TW: smut 18+ || Mentions of kidnapping || mentions of forced intimacy/Rape || minor character death (no name knight)
Reality came crashing down. The warmth drained from his face. His fingers flexed uselessly at his sides. He had no right to approach. No claim to make. Not after Dorne’s compliance, after the way they bargained for your return with gold and land and bowed heads. His breathing quickened, uneven, the desert dust suddenly clogging his throat. Balerion shifted restlessly behind him, sensing his rider’s turmoil. With a final, lingering look of memorizing the curve of the child’s tiny fist, the proud set of your shoulders, the way the sunlight loved your skin… he turned abruptly. His boots kicked up pale dust as he strode back to his dragon. He mounted in silence, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Balerion’s powerful wings beat once, lifting them skyward. Aegon didn’t look back. The wind tore at his hair, stinging his eyes with grit and unshed fury. The aching hollow beneath his ribs yawned wider than it had in months. He tasted ashes, bitter and choking.
Visenya found him still streaked with grime, slumped in the war room’s high backed chair, fingers curled whitely around a cup of untouched wine. She paused in the doorway, assessing the slump of his shoulders, the way his gaze fixed blankly on the fire. “Well?” she demanded. The single word cracked like a whip. Aegon didn’t flinch. His fingers tightened around the cup until the pewter groaned. “She lives of course...” he said finally, voice scraped raw from the flight. Visenya’s lips curled slightly. “And?”
The fire spat embers onto the hearthstone. Aegon watched them flare and die. “A child” he began, then stopped. His throat worked silently. Visenya went rigid. Slowly she circled the table, her boots whispering against stone. When she stood before him, she saw it...the wild, wounded thing in his eyes, the tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with fatigue. Her own breath hitched, sharp and furious. “You fool” she breathed. His gaze flickered up, meeting hers for the first time. The defiance was gone. Only ruin remained. “Silver hair?” she asked, icy. He nodded once, jaw clenched. Visenya exhaled through her nose, long and measured.
She seized the wine cup from his grip and hurled it against the wall. The clang echoed like a funeral bell. “A child... bastard at that” she hissed “bred from rape and shackles, will unite nothing.” Her fingers twitched toward her sword hilt. “The Dornish will call it poison planted. They’ll say you seeded rebellion in their princess’s belly.” The words hung between them like drawn steel. Aegon’s fingers dug into his knees. The babe is mine...” he rasped.
Visenya’s laugh was brittle as frost. “Yours? That babe suckles at a Dornish tit, swaddled in Martell silks.” She leaned in, her breath hot with venom. “When he’s old enough to hold a spear, they’ll teach him how to aim it at your heart.”
Aegon surged to his feet, the chair screeching against stone. His hand shot out, gripping Visenya’s wrist hard enough to bruise. “You will not speak of him—”
She twisted free with speed, her lip curling. “You do not even know its name” she scoffed, the words dripping with derision. “Was there a raven? A whispered plea for your blessing?” Her laughter was sharp as shattered glass. “Or does the mother spit on your memory each time she rocks him to sleep?”
The name would be Dornish, melodic and mocking, a blade twisted in the wound. “It doesn't matter" he lied, the words ash in his mouth.
Meanwhile, in Sunspear, you traced the delicate curve of your son’s ear with a fingertip, the silk swaddle shifting as he stirred. The honeyed light of late afternoon painted the palace corridors gold as you wandered, restless. Your mother materialized like a specter from an archway, her fingers closing around your wrist with surprising strength. “Sit” she commanded, steering you toward a cushioned alcove where steam curled from a waiting pot of tea.
The ceramic cup burned your palms as she poured, her gaze sharp as a falcon’s. “They whisper in the markets.” she said without preamble, stirring a spoonful of honey with unnecessary force. “That the dragon king wants more than Dorne’s surrender. That he sends spies to sniff after your skirts.” Her knuckles whitened around the spoon. “As if he hasn’t taken enough.” The familiar refrain…your mother’s litany of outrage, each word a chisel reshaping your memories. The brutality of Aegon’s first claiming had been etched into her voice, a story she told as if you might forget.
You glanced down at the sleeping weight in your arms... his tiny fingers splayed against your breast, the silver eyelashes that were so like his fluttering mid dream. The truth throbbed, unspoken... those later nights, the ones where the shackles hadn’t clicked, where the violence had bled into something else entirely. How could you explain that to her? “Mother...” you began, but she cut in, relentless.
“Don’t.” Her teacup clattered onto the tray. “You think I don’t see how you flinch at sudden touches? How you freeze when the brazier crackles too loud?” Her hand hovered over yours, not quite touching. “They say” she whispered, “he forced you while he—”
“No.” The word tore from you, raw. The baby shifted, wrinkling his nose at the sudden tension. You lowered your voice. “I wish not to talk about it… I tell you always.”
Your mother drew back, studying your face. The way your knuckles whitened around the teacup. The way your gaze flickered past her shoulder, toward the north facing window. She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Fine” she conceded, though her fingers drummed restlessly against her thigh. “But know this...if Aegon’s dragons darken our skies again, we will not bend. Not for him. Not for his spawn.” Her venomous emphasis on the last word made your stomach twist.
The baby whimpered in his sleep, his tiny face scrunching. You adjusted his swaddle instinctively, fingers brushing the silver of his hair…so like his. Your mother’s eyes followed the motion, her lips thinning. “You coddle him” she muttered, rising abruptly. “Martell blood should be hardened by desert winds, not swaddled like a Targaryen princeling.” She swept away before you could reply, her sandals whispering against the tiles.
Alone, you exhaled shakily, pressing your lips to the baby’s forehead. His scent of milk, warmth, something indefinably his that anchored you. But your mother’s words slithered beneath your skin. Spawn. The unfairness of it burned your son, so soft, so innocent, already judged for the blood he couldn’t choose. You traced the curve of his cheek, marveling at its perfection. “You are mine” you whispered fiercely, “and Dorne’s… not his… not like him."
A rustle of silk made you tense. Your brother lingered in the archway, his usual smirk absent. “She’s scared” he murmured, nodding toward where your mother had vanished. “Not of him.” His gaze dropped pointedly to the babe. “Of who he might take after.” He crossed the room in three strides, sinking beside you with uncharacteristic gentleness. His finger hovered near the infant’s tiny fist. “They’ll want to train him early” he admitted quietly. “Spear lessons at three, riding at five. Make him Dornish before the dragon in him wakes.”
Your grip tightened instinctively. The baby yawned, his little fingers curling around your thumb. 'such delicate hands' you thought wildly. No dragonlord’s claws, no conqueror’s brutality. Just soft skin and blind trust. “He will not be that way, brother” you hissed, pressing the child closer. “He is a Martell. Born from me. He is nothing like those Targaryen's.” The words tasted like a prayer, like defiance.
That night, when you next awoke, it wasn’t from the babe screaming from the cradle, but from the phantom weight of iron on your wrists. The dream clung like sweat with Aegon’s silhouette filling the doorway of that first Kings Landing chamber, backlit by torchlight, his violet eyes glinting with detached calculation. You’d been freshly scrubbed then, your skin still raw from the maids’ rough hands, your Dornish silks replaced with scratchy wool. He hadn’t even looked at you properly. Just a sweep of his gaze, cold as a banker counting coins, before he unbuckled his sword belt with methodical precision. The memory of your own voice, hoarse with disuse, whispering please and his answering smirk, sharp as a dagger’s edge sent you bolting upright, gasping.
Moonlight spilled through the lattice windows, painting silver streaks across the sheets. The crib stood empty. Panic flared. Had your mother taken him? And then movement near the balcony caught your eye.
Aegon stood silhouetted against the night, his cloak whispering against stone, the infant cradled with impossible delicacy in his arms. His thumb traced the curve of the baby's cheek in the same motion you'd made hours earlier. Your breath hitched. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be able to reach here.
The babe gurgled softly, tiny fingers grasping at the silver pendant around Aegon's throat. It was the one Rhaenys had given him. A muscle leaped in his jaw. "He smells like you" he murmured, voice roughened by the desert wind. "But his eyes…" His thumb brushed the child's eyelid, where violet peeked beneath drowsy lashes.
You didn't dare move. Not when his free hand rested so casually on the dagger at his belt. The balcony's sheer drop yawned behind him, the wind tugging at his cloak. "Guards patrol these halls hourly" you managed, throat tight.
"Not tonight." Aegon's thumb stilled against the baby's cheek. "Your mother recalled them. Something about…" His mouth twisted. "…protecting you from spies in the servants' quarters."
You froze. The sheer arrogance...no, the intimacy of that knowledge stole your breath. How long had his informants been watching? Cataloging your routines, your mother's tirades, the way your fingers trembled when you thought no one saw? The babe cooed, blissfully unaware of the dagger's hilt beneath his swaddling. Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose. His grip shifted...not tightening, but cradling the infant's head more securely against his chest.
"You still bite your thumbnail when lying" he murmured. The observation, spoken so softly, slithered under your skin. His thumb stroked the babe's silver curls, possessive and tender in a way that made your stomach twist. "Gave him a dornish name?" His lips curled slightly. "Though I hear whispers of 'little dragon' when your mother isn't near."
The wind carried the scent of lemon blossoms through the lattice, incongruously sweet. You flexed your fingers against the sheets, calculating the distance to the jeweled dagger beneath your pillow, gifted by your brother after the birth, his joke about "Dornish women's courtesies" suddenly grimly prescient.
Aegon turned his head slightly, moonlight catching the scar along his jaw...the one you'd given him with your teeth that first winter. His nostrils flared as if scenting your tension. "I won't drop him" he said dryly, shifting the babe higher against his shoulder. The infant nestled instinctively into the warmth of his father's neck, a perfect fit.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Every instinct screamed to snatch your son back, but the way Aegon's large hand spanned the child's entire back, supporting the fragile spine with unconscious expertise, froze you. He'd held babes before. The realization struck like a slap. His child with Visenya and his child with Rhaenys. His phantom motions were too practiced to be anything but muscle memory.
The pendant's silver glinted as the baby clutched at it again. Aegon inhaled sharply, his lashes lowering briefly as if absorbing the scent of milk and innocence. "They'll teach him to hate me" he said, so low you barely caught it. The wind carried the rest away. "Tell him I'm a monster."
Your mother's words slithered from your lips before you could stop them. "You are" you whispered. A cruel part of you relished the slight tightening around his eyes, It was proof the barb struck true. "You've done terrible things." The litany continued, each phrase dredged from months of your family's poison. "Tore me from my home. Left me chained in filth." Your voice gained strength as you listed his sins, as if speaking them aloud might cauterize whatever wound still festered between you.
Aegon's jaw worked silently. His grip on the baby didn't falter, but his thumb ceased its absent stroking of the child's back. "Yes" he said simply. No justification. No deflection. Just the stark admission hanging between you like an executioner's blade.
The baby whimpered, sensing the sudden tension. Without thought, you reached out then froze when Aegon instinctively angled his body between you and the child. The possessive gesture sent fresh heat through your veins. "Give him to me" you demanded through clenched teeth.
Aegon's gaze flickered to your outstretched hands. The nails bitten ragged, the faint silver scars circling your wrists. Something dark passed behind his eyes. "You think I'd harm him?" His voice was dangerously soft. The babe hiccupped against his shoulder, smearing drool on the black silk of his cloak.
You didn't blink. "I think you harm everything you touch."
Aegon's mouth twisted...not quite a smile, not quite a snarl as he studied your clenched fists, the way your bare feet braced against the tiles as if ready to spring. "I see you're full of fire once again" he murmured, shifting the baby to cradle him against the crook of one arm. His free hand hovered near the dagger at his belt. "You grew so soft when with me. Pliant. Begging." His thumb traced the infant's cheekbone in a slow, proprietary circle.
The accusation landed like a blade between your ribs. Heat flooded your cheeks, your breath shortening with remembered shame those fevered nights when his touch had wrung sounds from you that still haunted your dreams. You rose abruptly, the sheet pooling at your waist. "You forget yourself, dragonlord" you said, low and venomous. "That was never me."
Aegon's nostrils flared. He took a single step forward...just enough for moonlight to catch the silvered tracks on his face. Tears? You blinked, disbelieving. The babe stirred against his chest, tiny fingers kneading the black silk. Aegon's throat worked silently before he spoke again, his voice scraped raw. "Which part, then? The way you arched into my hand?" His thumb brushed the baby's palm, making tiny fingers curl reflexively. "Or the way you wept when I left you empty?"
The words cracked something open in your chest. You lunged, nails raking for his eyes, but he caught your wrist midair, twisting just shy of painful. The baby between you gurgled happily, unaware of the storm. Aegon's grip burned, his breath uneven against your temple. "Look at him" he rasped, forcing your hand toward the infant's face. "Really look." His fingers trembled where they overlapped yours.
Moonlight spilled over the child's features the perfect bow of his lips, the delicate fan of silver lashes, the tiny mole beneath his left ear exactly where Aegon's own marked the hollow of his jaw. Your throat closed. Genetics mocked you, stitching your captor into every innocent curve.
Aegon exhaled roughly, his thumb pressing your trapped hand against the baby's chest. "You feel that?" His whisper was hoarse. "That heartbeat? Our blood." The infant yawned, revealing gums that would one day bear fangs...dragon or viper, who could say?
You wrenched free, staggering back until the bed's edge bit your thighs. "No" you choked out. The word tasted like denial, like fear. "He is Dornish. He will—"
"Will what?" Aegon interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. The baby stirred, fussing at the sudden tension. Without breaking eye contact, Aegon rocked him instinctively, the motion smooth from practice. "Learn to hate me? That much is already certain." His thumb traced the curve of the infant's ear...your son's ear that is so like his own. "But tell me this…princess…" His gaze burned through you. "When he asks why his father never came, what will you say?"
