That’s awfully familiar of him.”

“I hate being called Tom. It’s a man’s name,” Thomasin continued, ignoring her sister’s statement. “You and Justina are the only ones who call me that and only because you know I hate it.”

Stephanie shrugged.

“He wants to marry me.”

“I know,” Stephanie said.

“What?” Thomasin pushed herself into a sitting position. The pain of exerting her injured arm and shoulder nearly knocked her back down, but she forced herself to stay upright. “How do you know?”

“He told me so,” Stephanie said simply.

Thomasin’s eyes and nostrils widened in rage. “When was this?”

“While you were asleep.”

“And what – he casually mentioned that he’d like to shackle himself to me for the rest of his life?”

Stephanie shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I asked him.” She didn’t look up from her sewing.

“Why in God’s name –”

“You mustn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Tom.”

“Don’t call me Tom!” the younger girl shouted. “What possible reason could you have for asking him if –”

“I haven’t seen you in four years.” Stephanie’s eyes flickered up to Thomasin’s. “Our father is dead now. There’s no one left to look after you. I wanted to know what’s to become of my little sister.” Thomasin averted her eyes so Stephanie wouldn’t see the tears gathering in them. “Will you marry him?”

“Yes, if the king allows it,” Thomasin said. “I’m sure he will.”

“Do you want to marry him?”

Thomasin pulled her eyebrows together. “Are you saying I ought to take my chances with a stranger?”

“No,” Stephanie said. “I’m saying you don’t have to marry at all.”

Henry rode halfway through the night, and when he did stop, it was more for the horses’ sake than his or his men’s. The faster they get to London, the better, to his way of thinking.

He’d grown used to sleeping near Thomasin. Even on the nights when Henry wasn’t in the tent with her, he was always nearby. He worried she would attempt to escape again and somehow hurt herself – or, more likely, one of the men.

Once, he even slept directly outside of the tent; he could’ve reached out and touched her were it not for the sheet of fabric separating them.

Kal took the liberty of snuggling up tight against his master. He fixed his brown eyes on Henry and exhaled through his nose as though he were sighing.

Henry sighed back. “I miss her, too,” he murmured.

They only slept for a few hours; once dawn broke, the men were mounted and riding again. They reached London by nightfall.

Henry went straight from the stables to the throne room without stopping to remove his armor. He instead removed it as he walked, letting the pieces fall to the ground. Jamie, ever the dutiful squire, did his best to catch them all.

During his conquest, William the Bastard had saved the capital, England’s greatest prize, for last.

He invaded in December after first laying siege to the surrounding area to weaken the people’s spirits and make them more pliable to his intentions. He lay waste to the surrounding countryside, cutting off all supply routes to the city, then intentionally left the people to stew for weeks before finally attacking and capturing the city.

It was about a month since Henry had left this castle to return Lady Thomasin at the king’s behest.

Henry had only been to William’s castle once before, but he had the palace’s layout nearly memorized. He did not need to be escorted to the throne room, but a servant led him through the halls anyway for the sake of formality.

He passed a handful of acquaintances and friends but did not stop to speak with them. He was about the king’s business and could not be delayed.

The heavy wooden doors to the throne room opened and the servant fell into a theatrical bow. “Your grace, Baron Cavill’s fourth son, Henry, is here to see you”

“Ah, Henry!” the king called from his seat on the throne. “Do come in.”

William the Conqueror was nearly forty years of age. He was remarkably strong and clever, and no one in the world could rival his skill as a horseman or swordsman; he was growing steadily rounder with age, though, and his brown hair was dappled with grey.

Henry knelt before the raised dais the throne sat upon and put his hand over his heart. “Your grace.”

“Stand,” William said with a smile. He returned to his throne and took a seat. “Henry, I cannot help but notice that you arrived with two dozen knights and no Saxon woman. Has she escaped you?”

Not yet.

“No, Sire. Our party was set upon by a band of Saxon rebels while we were on the road. Lady Thomasin was injured in the fray.”

“Injured how?”

Henry took a deep breath. William would likely blame him for her injuries, since he was the one tasked with protecting her. “Lady Thomasin was struck twice with arrows. One went through the top of her arm, just here –” he pointed to a spot on his arm “ – and the other struck her in the left shoulder from behind. We don’t know if the arrow was meant to kill her or not.”

“Saxons did this?” William asked, brows furrowed. “Didn’t they know she was one of their own?”

Henry cleared his throat. “Her brother is the one who shot her. He’s the finest archer I’ve ever seen; shooting Lady Thomasin was no accident.”

William’s eyes widened in disbelief. “He shot his own sister?”

Henry’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

William shook his head the slightest bit. “Saxons.” They were wild as pagans, this lot, and apparently sororicidal. William wouldn’t say such things about his new subjects of course, but the thought was in his mind as it was in every other Norman’s. “Continue.”

“The arrowhead was trapped within the flesh; we could not remove it. We had to summon healers from an abbey. They had to cut into her shoulder from the front to find the arrowhead and dig it out.”

The king winced in sympathy. “Poor woman. Will she live?”

“Yes. She’s well enough to shout at me, but I want her to recover more before traveling.”

William nodded. “I think that’s wise. I must say I am surprised that you came here to tell me instead of sending a messenger.”

“Lady Thomasin is my responsibility. I thought it only proper to tell you myself.” He took a deep breath to summon his courage. “And I wish to speak to you about another matter concerning the lady.”

William motioned for Henry to stop speaking. “Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after, after you tell me the rest of your tale. Tonight you will eat and rest. And bathe,” he added with a grin. “I fear the ladies at court will swoon if they smell you too closely.”