The question struck like a barbed arrow. You clenched your fists, knuckles whitening. "I will tell him the truth" you hissed. "That his father was a monster who—"
"Monsters don't weep over their bastards." Aegon's voice cracked as he pressed his lips to the babe's forehead. It was a gesture so tender it stole your breath. When he lifted his head, moonlight caught the wetness on his lashes. "You think I came for vengeance? To claim him like some trophy?" His fingers tightened briefly around the swaddling. "I came to see if he had your laugh."
You recoiled as if struck. The admission was worse than violence for it was raw, unguarded, revealing the wound beneath his armor. Your nails dug into your palms. "Do not talk as if you love me" you whispered. "Do not pretend those nights were anything but—"
"—but what?" Aegon interrupted, shifting the baby higher against his shoulder. The infant's tiny fist tangled in the silver pendant... Rhaenys' pendant. he was tugging it taut against Aegon's throat. "You'll say I forced the sounds you made? The way you—"
"Stop!" You lunged again, this time for the child, but Aegon pivoted effortlessly, keeping the babe just out of reach. His free hand caught your elbow, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat through your thin nightshift. The baby giggled between you, blissfully unaware.
The proximity burned. His scent that was leather and something metallic, the ghost of dragonfire soon flooded your senses. You recoiled instinctively, but his grip tightened. "You still smell the same" he murmured against your temple, voice thick. "Lemon and jasmine...flowers" His thumb brushed your inner wrist where your pulse rabbited. "And fear."
Dorian chose that moment to sneeze, the tiny sound shattering the tension like glass. Aegon's grip slackened reflexively, his attention snapping to the child's scrunched face. You seized the opening, twisting free with a Dornish viper's speed and snatched your son from his arms.
The infant wailed at the sudden movement, tiny fists flailing. You clutched him to your chest, backing toward the bedpost where your brother's dagger gleamed. Aegon didn't pursue. He stood motionless, his empty hands flexing at his sides, moonlight carving hollows beneath his cheekbones.
he rasped your name, the one he'd gasped against your neck in those stolen, shameful moments. Your breath hitched. He repeated your name, rougher this time, and lunged.
A startled scream tore from you as his hands closed around the baby...not to yank him, but to tug him gently from your clutching arms. The boy came loose with a whimper, his silver curls mussed by your frantic grip. Aegon set him carefully in the cradle beside the bed, his hands lingering for a heartbeat too long on the swaddling before he turned back to you.
By the time you inhaled to scream again, his palm slapped over your mouth, his other arm banding around your waist to haul you flush against him. The scent of leather and dragon smoke flooded your nostrils as his breath hitched against your temple. "Quiet." he rasped...not a command, but a plea. Through the lattice, torchlight flickered in the courtyard below. Guards changing shifts. Your pulse hammered against his palm.
Aegon's grip slackened as the footsteps faded. His fingers lingered on your lips, calloused pads catching on the seam of your mouth. You bit down hard. He hissed but didn't pull away, letting copper bloom between your teeth. "Good" he murmured, thumb smearing blood across your chin. "Still fight." His pupils swallowed the violet of his eyes as he inhaled sharply. "Still taste the same?"
You twisted, knee driving upward but he blocked it effortlessly, pinning you against the bedpost. The carved wood dug into your spine as his thigh slid between yours, achingly familiar. His breath hitched when your nails scored his neck. "Tell me" he growled against your temple, "when he asks..." His hips pressed forward, making your breath catch. "Will you say I raped a son into you?"
"You did..." you mumbled through clenched teeth. The cradle creaked beside you as the baby turned in his sleep, silver curls catching moonlight like a mocking echo of Aegon's own.
His fingers flexed against your throat though not squeezing, just there, the ghost of a blade at your pulse. "Liar." he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You wept when I stopped. Remember?" His knee nudged higher between your thighs, dragging your nightshift up with it. The rough silk burned against your skin.
You did remember. That last night before Visenya's ultimatum...his mouth between your legs, his fingers digging into your hips, and the unbearable shame of how desperately you'd arched into him. The memory seared through you now, hotter than Sunspear's midday sun.
Aegon exhaled sharply when your thighs clenched around his knee, whether in protest or unconscious reflex, neither of you could say. His thumb traced your pulse point, smearing blood where you'd bitten him. "You'll never tell him about this" he murmured, lips grazing the hinge of your jaw. "The way you—"
You wrenched sideways, pulling away with a calculated crash. The infant's startled cry shattered the moment, followed by running footsteps in the corridor. Aegon cursed low in Valyrian, releasing you so abruptly you staggered. He was at the balcony in three strides, cloak billowing behind him like wings.
"Next time..." you hissed "come with an army." Your voice shook only slightly. "Or don't come at all."
Aegon paused mid stride, one hand gripping the balcony rail. Torchlight from below caught the silver threads in his cloak as he turned back. The infant's wails punctuated the silence between you, sharp as dagger thrusts.
"You mistake me, princess." His voice carried the rasp of a man who'd breathed too much dragon smoke. "An army would make noise." His thumb brushed the freshly scabbed bite mark on his palm; your teeth had gone deeper than you'd intended. "I prefer…private audiences."
The door rattled under a guard's pounding fist. "My lady?"
"Now you call for guards?" Aegon's smirk was all teeth, his silhouette blurring at the edges where torchlight met midnight. The first guard's shoulder slammed against the door with wood splintering near the latch.
You barely had time to clutch Dorian from his cradle before Aegon vanished over the balcony rail. Not flying but falling and his cloak snapping like wounded wings until a distant thud signaled his landing in the lemon grove below. Dorian's wails hitched into curious hiccups, his damp lashes fluttering toward the empty space where his father had stood.
"Im fine! Dorian is only hungry..." you snapped as guards burst in, their torches throwing wild shadows across the rumpled sheets. One swore at the bloody handprint smeared on the balcony rail. Your brother's dagger was now clattered on the floor now useless as Dorian's tiny fists pawed at your collarbone with fresh urgency.
Aegon's head had tilted at the name, a barely perceptible movement before he'd vanished into the night. You'd seen it in that suspended heartbeat between his boot leaving stone and gravity claiming him: the slight cant of his neck when you'd said Dorian aloud for the first time in his presence. Not 'the babe.' Not 'your son.' A name. A Dornish name.
Your chamber erupted in chaos with guards shouting about intruders, your handmaid weeping as she clutched your shoulders but all you could see was the empty balcony where moonlight pooled like spilled milk. Dorian's tiny fingers twisted in your bloodstained shift, smearing Aegon's copper scented betrayal across your breast.
In the red keeps halls, Visenya said nothing as she wound linen around Aegon's forearm. The bite marks…yours that were bloomed purple beneath her fingers. "You let her wound you" she observed, tying the bandage tight enough to bruise. "Bites. Scratches. A dagger." Her nail dug into the deepest cut. "Next time, she'll aim for your throat."
Aegon flexed his fingers, watching blood seep through the fabric. "She did" he murmured. The small smile he let slip was more dangerous than any snarl as he tilted his head to show the shallow cut along his throat...a razor thin line where your dagger had grazed him when you'd twisted in his grip. The wound gleamed wetly in the torchlight, a necklace of betrayal barely scabbed over.
Visenya exhaled through her nose, nostrils flaring like a dragon scenting weakness. "Fool." The word carried the weight of centuries old disappointment. She jerked the bandage tighter, knuckles whitening. "You want her to mark you." Her nails dug into his wrist where your teeth had broken skin. "Pathetic."
Aegon's smile didn't reach his eyes. He flexed his fingers, watching blood bloom through linen crimson petals on snow. The cut on his throat pulsed wetly when he tilted his head. "She missed the artery by half an inch" he mused, tracing the wound. His thumb came away glistening. "Perfectly Dornish."
Visenya's slap cracked across his cheekbone. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceilings like an executioner's axe. "You're giddy" she hissed. Her palm stung where it had connected proof he hadn't bothered to dodge. "Like some green boy after his first brothel visit."
Aegon touched his split lip, tasting iron. His grin widened. Below them, the Blackwater roiled against the cliffs, waves clawing at stone like desperate lovers. "She named him Dorian" he said, as if that explained everything.
Visenya's blade whispered from its sheath, pressing against his still bloody palm. "After her grandfather" she snarled. "The man who burned alive screaming your name." She twisted the steel until his blood ran in rivulets down the fuller. "This is no victory."
Aegon flexed his hand deliberately, letting the cut gape wider. Blood pattered onto the Myrish carpet...red on scarlet, nearly invisible. "She used to bite like that when—"
Visenya's dagger flashed. The blade buried itself in the armrest of Aegon's chair, splitting the carved dragon's wing clean through. "Enough." Her chest rose and fell beneath the steel plates of her armor. "Every word out of your mouth proves my point."
Aegon didn't blink. He plucked the dagger free with an amused twist of his wrist, examining the notch your teeth had left in the steel years ago when Visenya had pried you off him during one particularly violent bedding. The memory hung between them, thick as smoke.
"You mistake hunger for weakness" he said, running a blood slicked thumb along the blade's edge. The wound on his throat gleamed wetly. "She could have killed me tonight. Chose not to." His pupils dilated as he inhaled the scent lingering on his sleeve lemon, jasmine, and the metallic tang of your fear. "That interests me more than any knife."
Visenya snatched the dagger back, her gauntlet scraping against his palm. "She'll poison that child against you" she spat. "Turn him into a blade for your back."
Aegon leaned forward, elbows braced on knees, watching blood drip onto his boots. "Let her." His voice was velvet over steel. "A dragon raised among vipers still has claws."
Visenya's nostrils flared. She spun away, cloak snapping like a whip. "Enjoy your delusions" she spat. "I'll be sharpening my sword." The doors boomed shut behind her with finality, rattling the stained glass windows.
Aegon exhaled, touching the wound on his throat again, his fingers came away red. He traced the outline absently, smearing blood across his collarbone. The sting was nothing compared to the memory of your breath hitching when he'd pressed closer, the way your pupils had dilated even as you'd spat curses. He'd seen it...the flicker of recognition when his knee had brushed just so between your thighs. Old habits died hard.
A month had flown, a month of him watching. The map of Dorne sprawled across his desk, heavy stones pinning its corners with tiny indents marked every flight he'd taken since that night. Too many. Far too many. He dragged a finger along the parchment, following the winding path from Sunspear's outskirts to the secluded grove where you'd taken to walking.
Balerion's wings carved shadows across the Dornish sands as they descended at twilight, the dragon's bulk hidden by jagged cliffs. Aegon counted heartbeats until the distant chime of your guard's armor confirmed your approach...always the same path, always the same hour, as if daring him to appear. The guard crumpled soundlessly under the hilt of his dagger before hitting the ground.
You whirled at the crunch of boots, your scream piercing the still air...not fear, but fury. Aegon lunged, gloved hand muffling your mouth as he dragged you behind twisted olive trees. "Shhh" he hissed against your temple, nodding toward the unconscious man. "See? Breathing." His thumb brushed your lip where your teeth had grazed him, tasting salt and iron.
The clearing smelled of crushed thyme and your sweat. Balerion's distant growl vibrated through the earth beneath you, though no wings shadowed the cobalt sky. You twisted, knee aiming for his groin, but he blocked it effortlessly, pinning you against gnarled bark. "Since my last visit...." he rasped, breath scorching your earlobe. "You tightened patrols. Changed routes." His chuckle grated like a whetstone on steel. "Yet here you are…walking alone."
You spat in his face. The saliva dripped down his scarred cheekbone, yet he didn't wipe it away. "You predictable whore" you hissed, watching his pupils dilate at the insult. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your waist where the bones had sharpened since childbirth. Dorian's birth.
Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring like Balerion scenting prey. His tongue darted out to catch your spit at the corner of his mouth. "Still sweet." he murmured, dragging you flush against him.
your nails found purchase on his neck. He groaned low in his throat, hips pressing forward instinctively. "There she is" he breathed, fingers tightening in your hair. "My furious little viper."
"Still predictable" he rasped, thumb stroking the frantic pulse in your wrist. "But I didn't come for a fight." His free hand unfurled, revealing a child's toy… a carved wooden dragon, wings spread mid-flight. Dorian's name curled around its tail in Valyrian glyphs.
You froze. The toy smelled of cedar and dragon oil Just like the trinkets he'd once commissioned during your captivity. Aegon exhaled sharply when your nails dug into his palm. "He'll outgrow rattles soon" he murmured, pressing the toy into your stiff fingers. His thumb traced the Dornish embroidery on your sleeve. "Unless you'd rather he played with scorpions."
You hurled the dragon into the undergrowth. It bounced off limestone with a hollow clack. Aegon's nostrils flared, but he didn't retrieve it. Instead, his hand slid to your waist, higher than necessary to haul you upright. His grip burned through linen as he steadied you. "Careful..." he rasped. "Snakes nest there."
The guard groaned at your feet. Aegon kicked him onto his back, not cruelly, just efficiently and crouched to check his pulse. You lunged for the fallen sword, but Aegon's elbow blocked you effortlessly, his other hand still pressing two fingers to the man's throat. "Alive..." he muttered, as if annoyed by the inconvenience. When he straightened, his cloak caught moonlight the way Dorian's hair caught sunrise...silver and impossible to ignore.
You scrambled backward, hands scraping gravel. Aegon turned sharply at the sound and frowned before prowling after you. He moved like a man chasing a spooked horse...slow, palms up until his shadow swallowed yours whole. "Hey… hey, where you going?" His voice roughened, thumb brushing your ankle where the hem had ridden up. "I just want to spend time with you." His fingers tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the rabbit fast pulse beneath your skin. "Don't you miss the way my fingers would—"
You lashed out with your free foot, connecting with his ribs. He grunted but didn’t let go, dragging you closer instead. His breath came faster now...not from pain, you realized with dawning horror, but arousal. His pupils were black pits swallowing violet whole. "There you are" he murmured, almost fondly. "Always fighting me." His grip shifted higher, calloused fingers skating up your calf. "Always feeling me."