Henry smiled to himself remembering what happened the last time he attempted to bathe. “Thank you, your grace.”

Henry thought to bathe before sleeping, but after weeks of travel to and from Thomasin’s home, the bed was too warm and inviting to refuse. Kal had already claimed the side closer to the door in case he needed to protect Henry from intruders.

Henry removed the last of his traveling clothes before he flopped down on his stomach beside the snoring beast. He was so tired, he almost didn’t get under the covers.

He fantasized about how he and Thomasin would keep each other warm – how they’d work themselves into a sweat. Her plush lips and agile tongue sucking and licking while his hands were knotted in her thick hair. And later her plush thighs spread wide to cradle his hips, her pink passage wet and waiting to welcome him home.

He imagined her draped over his chest like a heavy blanket. He’d still be sheathed within her, of course, both to increase their chances of conception and because it was warm and comfortable. She’d press her ear to his chest to listen to his heartbeat while he stroked her hair to soothe her. Maybe she’d fall asleep in the middle of arguing with him over some small thing.

He smiled in his sleep.

He did not wake until after noon the next day.

The travelers took a short break to water the horses before resuming the journey to the abbey. Charlie thought it was best for everyone to travel together rather than send the nuns off with only a handful of guards to escort them back to the convent. Thomasin had asked to ride with her sister, but he denied her request. She asked for a horse of her own; he denied her again, instead commanding her to ride with him. “For your comfort,” he explained. The same words Henry had spoken to her on the night he stole her away. She didn’t like hearing them again. She felt like she was being imprisoned all over again.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Stephanie murmured to her sister as they attended to personal matters in the woods.

“I’m not changing my mind,” Thomasin replied firmly. “Besides, Henry’s brother practically has me in chains. He expects me to attempt some sort of escape.” She’d done it before, after all.

“The bride must consent to be married,” Stephanie said. “You could say no.”

Thomasin rolled her eyes.

“You could! And if these Normans are as chivalrous as you say, they won’t –”

“Enough!” Thomasin groaned. She lifted her threadbare skirts and started walking back toward the horses. “I don’t want to discuss this anymore.” The more Stephanie pressed her, the less sure she was of her choice.

She could not survive in a nunnery, she reminded herself. It was smarter to take her chances with Henry, who found her temper amusing, than to be broken like a horse.

That had always been her fear: having to change who she was down to her very core. Because if she changed, she would no longer be herself. And if she did not consent to change, to bend to another’s will, she’d certainly be broken.

“I care for Henry,” Thomasin continued. “And he loves me.” She tightened her grip on the signet ring he gave her. It gave her comfort somehow.

Stephanie huffed. “But do you love him?”

A hot bath, clean shave, good meal, and deathlike slumber revived Henry. He was dressed in clean clothes of a rich blue color that resembled his eyes. He was always charming and well-tempered, but tonight he seemed almost to glow with charisma.

Even dear Queen Matilda, William’s beloved wife, commented on his fine mood when he stopped to greet her when he entered the hall. “How fine you look, Henry,” she said with a wide smile.

“Thank you, madam,” he said, bowing. He flashed her a grin that exposed his fanglike canines. “Strong wine and a soft bed are the best remedies to anything, in my opinion.”

“The wine especially.”

Matilda was short and generously proportioned. Her husband stood some twelve inches above her, and he had to bend down to hear her whenever she whispered to him. She was friendly and kind and William doted on her – he even showed her affection in public. Theirs was a love match.

Henry waited until after supper when all the ladies and children had left the hall to relay his tale to the various knights and barons of William’s court. He’d have to tell it a dozen more times, he imagined, but most of the women, children, and servants at court could hear it from their men.

He left out the parts about being present in her chamber while she dressed and touching her, but he spared no detail when describing her appearance and repeating the things she said. Some of the noblemen present grimaced or remarked that they’d never allow a woman to disrespect them, especially a Saxon woman, but most chuckled good-naturedly.

Henry was thoroughly pleased with everyone’s reactions. He was proud of his woman. He slept well, looking forward to his conversation tomorrow with the king, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

(Sorry for the terrible ending, had to cut it off because the next chapter is long)

@amberangel112 @khadineberry @lunedelorient

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

Text

for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

#servant of evil #lizzie’s dumb book #my writing #original story #salem witch trials #mary warren #mercy lewis

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defenderrosetyler · 3 years

Text

Chapter One

A/N: No real triggers this time!! WC: 1.9k Chapter 1:

“So every person in this book is a fairy tale character?” Emma Swan says to her ten-year-old son.

The boy had introduced himself as Henry, had brought his mother to Storybrooke. Of course, Emma had given Henry up for adoption when she gave birth to him. But to have her son seek her out made Emma uncomfortable. He had come to her claiming to be the savior of the storybook world. Henry spun a tale about a curse and how all of the characters of the Enchanted Forest were stuck in a town called Storybrooke, Maine.

Henry had with him a brown leather storybook that was thick but didn’t appear to be heavy. Henry seemed to carry around with no problem. One thing Emma found off when they arrived into town was the clock tower. As she observed it, she couldn’t help take note of how it never seemed to move. She led Henry back to his mother’s house. Henry’s adoptive mother, Regina Mills, was the mayor of the town. Henry claimed she was the Evil Queen from the story Snow White. Emma found this silly. Then again, Emma wasn’t one for fairytales anyway. Fairytales are for kids.

Inside Granny’s Diner, Sam Winchester sat inside waiting for his brother Dean. Granny’s was usually closed at night since Granny went to work at her bed and breakfast in the mornings, but Ruby was always there at night to serve the night owls who couldn’t sleep.

Ruby wasn’t the only one working the night shift. She worked with Y/N Y/L/N. Hardly anyone saw Y/N working in the morning. This usually led to rumors that Y/N was hiding something. The story was Y/N stayed locked in Rowena’s shop.

Rowena MacLeod was a private woman. However, she was a businesswoman, a loan shark, if you will. Rowena was very good at getting what she wanted through these tactics. She would let her client borrow money with the promise of paying it back fairly and on time. However, many clients don’t read the fine print in her contract. Resulting in them having to pay double or triple what they borrowed. Rowena had helped Sam and Dean’s parents with a large sum of money to keep their business, Winchester Mechanics, afloat. Leaving their two sons, Sam and Dean, to foot the bill. Dean paid her as much as he could, but with not many people coming or going from Storybrooke, business was slow.

This left Sam to find a way to help Dean find a way to help pay Rowena back too. But he wasn’t having great success either. Sam had started working in Mr. Gold’s Pawn shop until he found himself interested in Law. Under Mr. Gold’s tutelage, Sam had become well versed in the laws created by the town council. This led him to also find work in the Sheriff's office as a prosecutor. Often being a rival for his own boss at the Pawn Shop. It only made Mr. Gold admire Sam more.

“Ruby, can you please help them?” Y/N begged, trying to hold back an eye-roll at the two men that walked in together, sitting across from one another. Having a conversation amongst themselves and trying to not get in an argument, again, over the amount of money they owed to Rowena. Their next payment was due within the week, and they didn’t have the funds.

“Sorry, Duckling, it's your turn. I helped them the other day.” She says, giving her a sentimental look.

Ruby had been watching Y/N and Sam’s exchanges cringing internally whenever they walked in the door, knowing Y/N would try and pass her along to either herself or Granny. Ruby heard rumors about why Y/N and Sam had disagreements, but their arguments were getting harsher with each passing day.

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes, grabbing her order pad, heading over to greet Sam and Dean.

“Evening, Y/N,” Dean says pleasantly.

Sam muttered under his breath a greeting, and it sounded like he muttered a nickname only her friends gave her, earning a glare from Y/N in Sam’s direction.

“What is it now, brains?” Y/N says. “Too buried in your debt to Rowena to speak louder and call me a name in front of my face?”

Dean sighed. Here they go again. “Just our usual if you would please,” he says, trying to cut the tension between the two.

Y/N nods glaring at Sam before she heads back to the kitchen.

“You didn’t need to butt in like that,” Sam scoffed. “I had it completely under control.”

“Oh sure, that’s why you and Y/N seem to fight or have some sort of disagreement every time we come in here?” Dean huffed, “Who knows whatever the hell happens when you bump into her while she’s alone at Rowena’s,” Dean sassed, “Oh wait, you’re too busy working at Gold’s shop, fighting for a chance to work a case in his place, or at the jail with Graham,” the elder brother snapped calmly.

“Says the man who works in a shop with no cars to work on,” Sam snapped back, “How’s Amaya? Did you ever fulfill your promise to help her out?

“You keep that bitch out of this,” Dean growled. “I’ll figure something out. For now, I’m gonna see if I can get a second job somewhere.”

“What do you mean? What other job could you get here? Think Granny can hire you as a short-order cook? At least she gets business!”

“It’s something to get the debt paid back to Rowena, Sam,” Dean muttered as Y/N brought out their meals. Both were polite, and their bickering died down, and they went back to talking about their days. As uneventful as they were, they had a lot to talk about.

Y/N sighed as she went back behind the counter, “Ruby, I’m gonna head to bed. Dawn wake-up call comes early.” She says with an eye roll.

“Goodnight, Duckling,” Ruby says, smiling kindly to her, “I’ll clean up.”

===========

Enchanted Forest

“Dean, is target practice really necessary?” Sam says, looking at him. “I need to be looking for Odette, not shooting powdered arrows over at the servants’ asses.”

“And what are you gonna do when you can’t hit your mark?” Dean questioned, “What of Odette needs saving from some Ogres, and you miss?”

“Is that before or after the fact that you're catching fireflies at all hours of the night?” Sam asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Are they for you or to feed the frog that follows you around and hides on your dresser?” he snaps, glaring at the older brother.

“I do not go out at night to catch fireflies for Amaya,” Dean scoffs, “besides, she goes out and catches her own meals.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam grabbed his red powdered covered arrows, game face on. Assuming the probability that Dean would let him win, again. Sam took an arrow from his quiver, sliding it into place. Pulling back the string once he nocked it, aiming it at his first mark, the butler, Crowley. Whom the brothers affectionately dressed up as a brown moose. The arrow left the nocking point, hitting its destined target in the center of his rounded ass.

“Hey!” Crowley muttered, rolling his eyes. He brushed off the powder as he glared at both of the brothers.

Dean was finding this amusing. The exercise was primarily for Sam. Why couldn’t he have fun too?

Just as Dean was about to take his shot, Castiel, the head advisor to his father, walked out onto the grounds. He intended to stop the game before it fully began. “Your Highness?”

Startled by the sudden interruption, Dean whipped around, the arrow released from where it was nocked, hitting Castiel square into his chest. Before he could even react, a second followed by a third engulfed Cas in a powder of blue.

“If you children are quite finished,” he huffed, dusting the powder off himself, “my liege, you have a visitor. Something about a poisonous toad needing collecting?”

Dean fired one more arrow before stalking towards Castiel, “it better not be a waste of my time. My brother and I are training.”

“Training for a lost cause if you ask me, Sir,” Crowley says, observing the body language of his employer. “For all, we know the Princess is dead as well, just like her father. God rest his soul.” He adds, making the sign of the cross.