The guard groaned again, his fingers twitching toward his fallen sword. Aegon sighed and kicked the blade just out of reach... as casual as a man swatting a fly. "Persistent bastard" he muttered, before turning back to you with that same predatory focus. "Where were we?" His thumb pressed into the soft hollow behind your knee, where he knew you were ticklish. You jerked, and his lips curved. "Ah. Right."
His grip slid higher, bunching your skirts with terrifying familiarity.
You twisted violently, but Aegon anticipated the movement, his thigh wedging between yours with intimate precision. "Same tells" he murmured, lips grazing your temple. The heat of him seeped through layers of fabric, igniting traitorous memories of sweat slick skin and tangled sheets.
The guard's sword gleamed dully in the moonlight, inches from your grasping fingers. Aegon chuckled darkly, catching your wrist mid reach. He pressed your palm flat against his chest where his heartbeat thundered too fast for a man in control. "Feel that?" His breath hitched as you dug nails into his doublet. "That's yours."
You recoiled at the intimacy, but his grip tightened, dragging your hand lower over ribs still bruised from your last encounter, down to the waistband of his breeches where heat radiated through fabric. "And this—" His voice cracked, pupils swallowing violet whole as your knuckles brushed hardness. "—is your doing."
The guard's stirring became more insistent. Aegon exhaled sharply through clenched teeth, forcibly redirecting your hand to his throat instead...to the half-healed scar where your dagger had grazed him. His pulse hammered against your palm. "Finish it" he rasped. His hips jerked involuntarily when your nails bit into the wound. "Or fuck me. But choose."
You recoiled like he'd thrust a hot brand against your skin. The guard groaned, fingers scrabbling at the dirt as consciousness returned. Aegon snarled something foul in Valyrian, releasing you abruptly to stomp on the man's wrist till bone cracked, but his grip on your arm gentled instantly when you flinched.
And then before he knew it you hadn't gone for the dagger. You'd chosen the latter.
Your fingers twisted in the laces of his breeches instead, pulling him forward with a violence that made his breath hitch. Aegon froze, disbelief flashing across his face before melting into something darker, hotter. His hands hovered above your hips as if afraid to break the spell. "Say it" he demanded, voice thick.
You didn't. The words burned your tongue. I hate you, I hate you, but your body betrayed you, arching into his touch with the same traitorous instinct that had once welcomed him between your thighs. His laugh was a ragged thing, torn between triumph and something perilously close to relief.
Aegon's fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your face up...not to kiss you, but to watch. "Look at you" he breathed, thumb swiping your lower lip where it trembled. Every exhale shook him, his hips stuttering forward when your nails scored his thighs. The guard's pained whimpers faded beneath the ragged symphony of Aegon's breath and the whisper of fabric tearing as he wrenched your skirts higher.
You bit your own tongue to stifle a sound, but he knew. His nostrils flared...lemon, jasmine, copper...before he dragged you flush against him with a groan. "Still lying to yourself" he murmured, teeth grazing your jaw. His hands mapped your body like a man rediscovering conquered territory, pausing where small fading stretch marks silvery as dragon scales marked Dorian's claim on you. His touch gentled there, almost reverent, before crushing you closer.
The guard's moans turned urgent...he was crawling toward his sword now, fingers dragging through dirt with a raspy "My lady...". Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, gripped your hip to grind against you once, hard enough to make you gasp then wrenched away. You were confused on why until you seen him pick up the sword and swing it at your protector making a gasp leave and tears form.
You scrambled back, heartbeat hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Aegon stood over the twitching guard, breathing hard, sword dripping onto the man's chest. His free hand raked through sweat damp hair, leaving streaks of blood across his temple. When he turned, his eyes were wild...not with fury, but with something far more dangerous. Desire.
"Had to be done." he rasped, tossing the sword aside like it was nothing. The blade clattered against stone, spraying droplets of red onto your skirt. His boots crunched over gravel as he closed the distance between you again, fingers twitching at his sides. "Would've told them. Would've ruined—"
Your lips parted to protest, but Aegon's palm clamped over your mouth before the words could form. His other hand gripped your thigh, hauling you back into position...legs spread, body flush against the rough bark. "Shhh" he murmured, breath hot against your temple. The scent of iron clung to his fingers where the guard's blood had splattered.
His arousal strained against you shamelessly, twitching when your nails dug into his shoulders. The reckless bastard grinned, hips rolling in a slow, filthy circle that made your teeth ache.
"Missed this" he groaned. The guard's blood slicked his fingers as they slid under your skirt. "Missed you." His thumb found the slick heat between your thighs, not probing, just pressing and you arched involuntarily with tears still streaming as you tried to stop them.
Aegon’s laugh was ragged as he licked the salt from your cheeks. "you cry for him?" he murmured against your skin. His hips jerked forward, the hard line of him grinding against your thigh through layers of fabric. He didn’t undress you, didn’t even loosen his own breeches...just rutted against you like a beast, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
The guard’s body cooled in the dirt three paces away. You could see his slack jaw in your peripheral vision, the dark pool spreading beneath him. Aegon’s teeth grazed your collarbone, not biting, just scraping as his fingers finally pushed past the waistband of your smallclothes. "Look at me" he demanded, but you squeezed your eyes shut tighter.
His chuckle vibrated against your throat. "Fine." Calloused fingers slid lower, finding you wet despite the tears streaking your cheeks. He groaned like a man starved, his thumb circling with terrifying familiarity. "Your cunt doesn’t lie."
You twisted away though not fast enough. Aegon caught your hip, pinning you against the tree as his fingers thrust inside with a roughness that stole your breath. His lips crashed into yours before you could bite him, tasting of blood and stolen victory. The guard’s sword glinted in the moonlight where it lay discarded, its edge still dripping.
Aegon broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, forehead pressed to yours. His fingers curled deeper, dragging a traitorous moan from your throat. “Say my name” he demanded, voice shredded. You spat in his face instead.
He laughed...genuine, unguarded, before licking the saliva from his lips. The guard’s blood smeared across your cheek where he cradled your face. “Stubborn” he murmured, thrusting his fingers harder. His free hand untied his breeches with clumsy urgency, fumbling until his cock sprung free, hot and heavy against your thigh.
You turned your head, but he caught your chin, forcing eye contact. Moonlight carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look half starved. “Watch” he growled, guiding himself between your thighs without penetration...just grinding against your slickness in torturous circles. His breath hitched when your hips jerked involuntarily. “Still want me” he accused, voice breaking.
The guard’s corpse twitched, a death spasm...drawing your gaze. Aegon snarled and seized your hair, wrenching your focus back. “No.” His free hand gripped his cock, smearing your wetness along its length. “Just us.” He pressed the blunt head against your entrance, not pushing in, just letting you feel the threat of him.
You clamped your thighs together instinctively. Aegon groaned, hips jerking forward. “Fuck—” His forearm braced against the tree above your head, veins standing stark as he fought for control. The scent of sex and blood hung thick between you.
His free hand slid between your bodies, fingers pressing where you were most sensitive. “Remember?” he rasped, circling ruthlessly. “How you came on my fingers first?” His thumb pressed down, a threat and a promise. “Before you ever took my cock.”
The guard’s blood smeared across your thigh as Aegon shifted, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with each ragged thrust of his hips. Not entering. Not yet. Just teasing the way he’d done in the early days of your captivity, when cruelty wore the mask of seduction.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, forcing your legs wider. You gasped, nails scoring his shoulders through damp fabric.
The guard's blood crusted on your skirt between you, flaking onto Aegon's knuckles as he pumped his cock in slow, agonizing strokes against your slick heat. "Tell me..." he rasped, breath scalding your cheek. The head caught at your entrance with each upward thrust, stretching you just enough to burn. "Tell me you want—"
You bit his shoulder through fabric, tasting linen and iron. Aegon gasped, not in pain, but something far worse that left his hips stuttering forward instinctively. The sudden breach tore a ragged cry from your throat, muffled against his doublet. He stilled, trembling from the effort, forehead pressed to the bark above your head. "Fuck" he choked out, voice shattered. "Fuck, you're still so—"
His fingers dug into your hipbones, pulling you flush against him as he began to move...not the punishing pace you expected, but slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that made your toes curl in the dirt. The guard's blood cooled on your thigh where Aegon's hand gripped you, his thumb rubbing circles into the smear as if memorizing its texture.
"You feel that?" he rasped against your temple. His breath hitched when your inner muscles clenched involuntarily. "How deep I am?" He punctuated the question with a grinding thrust that dragged a whimper from your throat. The bark scraped your shoulder blades through torn fabric, the pain blending with the stretch of him until you couldn't separate agony from pleasure.
Moonlight caught the sweat beading along his collarbones as he withdrew almost completely, hovering at the edge with trembling restraint before slamming back in. You cried out, fingers scrabbling against his bloodstained chest. Aegon's groan was raw, his lips finding yours in a brutal kiss that tasted of copper and stolen breaths.
His thrusts grew erratic, each one dragging a broken sound from your throat. The guard’s corpse sprawled forgotten beside tangled roots, pupils fixed on the canopy above where Balerion’s wings blotted out stars. Aegon’s hand fumbled between you, calloused thumb finding that spot he knew too well. “Come for me” he demanded, voice fraying at the edges.
You didn’t...couldn’t, until his teeth sank into your shoulder. The pain crested into something white hot and blinding, your body seizing around him as you sobbed. Aegon groaned like a dying man, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a ragged cry.
His forehead dropped against yours, breath mingling in the charged air between you. His eyelashes fluttered shut for a brief moment...vulnerability you hadn’t seen since the moment you were picked up to be taken home, before his grip tightened on your hips. “Fuck” he rasped, voice wrecked. His thumbs traced the bruises he’d left, possessive even in the aftermath.
You didn’t realize your legs were locked around him until his fingers twitched against your thighs...halfway between pushing you off and dragging you closer. Your own trembling hands were fisted in the bloodstained fabric at his nape, knuckles white. He exhaled sharply through his nose, lips brushing yours in the ghost of a kiss. “Still holding on...” he murmured, and you hated the way his voice curled around the words, soft as a blade sliding between ribs.
The guard’s blood had seeped into your skirts, stiff and cold against your skin. Aegon shifted, his softening cock still inside you and you flinched at the oversensitivity. His chuckle was dark, uneven. “Hurts?” His thumb swiped the sweat from your temples, smearing crimson when he lingered. “Good.” His hips jerked once just to watch you gasp before withdrawing with a filthy sound.
You sagged against the tree, legs trembling. Aegon tucked himself away with careless precision, fingers lingering at his laces as his gaze tracked the mess between your thighs. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. A predator savoring the aftertaste. “They’ll smell me on you” he murmured, crouching to retrieve the discarded dragon toy from the undergrowth. The carved wood was chipped now, one wing snapped at the hinge. He blew dirt from its ridges before pressing it into your limp hand. “Give this to Dorian.”
The guard’s blood had pooled around his slack fingers, seeping into the grooves of his sword’s hilt. Aegon nudged the blade with his boot, sending it skittering into the shadows. “Tell them it was bandits” he said, as casually as discussing the weather. His thumb swiped along your jawline, collecting a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. He examined the moisture on his calloused skin before sucking it clean with a hum. “Or don’t.” His smile was a blade in the moonlight. “Let them wonder.”
You shoved him back, but your knees buckled the moment you tried to stand. Aegon caught you by the elbow...not gently and hauling you upright with a grip that would leave bruises. His other hand slid between your thighs, fingers coming away slick with his own spend. He rubbed the fluid between his fingertips, nostrils flaring. “Four days” he murmured, pressing his stained fingers to your lips. You turned your head and he smeared it across your cheek instead. “I’ll come for him then.”
The dragon toy lay heavy in your palm, its broken wing digging into your flesh. Aegon stepped over the guard’s corpse like it was a puddle, pausing only to wipe his hands on the dead man’s cloak. Moonlight caught the raw scratches down his neck where your nails had raked him. He touched the wounds absently, lips quirking when his fingers came away bloody. “Wear the silver gown next time” he said, as if scheduling a fucking tea date.
You spat at his boots. Aegon sighed, catching your chin with bruising force. “Or don’t.” His thumb pressed into the hinge of your jaw, forcing your mouth open. You expected violence, bit down instinctively when he slipped two fingers past your teeth. Instead, he laughed as you gagged, swirling his fingertips along your tongue. “Taste yourself” he murmured. His eyes darkened when you choked. “That’s me in you.”
The broken dragon toy dug deeper into your palm as you thrashed. Aegon withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, smearing saliva across your collarbone. “Four days” he repeated, stepping back as Balerion’s shadow came into view. The great beast stirred, sulfurous breath gusting over the corpse beside you.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, a futile gesture, when his scent clung to your skin, your hair, the trembling insides of your thighs. Aegon watched the motion, nostrils flaring, before turning toward his dragon.
The splash of water in your chambers echoed like an accusation as you scrubbed raw. The maids had fled after dressing your scraped knees, repulsed by the violence in your silence. Lemon oil, jasmine soap, salt...none of it mattered. His fingerprints lingered beneath the perfumes, the taste of him still coiled at the back of your throat.
Outside, the castle murmured about bandits bold enough to breach the outer walls. You heard the whispers through the door...how brave you'd been, how tragic the guard's death. The lie curdled in your stomach as you dunked your head underwater, hoping the pressure would burst your eardrums before you heard another sympathetic murmur.
The bath had gone cold hours ago, but your skin still burned where his hands had been. You'd scrubbed until your thighs were raw, yet the scent of him clung...iron and smoke and that musky, unmistakable sweat that had once made your pulse quicken. Now it made you retch. You came up gasping, strands of hair plastered to your face like seaweed on a drowned corpse.
Outside, the castle murmured in half stifled horror. You'd played your part perfectly...wide eyed and trembling as you described "bandits" emerging from the oleander bushes, blades glinting. Your voice hadn't even cracked when you recounted how your guard died screaming. But the maids had seen the state of your skirts, the bark scrapes on your back that didn't match a frantic escape through brush. Their sidelong glances lingered on the fresh bruises circling your wrists.
Across the Sea, Aegon's footsteps echoed too loudly through The red keeps halls. Visenya caught him by the arm as he passed her chambers. One whiff of jasmine and iron clinging to his skin, and her dagger was at his throat. "You reek of her." she hissed. He laughed, drunk on conquest, and licked the blade clean just to watch her recoil.
The nursery door creaked like a dying thing when you pushed inside at dawn. Dorian slept with one small fist curled around the broken dragon's wing, his father's gift tucked beneath his cheek like a secret. You peeled it from his fingers, throat tightening at the flecks of dried blood in the grooves.
A floorboard groaned behind you. Your brother leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Moonlight caught the dagger twirling between his fingers. "Bandits don't leave toys" he murmured. Dorian whimpered in his sleep. You tucked the ruined dragon under your son's pillow, fingers lingering on his flushed cheek. "They do when they want something."
Shadows hollowed his cheeks as he stepped closer. "And what does the Conqueror want from Dorne now?" His gaze dropped to your wrists...to the fading fingerprints circling them like manacles.
You smoothed Dorian's blanket, buying time. The scent of Aegon still clung to your skin beneath the citrus oils. "Nothing we can give."
Your brother's dagger stilled. "Liar." His gaze dropped to your collarbone, where the fabric gaped just enough to reveal teeth marks. "They say he gutted the guard from navel to throat. Strange banditry."
Dorian stirred with a whimper, small fingers clutching the blanket you'd just smoothed. You swallowed the tremor in your voice. "Strange times."
Your brother's dagger tapped against his thigh...once, twice before he flipped it abruptly, offering you the hilt. The blade glinted in the predawn gloom, still smudged with the guard's blood from when he'd inspected the body. "Strange that the bandits knew to slash his belly exactly like Aegon's men do at the Stepstones." His smile was a razor. "Strange that you came back with your thighs slick and a toy for the boy."
The nursery air thickened with the scent of crushed mint from Dorian's pillow. You willed your fingers not to shake as you adjusted his blanket higher. "I didn't ask for your scrutiny."
"Nor did I ask to find my sister reeking of dragon" your brother countered, pressing the dagger's hilt harder against your palm.
Dorian whimpered again, his small fingers clutching the blanket tighter. You hesitated then curled your fingers around the blade. "What would you have me do?" The words tasted like ash. "Stab him mid thrust and pray his beast doesn't burn us all?"
Your brother's nostrils flared. "I'd have you stop spreading your legs for the man who butchered our kin."
The memory of fire licking at the sky as Rhaenys' dragon fell. "And we've killed his queen" you hissed, fingers white knuckling the blade. "Do not act as if you forgot that's the reason he took me!"
Dorian whimpered in his sleep, a sound that made your brother glance away first. "I forget nothing" he muttered, but the dagger's point lowered slightly. "Least of all that he planted his bastard in you."
"Careful" you whispered, watching his pulse jump against the steel. "That 'bastard' shares your blood."
Meanwhile in King's Landing, Aegon sprawled across the Iron Throne with his boots propped on a conquered lord's skull, idly flipping the blade Visenya had embedded there days prior. Sunlight bled through the high windows, gilding his smirk as he recounted the princess's choked whimpers to no one in particular. The cuts on his neck had scabbed over, crusted reminders of how fiercely she'd fought before yielding.
Aenys squealed below the dais as Maegor tackled him, their wooden swords clattering across the stone. Aegon chuckled, tipping his head back to savor the rare moment of peace. "Careful" he drawled, though his voice lacked its usual edge. "You'll crack your skulls open like eggs." The boys paid no heed, rolling across the floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
Visenya's dagger thunked into the armrest beside him, cutting through his reverie. "You're smiling" she accused, her voice colder than the steel she retrieved with a practiced twist. "Like some besotted fool."
Aegon rolled the hilt between his fingers, watching his sons wrestle in the morning light. Maegor had Aenys in a headlock, both boys shrieking with laughter. The sound warmed something hollow beneath his ribs until Visenya's shadow fell across them. "She fights harder now" he murmured, tracing the scabs on his neck. "Like she's remembered who she is."
Visenya snatched the dagger back. "Who she was." Her boot nudged Aenys aside before Maegor could bite his ear. "Before you broke her."
Aegon caught Maegor mid lunge, swinging the boy upside down by his ankles. The child shrieked with laughter, tiny fists punching air. "She broke me first" he mused, watching his youngest dangle. The scabs on his neck pulled tight when Maegor twisted a phantom sting from fingers that had clawed him in ecstasy rather than rage for once. His thumb brushed the boy's forehead, smearing dirt. "Wouldn't Dorian look sweet between these two?"
Visenya's dagger flashed...embedding in the floorboards between Aegon's spread legs. Maegor's delighted scream turned shrill as his father went rigid. "Finish that thought" she invited, "and I'll geld you with your own sword."
Aenys scrambled to his feet, eyes wide but it was Dorian's name that lingered like poison in the air between them.
Four days passed in the space of a sharpened breath. You knew he would come...had felt the phantom press of his body against yours every time you closed your eyes but nothing prepared you for the sight of Aegon sprawled across your bed, fingers tracing the carved dragon on Dorian's discarded toy. Moonlight caught the predatory gleam in his eyes when you froze in the doorway, the little babe heavy in your arms.
"You're early..." you choked out, shifting Dorian higher on your hip as if your body could shield him. Aegon's grin was all teeth as he unfolded from the sheets, too large, too warm, too present in a room that still smelled of lemon oil and your frantic scrubbing.
Dorian whimpered against your neck, small fingers tangling in your hair. Aegon's gaze flicked to the movement, his own hand twitching at his side before he schooled it into stillness. "Give him to me" he murmured, stepping closer. The scent of dragon clung to him...sulfur and storm wind overpowering the jasmine soap you'd bathed in.
You pivoted away, pressing Dorian's face into your shoulder. "He's sleeping" you lied, feeling the boy's rapid heartbeat against your ribs. Aegon's nostrils flared, recognizing the deception. His fingers brushed your elbow, light as a blade testing flesh before curling around your waist instead.
"Good" he murmured, lips skimming your temple. "He won't remember this." His other hand slid up your thigh, bunching fabric with practiced ease. You gasped, clutching Dorian tighter as Aegon's teeth found your earlobe. "I'd rather he not witness me fucking his mother senseless."
Dorian squirmed against your chest, small fingers pressing into your collarbone right over Aegon's bite marks from four nights prior. Aegon exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. "Put him down" he breathed, nuzzling the sensitive spot below your ear that made your knees weak. "Or I'll take him from you."
"Can I call for a maid to take him for a while…I wish to spend time with you alone…"
Your voice trembled as you pressed Dorian tighter against your chest. Aegon's fingers paused mid-stroke along your inner thigh, his dark chuckle vibrating against your neck. "Clever girl" he murmured, thumb finding the exact spot that made your breath hitch, the one he'd discovered years ago when you still pretended to hate him. "But I didn't fly across the Narrow Sea to fuck a lie."
Aegon's hand slid higher, fingers dipping beneath your damp smallclothes. "Call your maid" he breathed against your pulse. "Let her take him to some wetnurse's teat until I finish with you."
You hesitated, Dorian's soft whimper against your neck tightening something primal in your chest but when Aegon's teeth grazed your earlobe, you heard yourself shout for Maris. The girl scurried in wide eyed, freezing when she saw the conqueror looming behind you, his fingers working obscenely beneath your skirts.
"Take him…tell no one" You ordered, voice raw. Dorian fussed as Maris peeled him from your arms, his tiny fists clutching your necklace until the chain snapped. Aegon's growl of approval vibrated through your back as the door clicked shut then he spun you around, slamming your hips against the bedpost. "Lift your skirts" he rasped, already unlacing himself with his free hand.
Your knees hit the mattress as you fumbled with your laces. Aegon's chuckle was dark velvet against your nape then suddenly he was inside you, no preamble, the stretch burning after four days of violent absence. You bit back a cry as his fingers dug into your hips, each thrust punctuated by the bedpost grinding into your pubic bone. "This is why I came" he panted against your spine, teeth scraping vertebrae. "Not for the boy. For this."
You arched instinctively when his palm found your clit, the rough calluses dragging just how you hated, how your body remembered. The orgasm tore through you like betrayal, your nails splitting wood grain as you muffled screams in the bedding. Aegon groaned approval, his pace turning jagged. "There she is" he rasped. "My Dornish whore."
The second climax wrenched a sob from your throat...half pain when his teeth sank into your shoulder. He drank your cries like wine, hips snapping to prolong the aftershocks until you went limp. Only then did his rhythm falter, his release spilling hot inside you with a groan that sounded suspiciously like your name.
You expected him to withdraw. Instead, Aegon gathered your trembling body against his chest, his spent cock still nestled deep as he nuzzled your damp hair. "Tell me you missed me" he murmured with fingers tracing the fresh bite marks blooming across your back.
The words tumbled out before you could bite them back. "I missed your cock." His answering chuckle vibrated through your joined bodies, but when you tried to twist away, his grip tightened painfully. Your hand fluttered mindlessly searching for his in the tangled sheets like some lovestruck maid. His fingers twitched away at first, then slowly, deliberately laced through yours, pinning your palm to the mattress beside your head.
"Say it properly" he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. You turned your face into the pillow, but his free hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze to the mirror across the chamber. Your reflection stared back...lips swollen, hair matted with sweat, his fingerprints purpling along your jaw. His thumb traced your bottom lip. "I missed you" he corrected softly, watching your face in the glass.
"I..I missed you" Your fingers spasmed in his grip, betrayal masquerading as affection. Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, his hips rolling to remind you he was still buried deep. You gasped, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer. "There" he praised, pressing a kiss to your temple that felt horrifyingly tender. "Was that so hard?"
The hand pinning yours to the mattress flexed...his thumb rubbing circles into your palm like a lover might. You hated how your fingers curled instinctively around his, how your traitorous body melted into the aftershocks still rippling through you. His chuckle vibrated against your spine as he lifted your joined hands, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "See? You still know how to be sweet…still know how to be docile."
Docile. The word slithered under your skin like a knife. You twisted sharply only for his arm to snake around your waist, hauling you flush against him. His cock, still half-hard inside you, twitched in interest. "Don't" he murmured, nipping your shoulder. "You'll ruin the moment."
Your fingers spasmed again, torn between clawing his forearm and clutching him closer. Aegon chuckled darkly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles...the same hand that had held a dagger to his throat prior. "There's my girl" he crooned, rolling his hips just enough to make you gasp. "Sweet when you want to be."
Moonlight caught the tear tracking down your cheek. You hated yourself for it...for the way your thighs trembled when he traced old scars along your ribs, for the broken whisper that escaped "I…I feel as if I don't belong to my family." The confession hung between you like a noose.
Aegon stilled, his thumb pausing mid stroke across your hipbone. You braced for mockery, for teeth at your throat proving weakness but his exhale warmed your shoulder instead. "They tell you to hate me" he murmured, not a question. His fingers slid up to press against your pounding pulse, testing its rhythm before dragging deliberately down to cradle your jaw. "But here you are."
"Tell me, princess" he breathed, lips brushing yours with each word, "do you hate me when I'm inside you?" His grip tightened when you shuddered. "When you come on my cock like a bitch in heat?"
You swallowed and felt the drag of his thumb along your throat, pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter against his skin. "I—"
Aegon's teeth grazed your earlobe, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "You what?" His voice was gravel, the kind that scraped you raw. "Say it."
Your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his fingertips—like a trapped bird, like surrender. "I need you" you whispered, tasting the treason in the words. Your family's poison curdled in your stomach...their whispers about his brutality. Yet here you lay, still dripping with his seed while he stroked your trembling thighs.
Aegon's fingers stilled on your ribs, his breath hitching against your nape. For a heartbeat, you thought he might laugh to shatter this fragile thing between you with cruelty. Instead, his palm slid up to cradle your jaw, turning your face toward the mirror once more. Moonlight caught the tear streaks on your cheeks, the bite marks purpling your shoulders, his fingerprints and his claim painted across your skin in violent watercolors.
"Look at you" he murmured, thumb tracing the swollen curve of your bottom lip. His reflection met yours...dark eyes burning with something fiercer than triumph. "My Dornish viper, unraveled." His hips rolled shallowly, dragging a whimper from your throat as he hardened inside you again. "Tell me again."
"I need you" you repeated, watching his pupils dilate in the mirror. The admission tasted like blasphemy, like sweet rot on your tongue.
Dawn cracked through the shutters when your brother burst in, his blade gleaming with morning dew until he saw you pinned beneath Aegon in the rumpled sheets, the conqueror's hand still tangled possessively in your hair. His curse cut deeper than any blade. "Whore!" he spat, and the word settled like a brand between your ribs.
Dorion had spent the night with a wetnurse and your mind and body felt hazy as you tried to sit up while tears threatened to fall. "Brother please—"
"Silence!" He clenched his fists. "You lay with the man who burned our fields and murdered our kin—who butchered your guard, kidnapped you! Raped you—and still you spread your legs for him like a dockside whore?" The disgust in his voice made your stomach twist.
Aegon's fingers tightened around your wrist, not painfully, but enough to feel the pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. "Careful, lordling" he murmured, flicking a lazy glance toward your brother. "You're speaking to my queen." The words landed like a slap.
You flinched, but not at the title, at the molten fury twisting your brother's face. Aegon's free hand settled possessively at the small of your back, pressing you forward as if presenting evidence. "Look at them" he purred, nodding to where your mother stood rigid in the doorway, your brother's fingers white knuckled around his dagger hilt. "They'd sooner spit on your shadow than call you kin."
Your mother's lips curled and you finally seen she held dorion. "You are no daughter of Dorne." The words landed like a spear between your ribs. She flicked her fingers...a dismissal you'd seen her give to traitors dragged before the sun throne. "Take your bastard and go."