Sam’s head turned quickly at the Butler’s words echoed in his ear. Eyes flashed in anger, rushing over towards the pair. “Take it back! You don’t get to talk about Odette like that!”

“Forgive me, Samuel. However, I truly believe this to be a fool's errand,” Crowley says, standing closer to the trio gathered in the middle of the courtyard.

“I will find her, Crowley,” the younger prince declared, “I have to find her.”

Shaking his head, Dean followed Castiel inside to handle the visitor.

Needing an actual outlet for his anger, Sam walked with a fast pace over to the stables. The staff tended to the horses, but Sam usually liked taking care of his mare. It gave him a sense of responsibility.

Sam’s mare, Onyx, was a beautiful black Friesian. Her height was just above 18 hands, given his six foot four stature, she was just as tall as he was. Sam was okay with that though. Grabbing a body brush, Sam slowly brushed out her black coat. It had become dirty from the loose dirt flying around.

Meanwhile, as the sun set on the edge of the trees in the forest, a beautiful white swan flew across the canopy. Odette had grown accustomed to the dawn and the dusk. Knowing she had to be on the lake’s surface as the moon touched it before she would become a woman again.

As per her usual routine, Odette flew over Winchester Castle. Wondering if Sam would be looking for her. Who was she kidding? Sam only wanted to marry her for her beauty. Prince Samuel Winchester didn’t care about her.

Dusk approached, the swan moving to make her graceful descent down into the crystal colored water. “Was wondering if you were gonna be on time tonight dearie.” Rowena says, hands placed on her hips. Odette gave Rowena as much of a glare as a swan possibly could. The princess was always on time and never late. The other party that was never late was Rowena’s incompetant son Crowley.

“Evening Mother, Odette,” he greets, giving his mother a nod of acknowledgement. Crowley’s appearances had begun to be a routine over the past week. Rowena’s son came every evening, giving Rowena the opportunity to ask her the same proposition in order to remove the curse. Marrying her son.

Much to the annoyance of Rowena, Odette answered her the same as she had every single time she’d asked. One single word was her reply, but not the one the sorceress was looking for.

“No.”

“Oh for the love of Dagda” She scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward. Eyes focused back on the maiden that stood before her. Hair glowing in the shimmering moonlight. “Need I remind you, I placed this curse on you, and I can just as easily reverse it. All you need to do, is agree to marry my dear Fergus. Once you're wed, I can give you all the riches a Princess could ask for.”

“Far better than the Winchester’s that's for sure.” Crowley adds as a comment.

“I’d rather be a swan over marrying your childish, pathetic son.” Odette snapped.

“That can be arranged.” Rowena snapped, allowing the princess to mull over her choices.

#APAHS #a prince and his swan #sam x reader #OUAT crossover #ouat fic #crowley #rowena macleod

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rhysand-vs-fenrys · 3 years

Note

Do the same thing for Heaven Official's Blessing (use Maas characters to tell the story)!

Heaven Official’s Blessing // TGCF told using ACOTAR characters (Obviously there will be spoilers, read at your own risk)

TGCF is told in a non-linear form, with Books 1, 3, and 5 taking place in the present, and Books 2 and 4 acting as flashbacks. I will be telling the story in a pure linear format.

** I’m going to have to ask people to ignore shipping stuff for the sake of this. I matched characters based on their personalities, so things became kind of scrambled.

THIS WAS VERY VERY HARD TO WRITE OKAY

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Crown Princess named Elain. She was completely beloved by her people not only for her looks, but for her kindness, warmth, and incredible talents. Whatever she put her mind to, Princess Elain would easily accomplish, and those who read fortunes often said she was born on an auspicious day and was blessed with unparalleled good fortune.

Princess Elain’s father was fairly elitest and tended to ignore the common folk, but Princess Elain made it her mission in life to protect them and ease everyone’s burdens.

When Princess Elain was 17, the royal capitol held a parade to the king of the heavens, Helion. In this parade, an elite warrior dressed as the Divine Hero would actually spar with another elite warrior dressed as a Demonic Beast. The parade would circle the capitol as the two warriors fought, only ending when their stamina ran out and they were too tired to carry on. The more laps the procession completed before this happened, the more good fortune it would invite and the more honor to the god Helion. Generally the goal was around 15-20 laps.

On the third lap, as people clamored to see clearly the Hero and Beast battle, there was a horrible accident. A deformed child in the crowd, barely 8 years old at MOST, was knocked from his perch on a high wall and fell to his death.

As he fell, the Divine Hero abandoned their battle and leapt high into the air to catch the poor child. Picture like wire work when I say “leapt high”, it counts more as minor flight.

In the rescue, the Divine Hero’s mask comes off and it is revealed to be none other than Princess Elain herself! The Divine Beast was Elain’s bodyguard, Cassian.

While the common people go FERAL for this beautiful Princess who saved a wretched orphan’s life, the royal priests are angered. They warn Elain that her actions are an insult to Helion, and she must repent to avoid his wrath.

Elain famously and simply replies that if a god would begrudge her saving a child’s life, then they are not worthy of becoming a god.

And in spite of the priest’s words, the heavens agree with Princess Elain.

The child Elain saved has half his head heavily wrapped in bandages, but Elain is not afraid of him. She cradles him in her arms and he is mesmerized by her face. Still, after someone tries to move the bandage to see his face, the child runs away and vanishes.

This child was Azriel.

Tamlin is Elain’s cousin. His mother was a royal lady who had a baby with an abusive brute, and she ended up dying in disgrace after being abandoned by him. Tamlin was therefore raised by Elain’s mother, and he is disturbingly obsessed with the glory of his Princess Cousin. He is also dangerously unhinged and violent.

Just a few days after the ruined parade, Tamlin is racing through the city streets in his carriage, whipping his horses raw and yelling that if he runs over anyone it is their own fault. He has no cares for anyones lives, and Princess Elain considers him a thorn in her side.

Princess Elain is out with her bodyguard, Cassian, and her personal servant, Lucien. They see Tamlin coming and no only is he driving dangerously, there is a bloody sack tied to the back of the chariot.

Elain and Cassian leap onto the carriage to stop Tamlin, while Lucien breaks the rope on the sack. Elain and Cassian take Tamlin into custody, knocking him out, and Elain is ready for Tamlin to be thrown into prison for his behavior.

She opens the bloody sack, and inside finds Azriel. Tamlin was so incensed that the royal priests were angry with Princess Elain that he decided to kill Azriel to “avenge” his cousin!

Elain brings Azriel to the royal palace to be healed by the physicians within. He has broken bones and cuts all over his body, but again he strikes out if someone tries to move the bandages on his face. For his part- Tamlin is locked in his rooms and his carriage is destroyed, he is banned from leaving the palace.

But once again, Azriel slips out and runs away.

A few months later, black clouds swirl over the Royal Palace, and in a massive thunderclap, Elain ascends to the heavens as a newborn Warrior Goddess. Though by the laws of the heavens she cannot enter her kingdom for one thousand generations (to make sure she doesn’t give favors to the families of old friends), her father and his people build 10,000 temples in her name, several with massive statues of pure gold.

Goddess Elain brings Lucien and Cassian to the heavens with her, to help her in her duties as a god. She must intercede when appropriate (if there are demons or ghosts attacking people) and answer prayers. Despite the ban, she likes to sit on the altars of her temples, invisible, and listen to the prayers of her followers.

Elain doesn’t like the wealth and splendor of her temples, she wishes people would not bow, and just wants things to be simpler.

After a few years as a goddess, while wandering her city, she notices a crummy old shrine tucked into a forgotten alley. It is roughly made, with only a flower and a bun on the offerings table.

She watches this little but clearly loved shrine for a long time, and notices that it is tended by an 11 year old boy. He is homeless, cold, malnourished, and had bandages wrapped around half his face. Rather than eat what food he manages to get, he puts it on the offerings table to Elain, only taking a few rotten fruits or moldy buns for himself.

Elain hates to see this- the boy is so desperately starving and yet he leaves food for a goddess who has no need for it. Bullies come and destroy the boy’s shrine. He is beaten by them, but when it is over he only fixes her shrine back up, and curls in a ball beneath it to sleep.

Elain feels that this boy is more sincere in his devotion than those who leave gaudy offerings at her temples, so she leaves the boy some food, a blanket, a straw mat, and some food. When he wakes he knows it was the goddess who heard his prayers, and he is delighted.

She does not realize that this boy is Azriel.

Elain’s country becomes embroiled in a civil war. Elain breaks the rules of the heavens outright and tries to end it before it begins by helping refugees of a horrible drought. She is kind to one refugee, taking on mortal form and helping him bury his son’s body, which he brought to the capitol to show the king of how severe the people’s suffering is. Her father didn’t care, and would not see the poor man.

Elain’s attempts to stop the refugee situation from becoming a civil war as the capitol refuses to send aid go nowhere, and in the end the war begins. She feels she has no choice but to openly step out as a Goddess of War and take the side of the capitol, where her parents still rule. Her heart aches at fighting the common folk, and she is still trying to end the drought in their homeland, but war is inevitable.

During the war, Elain meets a young soldier of only around 15. He is brave and good with a sword- though she advises a saber would suit him better. Though he is too young to really fight, she keeps him by her side. Together they witness the desperation of the refugees, whose leader- the man who she helped bury his son- summons a horrible demon.

Amarantha- a monster who always wears a mask that is half crying, half laughing.

Amarantha calls forth a plague that rips through the capitol. Elain realizes that the only ones who aren’t becoming infected with this plague are the soldiers and criminals- anyone who has taken a life. She realizes if others figure it out, the whole world will be consumed in blood as everyone tries to kill one another for immunity.

Elain’s favorite soldier is removed from the army by Lucien’s command, outing the boy as too young. Azriel is once again thrown aside- not that Elain realized it was him.

Meanwhile Elain, heartbroken at the suffering of her people, makes the ultimate decision: she saves her parents, but leaves the capitol to die and fall. If the refugees- now rebel army- kill everyone inside the capitol then the disease won’t spread (since soldiers would do the killing), and no one would ever know what the cure was. One city to save the world.

Helion knows the Goddess Elain’s heart was in the right place, but her intercession not only failed to stop the war, she made it worse. He is forced to put a Cursed Collar on her, stripping her of all her powers as a goddess. However, instead of her becoming mortal again, Helion gives her an immortal body.

Elain, after all, was only seventeen when she ascended and now could be counted in her twenties. Young by any standard. She is a good person, so Helion grants her the immortal body believing that some experience in the world will help her learn. With time and dedication, she can ascend once again to be a goddess, and he will remove the Cursed Collar.

Lucien and Cassian descend with her.

But her confidence has been shattered. To keep the royal family hidden, they are forced to perform tricks on the streets for meager coins, do manual labor (including on monuments insulting and demeaning the Goddess Elain), and are constantly on the run from members of the new government’s army who are hunting the King and Queen mercilessly.