Aegon's hands were surprisingly gentle as he secured Dorian against your chest with a length of silk, his fingers lingering where the fabric brushed your still tender bite marks. You flinched when your brother spat at your feet "Rot in King's Landing, sister."
The courtyard stones burned beneath your bare soles, you'd fled your chambers too fast for shoes but the real fire was in your mother's eyes "You chose him" she hissed, jerking her chin at Aegon tightening the last knot on your makeshift carrier. "Now live with that stench."
Balerion shifted his vast wings, tail knocking over a Dornish spear rack with a clatter that made Dorian cry. You clutched him tighter, his sobs muffled against the silk now stained with sweat and tears. Your brother's blade flashed as he stepped forward not to strike, but to sever the silver and onyx necklace your father had given you. The chain snapped like a noose cut loose.
"Mama…please—" you cried but she only turned while Aegon tugged your hand to help you start climbing up his dragon
"First time is always the worst" Aegon murmured too soft for your family to hear as he guided your trembling foot onto the rope ladder. His palm settled at the small of your back, steadying you when Balerion shifted impatiently. You clutched the ropes until your knuckles bleached white, tasting bile when the dragon's muscles rippled beneath you like a living mountain.
Your mother spat in the dust...a Dornish curse, while your brother raised his sword in mocking salute. Dorian's frightened wails drowned out your whispered farewell. Aegon's fingers twitched against your spine not pushing, not restraining just there, solid as the Iron Throne he'd forged from his enemies' blades.
Balerion shifted beneath you, his scales hotter than Dornish sands at noon. You gasped as the movement nearly unseated you, fingers scrabbling against rough hide until Aegon's arm banded around your waist. "Breathe" he murmured against your temple, one hand guiding yours to clutch the saddle. His warmth at your back felt unnervingly like shelter.
The wind stole your father's voice first that broken shout of your childhood name, raw as an open wound. Your head whipped around so fast your hair lashed Aegon's face, but already the figures below were shrinking, their upturned faces blurring into the courtyard stones. Only your father remained distinct, his saffron robes billowing as he ran after the dragon's shadow, arm outstretched as if he could pluck you from the sky.
Aegon's hand clamped over yours where it clutched the saddle. "Don't look back." His breath scorched your ear, the words half lost beneath the whipcrack of unfolding wings. Dorian screamed as the first downbeat lifted you skyward, his terror piercing through the thunder of wind and wingbeats. Your fingers found him instinctively, checking the silk bindings as Dorne dropped away beneath you.
Balerion's ascent left your stomach knotted somewhere in the ruins of your dignity. The sunlight burned colder here when you finally risked glancing down, the palace was a pale smudge amid tawny sands. Your father's figure had vanished. Only the wind answered when you whispered his name.
King's Landing stank of fish guts and wildfire. Visenya's silhouette cut across the courtyard as Balerion landed her hand already flexing around Dark Sister's hilt. You barely had time to register the blade's gleam before Aegon was hauling you down by your waist, Dorian's wails muffled against your collarbone.
The month you spent in the red keep was far better now that shackles weren't on and bruising your skin all night, you missed your family but Aegon and Dorian was all you had left and time seemed to fly by to the moment where you would wed the man you never thought you would..
The ribbon was too tight. Silk as crimson as your bleeding lips wound around your joined wrists, Aegon's palm scalding against yours while Visenya watched with hooded eyes. The High Septon's knife glinted before pain bloomed...a sharp sting as the blade parted your flesh. Blood welled dark as Dornish wine. Aegon's tongue swiped across your wounds before you could flinch away. His kiss tasted of iron and conquest.
"My queen" he murmured against your temple, the title searing worse than Balerion's scales.
A year had passed since the silk bound wedding, since your father's distant scream had been swallowed by the wind. Now Dorion toddled ahead on unsteady legs, his chubby hands batting at butterflies in the royal gardens. You waddled after him, belly round and heavy with your second child with Aegon...your hips aching with each step.
Aegon himself was just watching from the doorway remembering everything that led him to this moment. A sigh left his lips as he toyed with the pendant around his neck, a portrait of Rhaenys inside… and before he knew it, he had taken it off and passed it to his son Aenys, gently putting it over his head. He gave the boy a smile and ruffled his hair before sticking a new necklace over his head.
A locket of Valyrian steel, inside… a portrait of you…for he knew now that perhaps he was meant to face the loss of his Rhaenys in order to be united with the true love of his life…no matter how messed up the first meeting was.
As he stared at you now, round with his child, chasing after the other, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life in this moment.
Aegon found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the pull of your presence. He approached silently, his boots barely making a sound on the cobblestone path. Dorion giggled as a butterfly landed on his chubby finger, his silver curls glinting in the sunlight. You turned slightly, sensing Aegon's approach, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of you...your skin flushed, your lips slightly parted, the swell of your belly pressing against the fabric of your gown.
"You're staring" you murmured, not looking at him directly. A playful smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.
Aegon exhaled through his nose, stepping closer…so close his shadow swallowed yours. "I have every right to stare at what's mine." His fingers traced the curve of your swelling belly, pressing lightly where the babe kicked in response. Dorian squealed as the butterfly fluttered away, drawing Aegon's gaze for only a heartbeat before returning to you.
"You look like a goddess heavy with child" he murmured, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. The tenderness in his voice unnerved you still, like finding a viper curled gently in your palm.
You gave a giggle before reaching for the new necklace around his neck "Did you lose your other one? though this one is pretty as well."
Aegon caught your wrist before you could touch it, his grip firm but not painful as if the pendant were a wound not yet healed. "Not lost." His thumb brushed your pulse point, slow and deliberate. "Given." Dorian's delighted shriek split the air as he chased another butterfly, oblivious to the tension thrumming between you. Aegon's gaze flicked to your son, then back to you, his fingers tightening imperceptibly. "Do you like it?"
The silver chain glinted in the sunlight, its intricate filigree hiding something within. You tilted your head, studying the way his throat worked when you didn't answer immediately. "It's beautiful" you conceded, watching his shoulders relax fractionally.
Aegon's fingers uncurled from your wrist, trailing down to intertwine with yours. "Open it" he murmured, pressing the locket into your palm. The metal was warm from his skin, vibrating with the steady pulse of his heartbeat still thrumming beneath your fingertips.
You hesitated, "Let me." His nails scraped the hinge, releasing the faintest whisper of myrrh and iron. Inside, the miniature portrait stared back, not Rhaenys' laughing eyes, but your own face captured in rare repose, sunlight gilding the curve of your cheekbone exactly as it did now.
Aegon's thumb swiped the lower curve of the frame where the paint had smudged from overhandling, you realized. "Had it commissioned after…" His pause was infinitesimal. "After Sunspear." When you'd wept in his arms not from pain but the bone deep terror of realizing how easily your family's love had shattered.
Dorion's sticky fingers suddenly clutched at your skirts, babbling about dragonflies. The distraction let you blink away the sting in your eyes but not before Aegon noticed. His knuckles brushed your damp lashes, then lingered at your jaw when you instinctively leaned into the touch.
You sniffled once a traitorous, hiccuping sound before twisting away to scoop Dorion into your arms. "Mama's silly, isn't she?" you cooed, pressing kisses against his temple until he squealed. Aegon's heat at your back was oppressive, his breath uneven against your nape where he'd bent to nuzzle the tender skin there. You passed Dorion to the nearest maid with whispered instructions then seized Aegon's wrist hard enough to leave crescent marks in his flesh.
The solar door barely clicked shut before you were on him, giggling breathlessly as you fumbled with his belt. Aegon made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh when your teeth grazed his collarbone through the fabric. "Impatient," he chastised, even as his hands found your hips to hoist you onto the table, scrolls and quills scattering to the floor with a clatter that would horrify the maesters later.
Summary: It’s the 1960s and Luda Mae frowns upon premarital sex like any good Christian woman. You and Tommy are young, hot, and in love but the only problem is that Tommy was raised to wait until marriage and never lets you two go any further than kissing and some groping.
But the devil lives in the hot Texan sun and even God takes a break from the summer heat.
Notes: this is super short, just pure smut, self indulgent I’m obsessed with big boy Tommy 😭😭😭 i swear I’m working on part 2 of my sister Sinclair fic but Tommy has me in a choke hold and I needed an outlet.
No TW that I can think of other than bad smut and maybe ??? Coercion??? Cause Tommy wants to be a good boy and stop before y’all go too far but you flash him and then he’s absolutely 100% in. A bit of religious stuff, period typical sexism but vaguely. Let me know if I should add anything else and I’ll get right on it. Reader isn’t ever referred to using “she/her” pronouns but is described as having breasts and does have female genitalia so I tagged it fem reader to be safe
Enjoy!!!
The early morning sun burned, chasing away what little cool air remained of the night before. While the barn shaded you from the unforgiving sun and hid you from disapproving eyes — or lecherous in the case of the older men of the family — it also trapped in the heat your two bodies gave off.
Thomas pressed his open mouth to your own, tongue swiping over your teeth eager to taste you. Your hands gripped his dark hair, ruining any half-effort attempt he had made earlier in the day to smooth down his unruly hair. He held you in his arms, body pressed tightly against him in an attempt to get as close as possible, his large frame hiding you even further from prying eyes than the shadowed corners of the old barn. The kiss was deep and hungry and served as a brief respite from Luda Maes ever watching eyes. While she had been fine with you living with the family before you and Tommy were married, she forbade you from sharing a room or being intimate, a rule she absolutely refused to budge on and one that Uncle Charlie took a strange glee in ribbing you about. But much like the Texan heat, the heated looks you gave each other were unavoidable and only grew hotter as the summer days went on. Luda Mae wanted to wait until the following spring to make your union official but at the rate the town was drying up, there wouldn't even be a priest to officiate the ceremony, much less any guest to attend. You highly doubted anyone outside of the family would want to witness your union anyway but still, Luda Mae didn't want the few who would to get wise and start counting months.
These stolen moments in the barn were as good as you could get — and by god were they good.
Tommy’s large hands groped at your breasts, pawing roughy at your nipples through the worn fabric of your old dress. It wasn’t long before you found yourself in the familiar position of being sprawled out on the barn floor, coarse hay a discomfort you had long learned to endure for the sake of pleasure.
You desperately thrust your sex up onto his growing bulge, whining when he groaned and pinned your hips with his own, preventing you from getting your desired stimulation. “Please Tommy,” you beg, lips separating, “We don’t have to do too much, I just wanna touch you.” You press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, pulling softly at the flesh with your teeth and tongue dragging across the bites to taste the salt on his skin. Your hands eagerly worked to untuck his faded green shirt and wrap around him, roaming the vast expanse of his back. His whole body shuddered in your arms, an attempt to hold back from eating you whole.
You know Thomas will put an end to your romp soon, the tense lines of his shoulders and the way he shuts his eyes a sign that he's reaching his limit, that if you two don't stop now you won't be able to stop — but that’s exactly what you want.
You're tired of holding back, of this constant edging you have to endure when you’re in his presence and it gets harder every day. Just yesterday afternoon, Uncle Charlie sprayed Tommy with the hose, telling him that he was filthy and needed to get out of those clothes before he went inside. Watching as he undressed by the back door so that you could put his clothes on the line to dry had nearly given you a heatstroke — and if Charlie’s leering grin was any clue, you swear he did it on purpose in an attempt to rile you up. You ran off before you sinned right there in the yard, the memory of Thomas's shirt clinging to his arms, his chest glistening with water had kept you company well into the night.
So before Tommy puts a stop to your roll in the hay you make your move. You lift your dress up past your breast and expose yourself to him, you can see his breath stutter in his chest, this was quickly becoming the farthest you two had ever gone.
“Just watch me, Tommy, watch me,” you say breathlessly.
And he does, he sits on his haunches like a predator, his engorged cock straining against his pants and imagining just a taste has your tongue darting out to wet your lips, his gaze fixated on the movement.
Sliding your panties off your legs, your fingers dip briefly into your wet hole, gathering slick to rub onto your clit. At the very first touch, you let out a shuddering breath and you watch as his shoulders heave.
You begin rubbing your clit at an intense pace already turned on from the earlier heavy petting, not once breaking eye contact with Thomas as you do. With each moan you muffle you see his eyes grow darker with desire breathing with his mouth open as though he could taste your scent in the air. When he finally lets his cock spring free you let out your loudest moan yet. It’s better than you ever thought. His cock is thick and heavy, drooping slightly under its own weight but still undeniably firm. It curves slightly and you imagine that if it was inside you it would scrape against your walls in a way you've never been able to do with just your fingers.
Thomas grips his cock firmly and gives it a few tugs, eyes alternating between hungrily drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression and your dripping pussy. You buck your hips, desperate to press your clit against your fingers and Thomas jerks his length even faster, rubbing his tip and spreading his precum on his hand.
God, you wished it was you that was touching him.
Thomas settles onto his knees and after a brief hesitation begins to shuffle closer to you. The sight of him crawling to you on his knees with his dripping length in hand made your pussy clench around nothing and you let out a whimper. You remove your fingers from your clit, feeling the heat radiating from his cock as he settles on top of you, legs spreading around his waist, your hips slightly raised and resting on his thighs.
The tip hesitantly pressed against your clit and your moan fills the small space before you can suppress it. This was better than you were hoping and it felt as though you were pressing against the boundaries the lord had set for you. Tommy’s eyes find yours looking for reassurance, asking without words, “Do you think this is okay?”
You find enough comprehension in your lust-addled brain to come up with a coherent answer, “It should be fine, I think,” you stammer out, “I mean, it’s not like — not like you’re putting it in so, it should be fine.”
You’re not overly familiar with the word of God outside of Sunday services and Luda Mae’s lectures, both of which you were forced to attend and spent tuning out in favor of watching the sweat build on Tommy’s brow while he worked through the window.
You think that if God could feel the weight of Thomas like you did, feel the heat like you could, you think he’d forgive the sin of your act.