Eventually, Lucien tells Elain and Cassian that it is simply too much, he’s sick the struggles, and leaves to take care of his own mother. Cassian and Lucien always hated one another and bickered nonstop, but this is the ultimate betrayal. If Cassian could kill Lucien with his bare hands, he would.

Elain becomes paranoid and terrified that Cassian will leave her too. She has no possessions of worth- they’ve all been pawned- but she has a single golden belt left. The mark of a heavenly official. A reminder of what she was and what she must work towards becoming again. She gives it to Cassian, for its value is very high, as a way to beg him to stay.

Soon after, Elain finds a shady merchant selling lanterns she realizes are lit not by fire, but by little flame spirits- remnants of souls that should have been allowed to rest in peace. These spirits were taken from the battlefields around the royal capitol, her soldiers. Elain manages to use a few meager coins to buy them, and goes about releasing the spirits.

One small flame spirit will not leave. It tells Elain that it cannot move on, because its beloved is suffering and it must watch over them always so they will not be alone. Idealistic and lovely, but Elain is too disheartened to feel anything by cynicism towards such words.

She leaves the little spirit- Azriel, who had snuck back onto the battlefields after being removed from the army and was cut down.

And then the king falls ill.

Elain is desperate for coin to help make things easier for Cassian (who is earning most of the money now) and to buy medicine for her father. Everything she tries fails, and, utterly at her wits end, she is forced to try her hand at robbing.

Though Elain is too horrified to actually rob a man, she chases after him and runs afoul of several junior heavenly officials who recognize her. She begs them not to tell anyone, and flees. They swear they won’t say a word.

Elain returns home, and she’s terrified of what she almost did for money. She decides to leave, going to find a mountain with good spiritual energy to meditate and hopefully make progress back towards gaining the merits to become a goddess again.

As soon as she arrives thirty-three heavenly officials come to train on the mountain, as such a thing can even help gods advance among their own ranks. They bully Elain, and eventually mock her for trying to rob the man (those junior gods were assholes and didn’t keep their word).

What’s worse- Lucien is among them. He didn’t go back to care for his mother, he abandoned Elain to become a god once again, a junior in the service of another (not a path Elain can take since she was once a full goddess). He helps chase Elain away.

That little flame spirit- Azriel- is there to witness the humiliation.

Elain flees in tears, running down the mountain until she collapses, sobbing. When she is left staring at the ground, a hand appears to help her up- Lucien. Elain slaps his hand away and screams at him, and leaves.

When she arrives home, Lucien is there with sacks of food and medicine for the King. He tries to explain that he only left to return to the heavens- betraying one master to go to a new one- because he knew he could use the position to get food and such for Elain, Cassian, and the King and Queen.

Elain screams at Lucien to go, throwing the sacks of food at him. Cassian takes Elain’s side, and Lucien lets slip that Elain tried to rob for money. He doesn’t know Cassian didn’t know, and Elain is thrown even further into despair.

More time passes, once again the money and food and medicine run out. Elain starts seeing figures around her where there is nothing- the figure of Amarantha all in white with that horrible mask. Her own robes are sometimes replaced with Amarantha’s, and she is slowly driven mad.

At the absolute edge of sanity, Elain feels a summons drawing her into the woods. She follows it, even when ghostly flames try to block her path and stop her from advancing, and ends up in a ruined temple. A ruined temple that was once hers. The divine statue has been destroyed.

Elain sits on the altar and waits, knowing Amarantha will show up to claim her.

Over hours, people trickle into the temple, and lured by a mysterious summons even they don’t consciously remember following. When there are 100 people inside, wild howls come from around them and crazed figures appear, all infected with the plague that destroyed Elain’s kingdom.

They fall back into the temple and Elain seals the door. She is grabbed by Amarantha, bound, and Amarantha holds her up on the altar by her skull. Amarantha tells the people what Elain was so scared of anyone finding out:: that the plague can be cured if the person is a murderer. Amarantha helpfully explains that Elain cannot die, but if they land a blow on her that would be fatal on another, it counts. To demonstrate, Elain is run through.

The pain is horrible, and when the next person picks up the sword and stabs her, she screams. A white flame spirit enters the building, the one who tried to stop Elain from coming in the first place. Amarantha captures it to play with (torment) as the villagers line up.

No matter how much Elain screams, they stab her. Some slash her throat, so that she can no longer make a sound. She is trapped in her body as it is mutilated and wrecked, staring up at that flame spirit and imagining she can hear it screaming at what is being done to her.

People stab her two or three times, just to be sure they landed a would-be-fatal hit and unable to tell what they are stabbing as she ceases to look even human anymore. Just a pile of ruined flesh spilled across her own altar. Even her face is destroyed.

That flame spirit- Azriel- screams out with every stab, until he can’t take it anymore and loses his sanity. He explodes in a wall of flame that turns all the humans inside the temple- and the infected outside- into ash. Above the skies roil, marking the birth of a particularly dangerous spirit.

Elain lays in agony as her body slowly knits back together. She is dazed as she stumbles away from the ruined temple. Traumatized beyond the brink of insanity. What was done to her horrifies her, and she feels only rage and grief. She was a Goddess, and now not only is she living in squalor and humiliation and degradation, she was attacked by humans for no reason other than personal gain. Not an ounce of kindness shown to her as they hacked at her body.

Elain sees Amarantha, who wants to take her as a disciple and raise her to wreak vengeance against the world. Elain flees.

When she gets home, two weeks (or months, the translation is inconsistent) have passed. Cassian has kept the king alive and the queen has been beside herself. She swears she will never chide Elain again, just please don’t leave.