It seems like that was all the reassurance that Thomas needed because no sooner than the words fumbled their way out of your mouth that he begins to drag the length of his cock against your slit.
God, if this is what hell was supposed to be like, burning and full of decadence, then perhaps you didn’t mind being a sinner.
The way he ruts against you is euphoric. Heavy breaths escape you both and you can’t help the words that spill from your lips.
“God, Tommy, I wish you would put it inside me,” you whine out “‘wanna feel your fat cock in my pussy, wanna get filled,” you might as well be begging at this point, and Tommy's increases his pace to the point that you think he wants the same thing, that he’s desperate to thrust into you rather than against you and —
And then the tip of his cock catches on your entrance and you both stop breathing.
“Maybe — Maybe it doesn’t count.” You stammer out, “It didn’t go in and it’s just the tip, and I don’t think that the tip counts” With the slightest twitch of his hips the tip of his cock has slipped inside.
"It's - it's just the tip it's fine” Your words sound empty even to you but the reassurance is all Tommy needs to push forward and let the head of his cock slide into your welcoming heat
His soul nearly leaves his body when he feels your raw pussy on the head of his cock. He jerks his length furiously and your fingers begin to move against your clit again, eager to meet your high with Thomas.
But it’s not enough. He was right there, right there just one push of his hips he’d be right where you needed him
“Please Tommy” Canting your hips slightly so the tip begins to dig deeper into you, you begin to plead once more, “wanna feel you fill me up, wanna remember the shape of your cock please”
Thomas feels years of control break at your words and with one swing of his hips, he bottoms out instantly. You feel like you've been punched in the gut as the air rushes out of you and you let out a sound like a wounded animal. Tommy stays still deep inside you, shaking and heaving, absolutely drunk on the feeling of your soaked walls clenching vigorously around his length.
You feel full in a way you've never thought possible. His length throbs, its girth stretching you in a way that burns.
When he finally starts thrusting, you’re not ready. He’s like a man possessed, solely focused on the feel of you around him, your skin pressed against his, his blood pounding in his ears.
“Wait— Tommy, ah, slow — slow down, oh god!” You can’t hold back your moans and he can’t stop, both fully engrossed in the feel of each other with no control over your own lust. Thomas crashes his lips onto yours in a halfhearted attempt to keep down your moans, it’s sloppy, clashing teeth and drooling tongues, spit escaping your lips, unlike any you’ve shared before.
This is completely different from what you’ve imagined your first time together would be like. It’s not your wedding night, you're laying on the dirty barn floor and there’s absolutely nothing gentle about the way Tommy is ravaging you. Your pussy is sopping wet and with every thrust, it lets out an embarrassing squelch, your juices and Tommy’s pre-cum leak down your ass and make a sticky mess in his dark pubes.
He doesn’t stop even as your walls spasm around him, cumming on his cock and digging your nails into his strong back. He works you through your orgasm even as your mouth clumsily forms the words to beg for him to slow down or to give you a moment. It’s too much, the sensations completely overloading your brain and all you can do is hold on tightly to him, lost in the ecstasy of your release.
Thomas lets out a deep, guttural groan as he cums, hips stuttering as he bullies his fat cock into the deepest part of your sex, filling you to the brim and your vision goes white.
Boneless, neither one of you makes a move to separate from the other, so thoroughly satisfied and content to lie where you are holding each other, Thomas’s softening cocking slipping out of you and spilling his release onto the ground.
His weight on you is comforting, you gently press kisses to his face and bask in the way his heavy breaths caress your sweaty skin.
“I love you.” You whisper into the shell of his ear and he squeezes you against him, repeating the words in his garbled voice the best he could. Your love is just for the two of you, no one else had a place in your world, no one else had the right to peak in on your affection or gawk at your differences.
This moment in time was just for the two of you.
“Thomas! Where the hell are ya, boy!”
Well, until Uncle Charlie’s voice brought you back down to reality.
For the first time in a long time, Simon feels as if he’s walking on eggshells
He’s 6’4”, easily over 200 pounds of bulking muscle, strikes fear into the heart of each and every enemy he comes across (should they live to tell the tale that is), and yet he feels as though he’s tiptoeing, practically dancing around the issue he refuses to address
Yet you make him feel this way
It’s been months now, of this dance you still haven’t realized you’re apart of, shining on centre stage under the constant spotlight of Simon Riley’s attention, rather than one of the background performers as you seem to believe
He feels as though he’s done everything he can to get the point across to you, other than literally getting down on one knee and asking you those four special words he can’t seem to get himself to speak out loud
As easy as it is to pretend you two truly are husband and wife ‘til death do you part, he’s instead having to watch you leave base in exchange for your lonely flat each night, reminded of the fact that he’s not ballsy enough to just come out and say it to you
You make the Lieutenant nervous for fucks sake, something he hasn’t truly felt in so long he’s grasping for straws, searching for a life raft in these uncharted waters to help him stay afloat
That’s part of why he’s so confused when Gaz finally joins him and Soap in the gun range, landing a friendly smack across the taller man’s broad shoulders, saying something about how he’s ‘really happy for you LT, finally properly asked her, aye?’
“What are you goin’ on about?” Ghost practically grunts out, readjusting the weapon against his shoulder as he glances through the scope of his gun, only partly interested in what the Sergeants answer is, that is until he hears him mention your name
“Just saw her at her desk, talkin’ about how she has a wedding this weekend-” Gaz has barely finished his sentence before Ghost is whipping his skull clad head around, shoving his weapon into Soap’s arms, and beelining out of the armoury towards you, leaving a pair of chuckling Sergeants behind him
They’ve never seen their Lieutenant so whipped before. And the fact that you don’t even know you have this beast of a man wrapped around your dainty little finger makes it all the more entertaining for them
They totally haven’t taken bets on how long it takes for him to break and finally confess his feelings, and Price definitely didn’t put money down on it either
Ghost may as well float into the room on a cloud he’s feeling so overjoyed at the idea of finding you sat at your desk all pretty, chit chatting away with colleagues about the wedding you’ve finally realized he intends to give you, taking all the pressure off of him
Instead, he rounds the corner and overhears the last tidbits of your conversation, pretending as though his stomach doesn’t drop out of him and onto the floor when he realizes you’re telling your desk mate about your sisters wedding this weekend
He should’ve know better, it wouldn’t be that easy
“-not that I’m embarrassed to go without someone. That I don’t care so much about.” He hears you explain, failing to have noticed him behind you quite yet. “God knows it’s been ages since I’ve gone on an actual date anyways. But this is the first time I’m a bridesmaid, and my sister keeps saying I’m apparently the only bridesmaid without a date-”
“Well aren’t you going to bring your husband?” Your colleague asks, cutting you off. Just like everyone else on base, she knows thinks you are in fact Mrs Riley, for all intents and purposes. You open your mouth to correct her and tell her you don’t have a husband, when a deep voice comes up behind you and speaks first.
“‘Course she is.” Ghost replies for you, coming to stand behind you in your chair, sneaking a gloved hand onto your shoulder to offer a slight squeeze of acknowledgment. You lean your head back to glance up at him, offering a soft smile that melts his heart more and more each time he’s lucky enough to see it, to be the reason for it. Sensing she’s now the odd one out, your coworker quietly excuses herself and goes to find someone else to talk water cooler gossip with.
“Oh Ghost! Hi!” You say, reaching your own hand up to squeeze his in return, smile widening when you notice the crinkles next to his eyes that you hope mean he’s smiling as well under the mask. “Oh, you really don’t have to. I mean- I wouldn’t want you to waste a day off just to sit through a stranger’s wedding for who knows how many hours. I barely want to go.”
You try to joke about it, but this really has been causing you unnecessary stress. Your sister apparently doesn’t have enough wedding planning on her plate as it is, seeing as she has enough time to constantly pester you about whether you’ve secured a date yet or not, despite your answer always being no. She knows it’s been forever since you’ve dated anyone seriously, and that finding a date will be more of a chore than showing up without one and enduring your relative comments and questions.
Each time you told her no though, your mind wandered to the tall, dark, muscular man who liked to call himself your husband, imagining the looks on your family’s face if you were to show up with Ghost on your arm. But you never bothered to ask him, not wanting to force him into extending his kindness and charade of a happily married couple outside of work hours.
“I’d be with you for those ‘who knows how many hours?’” Ghost asks, quoting you, watching as you offer him a simple nod in return. “Then that’s the farthest thing from a waste o’ time in my books, love.”
As simple as that, the plan was set. Ghost would be your date to the wedding that weekend.
Now, Ghost was used to not having very much to look forward to in life. He could look forward to a hot shower occasionally, look forward to good pub food instead of mess hall dinners, look forward to a chance to sleep in a little later, simpler things of the sort.
But when you came into his life, he was suddenly looking forward to equally simple, but different things. He looked forward to reading your cute replies to his good morning and good night texts (he still never misses a single one, all these months later), looked forward to seeing your sweet smile greeting him when you arrived to work, looked forward to hearing your pleased hum when you took your first sip of whatever drink he prepared you that day. Essentially, he looked forward to seeing you.
Now though, he feels as if this weekend cannot come soon enough, finding himself practically giddy he’s looking forward to spending more time with you off base so much, feeling like a kid who’s itching to get their hands on their new Christmas gifts.
When he arrives at your flat almost a half hour too early (he just couldn’t wait anymore lovie, you can’t blame the poor man), and you open the door to greet him, he doesn’t think it’s fair to compare this to a gift under the Christmas tree.
No. It’s more like he’s won the goddamn lottery.
Standing before him, is the most beautiful, breathtaking vision he’s ever laid eyes upon in all his years. He half wonders if his knees are legitimately beginning to wobble where he stands, he feels so weak in the knees as he gazes upon you in your doorway. It’s still just you, the same woman he’s been seeing every day and dreaming of each night.
But you don’t look like you have every day these past months. Your hair is styled differently, your make up is a little more done up, and the thing that’s really got his mind reeling, is that instead of your regular work attire, you’re wearing a dress so stunning he half wonders whether or not you are the bride this evening. There’s no possible way someone so beautiful is expected to stand on the sidelines tonight, expected to be anyone apart from the star of the show, the centre of his the world.
You don’t take much notice of the way Ghost fails to greet you properly, standing outside your door and practically gawking at you, seeing as you’re preoccupied doing the same to him. His usual fatigues and black everything have been swapped out for black dress pants, a white button up shirt (your eyes definitely do not linger on the top three buttons being left undone, nope, not at all) and a black blazer, matching black surgical mask in exchange for the typical skeleton mask.
You two blushing, bumbling idiots in secret love manage to pull yourselves together enough to make the drive up to the venue, the car ride filled with laughter, stories, and too many stolen glances to count, each of you wishing you could pull the car over somewhere and jump each others bones instead.
At the venue, you go through the obligatory introductions with your family, simply so they couldn’t say you didn’t say hello at least once throughout the busy night, only partially intent on ignoring them later on. They’re left understandably stunned at the mention that the man beside you is your husband, and when your family members begin unloading question after question, the two of you manage to find a quick excuse each time to dash off, giggling and holding onto the other as you weave the growing crowd of guests, all too proud of your little inside joke.
You regretfully tell him that you’ll have to leave him to sit alone throughout the ceremony, though he insists you shouldn’t worry about it, lifting your spirits momentarily when he jokes that you should focus more on not tripping during your walk down the aisle, before the both of you are left bright red in the face at hearing him talking about you walking down an aisle, as if you don’t pretend to be married every day to begin with.
He truly doesn’t mind having to sit on the tiny foldable chairs that make up the seating for the ceremony, it’s only a small portion of the evening after all. And besides, his eyes certainly aren’t on the couple reciting their vows up at the altar. No, his gaze is on one person and one person only. From the moment the music kicked in and pairs of bridesmaids and groomsmen stepped out to walk the aisle in their matching attire and matching smiles, his eyes have been locked on you, just as yours have been locked on his.
His size certainly helped you pick him out of the crowd with more ease, finding him amongst the familiar and unfamiliar faces instantly, as though gravity was pulling your gaze in his direction alone. Later on, neither of you could even correctly point out amongst the groomsmen whose arm you were holding on to as you walked, attention only focused on each other.
Even as you stood up front, listening to your sister and new brother in law profess their love for the other, you tried your best to appear as though you were paying them your full attention, considering you were standing up at the front and all. But it was as though you could literally feel Ghost’s eyes on you the entire ceremony, unable to stop your eyes from straying towards him more times than was surely appropriate, feeling the heat of a blush creep over your cheeks every time you saw how devastatingly handsome he was today.
By the time the newlyweds are marching back down the aisle past their cheering loved ones, wedding party in tow, your eyes are no longer pretending to look anywhere other than at him. And Simon is looking back at you, but his mind is growing preoccupied, thinking of how he can finally ensure you’ll let him walk you down the aisle now.
Because in the glove compartment of the very car he drove you up here in, only inches away from your knees the entire drive, he’s tucked away a small little box, containing the exact ring you chose from the jeweller all those weeks ago. He carries it with him everywhere, eager for the moment, the opportunity to be lucky enough to truly call himself your husband and slip the band over your finger as his wife.
And he’s decided that tonight is the night he tells you.
The night he tells you this has never been a joke to him, never been anything apart from what he really wants to be true from the moment he saw you.
a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic
pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader
summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?
warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii
a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3
general masterlist
You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.
Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.
Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.
For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.
The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.
The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.
You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.
Silence, then a low chuckle.
When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.
Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.
Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.
"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"
You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.
"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"
Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.
"—grant me the honor of—"
"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.
The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.
"Pardon?"
You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."
His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."
A pause.
His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"
You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."
His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."
You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."
You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."
He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."
You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."
At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"
You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."
He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."
"As they should," you replied smoothly.
To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."
A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.
Yet, he remained.
You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.
You paid it no mind.
He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.
"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"
A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."
You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."
His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."
You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."
"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."
You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"
His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.
"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."
You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."
He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"
"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."
He smirked. "Explains what?"