None of them know what happened to her body. None of them can understand. Elain is sick and tired and broken. And she knows the worst will pass sooner or later- Cassian will abandon her just like Lucien did. Leave her in disgust. She can’t bear thinking about his friendship turning to hate, so she attacks him. She rips him apart with the worst words she can muster, until he leaves in disgust.

You can’t fear something that already happened.

Elain locks herself in her rooms and ignores even her mother’s pleading to come out.

When she wakes, she bathes. She has to go and try to find coin again, but cannot find the bandage she uses to cover half her face and hide her identity (since, you know, as a disgraced goddess her face is everywhere). The house is too quiet, and when Elain opens the doors to her parents room, she finds out why:

With the king’s health failing, and the humiliation of being deposed and on the run, living in squalor, he has lost all hope. Her mother won’t be left behind, and she knows her life is a burden on Elain’s as the fallen goddess tries to care for them.

So the king and queen have hung themselves. Elain carefully takes down their bodies and tries to hang too, but of course this immortal body- a gift from Helion himself- cannot die.

The hangman’s noose has absorbed two lives, and was used in incredible grief by a goddess herself. It is imbued with the love Elain’s parents felt for her and their tragic desire to die as a way to help them. The cloth comes to life, sort of like a snake meets a puppy, but when not in use, it wraps around Elain’s wrist as if her arm were injured.

At the king and queen’s deaths, whatever is left of Elain shatters.

She goes to the battlefields outside the dead royal capitol, her home, and wakes the souls of her people. Millions, all killed in battle or in the plague. She screams to them all, demanding to know if they hate. On her face is the white mask of Amarantha- half crying, half smiling.

And thus, the White Clothed Calamity is born. A twin to the White No-Faced demon (Amarantha).

The souls appear as black smoke that floods into Elain’s blade- the one that was used to mutilate her body. All that hatred condensing.

And in front of Elain appears the form of a soldier. Also wearing a mask. A particularly powerful resentful spirit on his way to becoming a demon.

Not that Elain would recognize Azriel even if she could see, so consumed is she by her hatred and wrath.

Elain takes those souls to the new royal capitol to kill the leader of the rebellion- that man whose child she helped bury. The man who rained hell down on all.

But he’s dead. Killed by the plague. She can’t even take her revenge right.

So Elain goes next to the lands ravaged by that drought, the whole reason for the civil war in the first place. The very city she tried to save as a goddess to stop the war from starting. She drops from the sky, impaled by the black sword. She has given herself three days.

Three days for a single soul to show her an ounce of kindness. If none do, she will unleash those souls and the plague will begin again as the hateful spirits infect body after body until the world runs red with blood.

No one helps her. Not until the third day, when a man trips over her body, cusses her out, and then feels bad for losing his temper. Right as the sun sets on the third day, he takes off his bamboo hat and offers it to her, to protect her from the rain.

A single act of kindness.

But it’s too late. The souls trapped in the sword explode into the sky.

Elain tries to tell the gathering crowd to pick up her sword and just stab her. She’s resigned to being hacked to death again and again if it will save even a single person from what she unleashed in her wrath and grief.

But no one is willing to hurt her. Not even to save themselves, and not even when she is begging them to. Unlike the group in the temple, who attacked her for themselves even when she begged them to stop.

So Elain does something painful and horrible- she raises the sword and draws all those hate-filled spirits into herself. It could very well destroy her, and the pain is worse even than being stabbed, but she will do it. If she can even save one person to undo her own mistake, she’ll do it.

But that second soldier appears again, the one who stood across from her on the battlefield.

He takes the souls into himself. Elain absorbs 300. He takes a million. It destroys him utterly- that kind brave man giving his soul, extinguishing himself forever- just to help her right a wrong.

But Azriel didn’t die. He was blown apart by the power, and re-formed bit by bit later on to become a Wrath-level (tier 3) ghost.

Helion descends from the heavens to meet Elain. Yes, she nearly did something unforgivable, but she was willing to destroy herself to right the wrong. For this- and all her suffering- Helion wishes to bring Elain up to the heavens once again as a goddess.

Her wrath extinguished, her spirit broken, Elain refuses his offer. That poor man’s soul was destroyed (seemingly) because of her. Someone suffered for what she did. She wants to atone, and atone for those one million souls she roused rather than helping them lay at rest in peace.

Elain asks Helion to put a new Cursed Shackle on her. This time not one that banishes her spiritual powers. Once upon a time she met a small boy she saved from falling. She was told she had infinite fortune, well above a normal person’s, but that child’s fate was endlessly dark and wretched.

Elain asks for a shackle that destroys her luck. That takes all of her good fortune and shatters it. Fortune is something that ebbs and flows through the world, by removing all of hers, that luck will be redistributed, and could bring good to the lives of others.

But an offer to return to heaven was granted, so Helion and Elain come up with a little show to explain away the new curse shackle without Helion appearing to punish a goddess who has done no wrong:

Elain ascends, as offered, and storms through heaven, hacking at the bodies of gods and challenging Helion himself. It becomes known famously as her Second Ascension, which lasts all of 10 minutes before she is fitted with a new cursed shackle and hurled form the heavens.

Elain’s life will be wretched, luck-less, and full of strife. Nothing she ever tries will go right. it is a life that would shatter the spirit of anyone. But for Elain, every misfortune means someone else has better luck than they should have. Every harm she suffers means someone else is blessed. She is atoning for what she did, and that makes her happy. She still mourns the soul of that boy who was destroyed, still lives in repentance of that, but she is atoning for her crimes.

During this time, that boy- now a Wrath Level Demon- finds he cannot loose. All the good fortune lost by Elain is funneled into him, and it is impossible for him to not get what he wants. He enters the Demonic Kiln and is re-forged as a Supreme (highest level) Demonic King. His weapons are the Silver Wrath Butterflies- a form he grants to those million souls he swallowed to help Elain.

He wears around his finger a red string, one of the ones that had bound him to that ghost lantern as a little flame spirit, a red string of fate that promises he will find his way back to Elain one day.

Azriel walks into the heavens and challenges thirty-five gods-- those who humiliated Elain on the mountaintop plus Cassian and Lucien, her hateful servants who abandoned her.

Cassian and Lucien refuse the challenge, but thirty-three gods take Azriel’s challenge---

He kills them all.

Not only does he humiliate them in front of their worshippers, he destroys 10,000 of their temples in a single night. One temple for every one of Elain’s that was destroyed when she fell as a goddess. Without worshippers or temples, the gods fade from existence.

Until, 800 years later, the heavens explode. Godly palaces are destroyed (including those of Cassian and Lucien, who are now full gods), the infrastructure shatters, and when the smoke clears there is Elain. A goddess once again. Except instead of being a goddess of war, she is a goddess of misfortune and junk.

To atone for accidentally ruining so many palaces (though she had no power over the size of the boom when she ascended, it corresponds with power), she goes to the mortal realm to solve a mysterious haunting.

The moment she arrives, she finds a silver butterfly following her and is enchanted by it. The butterfly vanishes, and as soon as she steps into the haunted forest a man in red appears, takes her hand, and gently leads her through a blood-rain, destroys barriers that would have kept her contained, and delivers her safely to the lair of the creature she is hunting.

From then on, Azriel is never far from her side. He has hunted for Elain for 800 years. The beautiful princess he fell in love with as a child, and met time and time again without her realizing it. After their second adventure together, Azriel gives Elain a diamond ring to wear around her neck.

If a ghost’s ashes are destroyed or scattered, they die. Elain doesn’t want this to happen to Azriel, who has made himself an enemy of heaven. Azriel only tells her that his ashes are safe, and if their hiding place is ever destroyed or if they are cast away, he has no will to exist any more anyways.

His ashes are contained within that diamond ring, imbued in the stone itself.

Elain doesn’t know why the gods hate Azriel so much, he is warm and kind to her (though admittedly cold to others). Azriel accompanies Elain obediently on many adventures, though every mystery they solve they run afoul of one heavenly official after another.

Elain starts to realize there is a rot in the heavens. So many gods with so many horrible secrets.

Elain and Azriel invade the home of a particularly evil ghost- the Green Demon. Tamlin. After Elain’s fall from grace he went mad, his obsessive feelings towards her turning from admiration to hatred. It was Tamlin who commissioned all those statues of Elain in humiliating and degrading positions. Tamlin is a cannibalistic evil ghost, though lower than Azriel in power.

He quickly takes possession of the body of a man with a small child and refuses to leave, so Azriel cannot even kill him without Elain being angry.

Realizing something is rotten in the heavens, Elain makes her base a rundown cabin barely standing. She lives there with Tamlin as her prisoner and Azriel as her constant companion. That child becomes a noose around Tamlin’s throat- endlessly obedient and loving towards his “father” (whose body Tamlin cannot leave or else Az will kill him). Bit by bit, Tamlin’s cruelty starts to fade (though he’s never really nice per-se, it’s just that he likes the kid).

On her journey she is joined by Nuala and Cerridwen- two low level gods in the service of Lucien and Cassian, who hate one another as much as their masters do. Their masters also hate Elain with a burning passion, so Nuala and Cerridwen help her in secret.

Out of courtesy, Elain pretends that she doesn’t know Nuala and Cerridwen are only Cassian and Lucien in another form, trying to atone themselves for abandoning her so long ago.

As Elain, Azriel, Cassian, and Lucien go on adventure after adventure the crimes of the heavens are unearthed one after another- from a god who killed humans to hide his own crimes to another who worked black magics to steal the good fortune of a man about to ascend to a god and attached it to his unwitting brother, leaving the man’s family to be raped and murdered while his brother enjoyed the divinity that should never have been his, to another god who tortured a mortal to death just for fun.

They start to realize too that Amarantha- who vanished from the world when Elain refused to release her curse- has been close by all along.

For the Demonic Kiln that forges Ghost Kings- that imbued Azriel with so much power- was born of a horrific tragedy 2,000 years ago in which Amarantha’s entire kingdom fell around her.

A tragedy which Amarantha turned into an opportunity- she raided the heavens, slaughtered all of her fellow gods and changed her form.

And as new gods rose, she placed herself upon the throne with this new face--

as Helion.

Elain, Azriel, Cassian, Lucien, and all of their new friends must work together to destroy Helion, find the true King of Heaven, and restore balance to the world before Amarantha plunges it all into chaos and destroys everything Elain loves.

The only one powerful enough to stop Amarantha is Elain, but with her luck sealed away and her powers still stifled by the Cursed Collar, it is up to the Demonic Realm to save the Heavens above before the mortal world is destroyed.

Azriel already died for Elain once. To see her smile freely once again, he’d die a million deaths more. No matter the hardships, this boy who has followed his princess for 800 years will follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond.

And their growing love might just be enough to tip the tides of war in their favor. King Azriel will always find a way to his Elain. Not even a two thousand year old Demonic-King of Heaven can stand in their way.

#Anonymous #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #ok so i mainly described the flashback books #but the main books are episodic within the arcs #still extremely extremely good and they build to form a narrative #but you can summarize it as 'gods suck and often do bad things too'#my writing #LATER THIS WEEKEND I WILL DO THE UNTAMED AS TOG CHARACTERS FOR THE OTHER ASK ANON

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