"Why I’ve never heard of it."
A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.
You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."
"Not yet," he said, far too easily.
You didn’t look up. "Why?"
"Because you haven’t given me yours."
You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.
"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.
"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.
You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."
You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."
"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."
You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.
Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."
You didn't dignify that with a response.
But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.
He had yet to claim your name.
No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.
Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.
Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.
He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.
But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.
Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”
A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.
Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."
“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.
“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.
Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”
Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."
Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."
Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."
"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"
Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."
Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.
Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.
"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"
Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."
Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."
Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"
"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."
Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."
Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.
His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"
But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.
"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."
And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.
The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.
Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.
Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.
You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.
Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”
You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?”
Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”
“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.
However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?
But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.
It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.
Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”
“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”
Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.
The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.
That suitor.
The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."
Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."
Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.
Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."
Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.
Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."
A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.
As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.
Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”
You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.
The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.
Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”
You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.
“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.
Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.
“Did you see him?”
You resumed braiding. “Who?”
Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”
You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.
“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”
Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”
Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”
You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.
And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.
The thought settled in your chest like a stone.
It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.
Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.
You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”
Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”
You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”
“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”
You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”
Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.
“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.
You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”
Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”
“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”
“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”
You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”
“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”
You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.
“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.
Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.
But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.
Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.
Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.
But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.
Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.
So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.
The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.
Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.
They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.
It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.
Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."
Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.
"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."
His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."
You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.
It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.
For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.
Perhaps the gods were toying with him.
"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."
"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."
"Not a chance."
You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"
Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."
He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.
"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.
"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"
For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.
It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.
And gods, it was beautiful.
Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.
"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."
Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."
He did not say so. He knew so.
Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.
And he had no intention of stopping now.
But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”
Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.
You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.
In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.
You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.
It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.
That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.
In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.
His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.
It is sharp. Focused.
It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.
It darkens.
Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.
Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?
His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.
But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—
His eyes.
Still watching.
“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.
But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”
Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”
Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”
This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”
Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.
But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."
Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"
Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."
"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.
Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."
Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.
Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.
You do not want to be here.
All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.
“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”
“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”
You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.
"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"
He does not notice the shadow behind him.
“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”
The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.
Gojo.
The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.
“You—”
“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”
With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.
Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.
You hesitate, unsettled.
“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.
Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.
His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”
He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”
“That’s not—”
“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?
You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”
His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.
“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”
His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.
“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”
Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”
You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.
His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.
The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.
His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”
The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.
“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”
You swallow. “No.”
A lie.
Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.
For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”
You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”
He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.
You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”
Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”
You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”
His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”
You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.
Until it isn’t, obviously.
He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.
“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”
You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”
Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”
“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”
Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”
“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”
“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.
Silence.
Gojo blinks at the board.
You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”
Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”
You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”
Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”
That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”
Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.
You don’t trust that look.
“What?” you ask warily.
He hums. “Just thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”
Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”
“You act as if I owe you something.”
His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”
You narrow your eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out.”
“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”
You arch a brow. “Fair?”
He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”
“You most certainly did not.”
“And I helped with your wrist.”
Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”
Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”
You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.
“The gardens?”
He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”
“Why?”
Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.
“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.
“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”
Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.
"There you are!"
Helen.
You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.
"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"
Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."
Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”
You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”
“A bruise?!”
“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.
Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”
“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”
Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.
“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”
You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.
She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.
“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”
You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”
“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”
You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.
It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.
You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”
“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”
You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”
Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”
You do not have an answer to that.
And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.
…
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.
But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?
The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.
Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.
You cannot say why.
A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—
You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.
A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.
You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.
Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”
You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”
He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”
And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.
Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.
You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.
But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.
You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.
If he comes, he comes.
And if not—
Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.
But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.
Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.
You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.
And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.
With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.
Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.
“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”
He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”
You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”
His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”
You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”
“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.
“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”
You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.
“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.
Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.
Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”
You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.
Yes.
It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.
You don’t know what to make of it.
You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.
The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.
You look away first.
Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.
A beat passes before he answers.
“Because you are.”
You swallow.
He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.
“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.
“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”
He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.
And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.
Does he want to reach for you?
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”
Your fingers still.
“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”
His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.
“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.
“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”
You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”
Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”
“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”
“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”
“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.
And then—silence.
You glance at him, and find him already watching you.
His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.
And then—
A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.
Your heart stutters.
Oh.
For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.
He is very handsome.
The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.
Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.
Gojo moves before you can react.
His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.
You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.
His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.
Your own breath falters.
His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.
Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.
He waits.
A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”
His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”
You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”
“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”
“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”
Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.
His gaze flickers to your lips.
Your breath catches, just for a moment.
And then—
His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.
You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.
It is all the invitation he needs.
He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.
The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.
For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.
When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.
“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.
Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”
“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”
“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.
Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?
Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.
What a match.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.
“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”
“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”
Fate.
What cruel irony.
You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.
And yet—
You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.
The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.
She wants this.
And what of you?
Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”
“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”
Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.
You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.
It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.
Over a man. What a shame.
You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.
Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.
But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.
The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.
Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.
You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—
And there he is.
Satoru.
Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.
Your heart stutters.
You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
The pebble strikes the stone beside you.
“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”
You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”
His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.
“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”
Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”
But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.
You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”
“And when have I ever listened?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.
He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”
Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”
Your stomach lurches. “She said—”
“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.
He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.
“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”
Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”
Oh.
He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.
“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”
“Ask me what?”
His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”
The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”
His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.
“You.”
Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.
“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.
“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.
It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.
His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.
So you whisper, “Then prove it.”
And that is all it takes for him to break.
His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—
Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”
“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.
But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”
He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.
After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”
But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”
You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”
“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.
You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.
Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.
“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”
Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”
“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”
Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”
He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.
You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.
For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.
Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.
You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”
Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.
It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.
When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.
So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.
And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.
“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.
“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”
“Helen!”
The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.
His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.
What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.
And perhaps he has.
After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—
He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.
Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.
general masterlist
a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....
ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter
thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3
Based on Christine by Stephen King
After your boyfriend's death, you're eager to sell his vintage Mustang. The car reminds you far too much of him and worse than that, it feels oddly alive. The only problem? Your dead boyfriend isn't ready to let go.
Tags: Male Yanderes x Fem Reader, Horror, Character Death, 12k words
Taglist: @mel-vaz
When your boyfriend died, you and Christine were the only witnesses.
All through his funeral, you kept thinking of ways to get rid of her. You were being paranoid and you knew it - she couldn't speak even if she wanted to. But having her around put you on edge, made you grit your teeth until your jaw ached.
After the wake, you approached your boyfriend's parents and asked if you could have her. They were pale and shaken, reeling from the suddeness of death just as much as from grief. His father nodded like a sleep walker, his voice older than his years.
"He would have wanted you to have her. She's yours."
His mother squeezed your shoulder. "I can't imagine what you're going through, dear. Whatever his faults, my boy loved you. I know that."
You managed a smile, managed to thank them through the tears that were suddenly falling. But your mind was on Christine. Always on Christine.
You were the last to leave the funeral parlour. You tried to tell yourself it was a coincidence, but deep down you knew the truth. You were scared. Scared of Christine, scared of your too quiet townhouse, scared of the dreams that would come when you closed your eyes.
It was early evening and the streetlights were coming on in the narrow tree lined avenue outside the funeral parlour. When you stepped out, goosebumps crawled across your arms.
She was waiting for you.
Christine. Your boyfriend's 1969 Mustang, cherry red and entirely rebuilt.
She was directly under a streetlight and her paint gleamed. The light reflected off her windshield so you couldn't see inside, but for a second it seemed like someone was already sitting behind the wheel.
You squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, the shadow driver was gone.
Christine. For most of your relationship, you loved her just as much as your boyfriend did. She was a labour of love and you felt it every time you sat in her passenger seat.
But things were different now.
You walked towards her cautiously. It was ridiculous to be scared of a car, but you were.
When you opened the driver side door, you almost expected to see your boyfriend. Despite the funeral, the wake, the late morning call to please come and identify a body down at the morgue, you still expected to see him. Light green eyes looking up at you, half smile that was half teasing and half lecherous.
The seats were empty.
You slid behind the wheel, your breathing shaky. You almost never drove Christine. Not that your boyfriend didn't offer. It was just that you liked riding passenger - liked looking over and seeing your man with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, liked seeing the muscles flex in his forearm when he steered.
The car still smelled like him. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite being impounded for a week while the cops did forensics, despite the valet scrubbing and steaming the seats to get the blood out, it still smelled like him.
You rested your head against the steering wheel, closed your eyes and sobbed for the first time since the night you killed your boyfriend.
When you put Christine up for sale, the calls started coming in almost immediately. It wasn't surprising - she was in incredible shape, she ran like a dream, and her white leather upholstery was original.
At first, you thought you'd be able to sell her before the month was up. The buyers would look under the hood and whistle in admiration.
But something always changed when they took her for a test drive. You couldn't understand it - she would drive perfectly but by the time you got home, the buyers were almost always frowning at you, or worse - not looking at you at all.
No matter how fanatic they were at first, no one wanted Christine.
You dropped the price and then dropped it again, but still no takers. The car spent all winter in the garage. You'd turn her on to idle every few days, clean off any dust and check that the mice weren't nibbling at the wiring, but you never stuck around for long.
It hurt to leave her locked away - your boyfriend poured so much of himself into her - but it hurt even worse to drive her. Whenever you were behind the wheel, you could feel the gaping emptiness of the passenger seat, could still see the bloodstains.
It was on the first warm day of spring when someone finally bought her.
Colt Guilder called you when you were just about ready to give up on selling her. You were literally about to take down the ad when your phone rang. The voice on the other end was deep, with a slight southern drawl that immediately reminded you of your boyfriend.
"Can I come and take a look today? I wouldn't want to impose ma'am, but I'm in a hurry to see her before anyone else gets a chance to buy her."
Her. Even the older buyers didn't really call cars 'her' anymore.
"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."
You were sitting on the porch steps when he pulled up, a jug of iced tea and your novel abandoned next to you. He stepped out of his Jeep, a tall man in blue jeans and boots, and you felt your heart lurch. Something deep inside you told you that this was the man who would finally take her off your hands.
He smiled at you as he approached and for a second you wanted to warn him away. Wanted to tell him the truth about Christine.
"Howdy ma'am. I'm real happy you agreed to meet me so last minute."
You smiled at him and shook his hand and bit back the truth. Oh, how you would come to hate that decision.
When he pulled up, Colt wasn't expecting the Mustang's owner to be a pretty little thing in a sundress. He was a gentleman, his mama raised him right, but even he had trouble keeping his eyes on your face and not letting them wander lower.
His hand swallowed yours when he shook it and it was hard not to notice the softness of your skin. Whoever rebuilt the Mustang, it wasn't you. You had the hands of a lady, not a mechanic.
"The car is out back. Keys are waiting for you. She's been serviced pretty regularly and my... my boyfriend built her up himself."
You started for the garage and he fell into step behind you. You were so much shorter than him - it was kind of cute to see your head bobbing in front of him. Like a pixie in a sundress.
"How come your man ain't the one to sell it?"
He wasn't surprised you had a boyfriend. Hell, he'd have tried his luck if he could. No doubt other men had the same idea.
"He... he passed away a few moths ago."
He cringed. Nice going, Colt. Bringing up painful memories only three sentences into conversation. Must be a world record.
"I'm so sorry ma'am. I had no idea."
You shrugged. "It's fine."
He was about to say something else when Christine came into view. Her grille was a newly buffed silver and her deep red paint caught the spring sun.
He gave a low whistle. "Pictures don't do her justice."
You smiled at that, but edged out of the car's direct line of sight. Neither of you consciously noticed it, but you approached the car like you would an animal. Slightly from the side so it couldn't charge at you.
"Mind if I take a look under the hood?"
"Be my guest."
He popped the hood and let out another low whistle. Without even looking past the surface level stuff, it was clear your boyfriend knew how to build an engine. The Mustang looked almost new.
"How long did this take?"
You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.
"A long time. He bought her a few months after we started dating. She was gonna be scrapped - looked like a total rust bucket."
He raised his eyebrows. If that was true, the body restoration alone must have cost a fortune. Did you realise how valuable a vintage ride like this was worth?
"Y'know, just from looking under the hood, I can tell you could get at least three times as much as you're asking."
If his uncle heard him sabotaging himself like that, he'd have given Colt a whack on the head. Truth was, he wanted the car. Wanted her so bad he would have taken out three separate loans to afford her.
But he wasn't a monster. It wasn't fair to buy something so fine from a girl who might not understand its true worth.
You raised your brows, more surprised at his honesty than at his statement.
"I know she's worth more. But I'm in a hurry to get rid of her. And well..."
You looked away. "People find the car a bit strange."
It was his turn to be surprised. He couldn't see any red flags in her upkeep or her paintwork. Maybe it was a deeper issue.
You pushed yourself away from the wall and nodded at the door.
"Keys are waiting for you. Take her for a drive and decide for yourself."
The interior was just as well taken care of as he expected - a tough job when the upholstery was mostly white. The keys had a tag attached with a name engraved in metal.
"Christine?"
"It's what we call her. It was a joke at first but the name sort of stuck."
You slid into the passenger seat and tugged your seat belt across your chest. He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and -
'Silly thing, doesn't she know better than to get into a car with a stranger twice her size?'
He shook his head, like that could dislodge the idea. He wasn't that sort of man, wasn't some kind predator with a mind full of filth.
'It would be so easy. You're so much bigger than her, so much stronger. You want her. Why not just take what you want?'
Where the hell was this coming from? He might have a guilty thought every once in a while, but he was always quick to squash it down. It wasn't like him to think something so...forceful about a girl.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life. And it really was a roar. V8 engine growling so loud he could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.
Oh baby, he was sold on her right then and there. The devil himself couldn't have outbid him. What little boy didn't dream of a car like this? Didn't spend his childhood looking through magazines and brawling over matchbox versions?
The clutch was smooth as butter as he cruised down your driveway and turned onto the main road.
God, he wanted to gun it. Floor the gas and find out for himself just how powerful old school muscle was.
He looked over at you, about to ask if you knew exactly what your boyfriend did to the engine. You were looking out at the passing trees, your hair stirring in the slight breeze from his open window.
'She looks like she belongs here, with you.'
It was another foreign thought, something he wouldn't expect of himself. But it was true. The Mustang would have felt empty without you - in your sundress and white sneakers, you completed the picture. Your boyfriend must have rebuilt the car just for you, as a way to keep you next to him. Colt wasn't sure why he thought that, but somehow he knew it was true. Whoever your man was, he put so much of himself into this car that Colt almost felt like he was right next to the guy.
You turned to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.
"What do you think?"
"She runs sweet as apple pie."
You felt your heart stutter. Your boyfriend used to say the exact same thing.
"You alright there sweetheart? You look a little pale."
"Sorry. Just a little car sick."
Car sick was right - you were sick to hell of this damn car and the way it played with your emotions.
"C'mon, I know a diner just off the highway. We can stop for some fresh air and a bite to eat. You'll feel better in no time."
You didn't have time to protest before he switched lanes and turned onto the highway.
The diner he took you to really was just off the highway, a retro looking spot railed off from a steep cliff.
"How did you know about this place?"
He shrugged. "I must have heard about it from someone."
Strange. Colt didn't think he'd ever seen the place before, much less heard about it. But when you looked at him with that slight hint of panic, that sudden fear, somehow he knew this was the place to bring you.
He climbed out and opened your door for you before you had a chance to do it yourself.
"You know this place?" he asked.
If anything, you looked even paler than before. "Yeah. My boyfriend and I used to come up here pretty often."
He frowned, annoyed at himself for somehow making this even worse. "We can go somewhere else if you want."
"No!" You took a deep breath. "No, this is fine. I just need a moment away from the car, that's all."
He led you to a picnic table near the edge of the cliff. Far below you, the main road clung to the cliffside and disappeared into the trees.
"You just sit pretty and I'll grab us some chow."
You smiled up at him. "Thanks Colt. Really. I know this is probably eating into your day."
He waved it away. "Trust me, this is a much better way to spend the weekend than what I had planned."
It was true. He'd wanted to see the car and somehow that turned into lunch with a pretty girl at a table with one hell of a view. Maybe Christine had some good luck about her. Maybe all of this was just meant to be.
When he stepped into the diner, he was greeted by jukebox country music and the smell of good, strong coffee. He didn't bother to look at the menu. Somehow, he knew exactly what to order.
"I'll have a banana spilt, some fries and a toasted sandwich." He smiled at the elderly waitress. "Please and thank you Agnes."
"Sure thing sugar."
He frowned. How the hell did he know the waitress's name?
Must have seen her name tag, right? That made sense. Must have been a half second, subconscious glance.
When she handed him his change, he dropped his eyes to her lapel. No name tag. No label. Not even a necklace with her initials on it.
It was a warm spring day but he still shivered. Something strange was going on.
No, don't be ridiculous. Agnes was a common name, a vintage diner kind of name. That was probably why he said it. His mind must have just made a lucky guess. There's no way he could know her name when he didn't even know about the diner until he pulled up.
Unless... it wasn't him that knew her name. Maybe it was someone else, something else speaking through him.
"C'mon Colt, don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself.
"You say something sugar?"
He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching. Just the waitress, just Agnes, looking at him with raised brows.
"No ma'am. Just thinking out loud."
"Alrighty then. Here's your order. Be careful not to spill the chocolate sauce. It's hell to clean up."
"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Have a good day."
He was stupidly happy to step out of the restaurant. The place must have been getting to him. Why else was he suddenly so superstitious?
"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.
He grinned at you. "Just dandy sweetheart. I got you a banana split and some French fries."
"Oh! That's perfect, thank you."
See? Nothing strange at all. He had a sweet ride and a sweeter girl waiting for him. Why worry about some weird diner?
He sat down across from you and unwrapped his sandwich. Behind you, Christine looked at him with a shining chrome smile.
"Listen, you can get a whole lot more for a car that fine. But if you're willing to let her go for the price in the ad, I'll buy her today," he said.
You froze, a fry halfway to your mouth. He really wanted her? He wasn't coming up with some lame excuse or hurrying off with a mumbled apology?
"Done," you said, a bit too quickly.
You were finally getting rid of Christine. No more nightmares, no more tip toeing around the garage like you were scared she might notice you, no more unwanted memories every time you laid eyes on her.
You were burying your past like it should have been buried on the day of your boyfriend's funeral.
He offered you his hand and you shook it, a genuine smile on your face.
"She's all yours." And thank God for that.
Colt drove you home and followed you into the house to collect the car registration papers.
You frowned at your empty desk drawer. You could have sworn you left the documents right here...
You popped your head into the living room where Colt was waiting.
"Give me a second. I think I left them upstairs."
"Sure. I'm in no hurry."
He wandered around your living room while you were gone, too keyed up to sit still. It was a neat, modern room with art on the walls. The big bay windows opened onto the front yard and the driveway where Christine sat waiting for him.
Part of him still couldn't believe it. She really was his dream car. The sort of ride all his work buddies would be green with envy over.
He leaned against the windowsil and then quickly looked down when his hand brushed something metallic.
Picture frames, the small kind that usually sat on a desk. He picked one up, the frame cool against his skin. It was a picture of you and someone he guessed to be your boyfriend. Both of you were in formal wear - you in a deep red evening gown and him in a tailored tux. Christine was parked in the background, her red a compliment to your dress.
Your boyfriend was handsome in a rough cut sort of way, his hair swept back and a tattoo just peeking out of his shirt. He was looking directly at the camera while you looked up at him, his arm curled tightly around your waist.
Colt frowned. There was something about the man's expression... a kind of possessive meanness. He seemed the type of guy to start a fight and then finish it no matter what, a real tough customer.
And the way he held you... some might call it loving but Colt found it more proprietary than anything else.
'Mine. My girl, no matter what. Try and take her from me and I'll show you a world of hurt.'
Colt put the picture down with a frown and scanned the others. Out hiking on the mountains, at the beach, holding a huge bouquet while he kissed you. A perfect couple except... except for the way he looked at you. Sweet, yes. But somehow dangerous, in the way rattlesnakes and cougars were. Fine if they weren't disturbed, but tread on their territory and there'd be hell to pay.
He moved away when he heard you coming down the stairs. You were a little flushed, a little out of breath, but you grinned at him and waved a stack of papers.
"Finally found them! Just need to sign the change of ownership forms and she's all yours."
He watched you as you searched for a pen, your sundress swishing 'round your thighs. He didn't like your boyfriend - dead or not, he seemed like one mean bastard - but seeing you so happy, so flushed with life and hope and joy, Colt found he could almost understand the other man. If you were his girl, he'd hold you just as tight.
You finally found a pen and he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.
"Well, seems like you're the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang. Congratulations."
He carefully took the papers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "Real good doing business with you sweetheart."
You lead him out to the car, going through the list of things he'd need to do to properly register the car as his. Real cute of you, to think he didn't know it all already.
He slid into the driver's seat and when he touched the wheel, he felt that same sense of power. And under it, a strange feeling of being not quiet alone in the car.
You stood outside his window, running through a catalogue of spares and repairs that he might want to check out. If he had to guess, you seemed nervous.
He leaned back and smiled at you. "It's alright y/n. I ain't changing my mind. Deals done, remember?"
It was the first time using your name and it sent a small bolt of electricity jolting through him.
'Her name is mighty sweet, ain't it? Meant to be said oh so softly, meant to be savoured.'
You looked at him like you felt it too, your cheeks just a little warmer than before.
Oh Lord, what sort of bastard was he? Feeling this way about you when your boyfriend was in the ground for scarcely half a year? You were probably still mourning, still nursing your broken heart. He should be a gentleman and leave you alone, shouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability. He should be a good man.
'You'd be an idiot to let her go.'
The thought streaked through his mind. It almost didn't feel like his own idea. Wherever the thought came from, it wasn't wrong. He really would be an idiot to not ask you out when he had a chance. He got lucky with the car - prize piece like this would have been snatched up in a matter of hours. If he didn't ask you out, if he didn't push his luck for the second time, the same thing might happen with you.
"How 'bout I take you out to dinner later this week? As a thank you."
You looked unsure, your eyes jumping down to the car keys like you were expecting an objection.
"Please? I know Christine must mean a lot to you. I'd feel a whole lot better taking her off your hands if I could thank you properly."
You bit your lower lip and he found his eyes drawn to the sight of it. Please say yes please say-
"Yes, I think I'd like that. But no later than eight, okay?"
YES! He rubbed a palm across his jaw to hide his smile.
"I'll bring you home early, promise."
"I'll hold you to that, cowboy."
Oh god, he wanted to melt when you called him that. It was so silly - big guy like him getting butterflies over a sort-of kind-of date.
'Atta boy. You ain't gonna regret it.'
He was too distracted watching you walk away to realise the thought wasn't his own.
That night, you slept without dreaming. For the first time since your boyfriend's death, you didn't see his face when you closed your eyes.
You woke up the next morning expecting to be relieved. Christine was gone, wasn't that exactly what you wanted?
Yes, but...but what happens next? You weren't an idiot nor were you unduly superstitious, but Christine didn't feel like a normal car. Maybe that's what happens after a violent death - things change, the blood seeps through the fabric and poisons the aura, or the energy, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.
You made yourself breakfast but couldn't eat more than a few bites.
Okay, try and be logical. It was probably just your guilt playing tricks on you. You loved Christine and you loved your boyfriend, so it was only natural that you'd feel terrible about selling her. That's all. Blood and death can't change the nature of an inanimate object, no matter how violent or grisly it might have been.
Right. Just your guilty conscience. No need to work yourself up.
Across town, Colt slept through his alarm. He was dreaming, a sweet little fantasy of cruising down the highway on a brilliant summer day. You were next to him, your sundress even shorter than before, smiling at him and running your hand up his thigh.
You were his girl. His and his alone. He could feel the certainty of it in every part of him. You loved him, you stood by him, you did everything you could to support him, you were his.
Christine purred through her gears and he pushed the gas a little more, eager to get home. He would show you exactly how much he appreciated you - inch by inch and kiss by kiss.
"I love you darlin'. I need you to know that," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was raspier, with an edge of meanness that not even love could soften.
You looked at him, smiling all soft and sweet. "I know. I've always known."
Colt jerked awake, smiling and shivering at the same time. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, disoriented and feeling like a stranger in his own body.
"One hell of a dream," he muttered.
'Not a dream cowboy. A memory from someone long dead.'
He ignored the thought, his mind already focused on the day ahead. He'd driven Christine home yesterday, but left his Jeep parked outside your house. He could either get one of his buddies pick it up or take a taxi over and get it himself.
Was it even a choice? He wanted to see you again. If he had to pay an ungodly amount for an Uber, he would.
Should he call you before showing up at your door? What would be a good time to see you? He didn't want to show up too late and catch you in a rush to leave.
'She'll be awake by now. But she'll only leave for work after twelve.'
How did he know that? Did you mention it yesterday?
He climbed out of bed and half stumbled to the bathroom. As the steam clouded up the mirror, he thought of his dream. And what might have happened if he'd stayed asleep longer. Maybe your hand would wander further up his thigh, and then...
He lathered up his fist and took hold of himself. He was already hard from just the thought of you. Your sundress looked so damn flimsy. He could probably yank it off you with just one hand.
He groaned, his forehead pressed against the tile. Picturing your hand dwarfed by his when you shook on the sale; how soft your skin was, how good it would feel if you touched him just like this.
'Fucking yourself like a dog at the thought of her.'
He agreed. You really were turning him into a dog.
You were sitting in your living room, trying and failing to read your novel, when he knocked on your front window. You struggled to smooth down your hair while you scrambled for the door.
"Hi Colt! Came to pick up your Jeep?"
He was wearing blue jeans again today, with a tight wife beater that showed off arms thick with muscle.
"Yes ma'am. Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."
That made you smile. How often does someone go out of their way to check up on a stranger?
"I don't think so. But I've got some fresh orange juice and donuts, if you'd like to come in."
He smiled at you and for a second his gaze dipped down past your chin. "There's nothing I'd like better."
He took up a lot of space at your kitchen table, but you found it comforting. The room felt too big without your boyfriend to fill it.
You flipped open the box of donuts and he picked out the mint chocolate one.
"Never really liked the mint ones," he told you, "But I've got an awful craving for one right now."
"Oh I never liked them much either. It was my boyfriend who was the die-hard mint fan."
He looked away from you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It must be hard for you. Losing him so suddenly."
"It was. It is. Everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, but it hasn't. Up until last night, I dreamt about him everynight."
"Dreamt of him?" he asked you suddenly, his eyes intense.
"Yep. Every single night. It was like I was reliving my memories again and again."
He looked a bit perturbed at your statement, but you put it down to him feeling awkward about the conversation. Death is never a fun or casual topic.
"So how's Christine treating you?"
"Like a dream. I was thinking of taking her down the coast next weekend. All open road and sea air." He paused, seeming to weigh something up in his mind. "Why don't you join me? The morning after I take you out to dinner. We can pack a picnic and have lunch at the cape."
"That sounds incredible." You looked down at your hands, slightly uneasy but not sure why. Your boyfriend spoke about doing that once. A mini road trip with the windows down and the sea breeze in your hair.
It's not that strange that Colt had the same idea, right? Everyone knew the coast road was a long, quiet stretch. Perfect for putting Christine to the test.
"You're gonna love it," he said. "I'll even make my world famous tiramisu."
You raised a brow. "You know how to make tiramisu?" Big guy like him didn't really seem the patisserie type. Did he have a cute apron with bows on it too?
He pointed his donut at you, blue eyes twinkling. "Not just any tiramisu. World famous."
You snorted out a laugh and for the first time in months, you kitchen felt like a happy place.
He dreamt about you again that night. Christine was parked in a dark corner on the edge of a cliffside hiking trail. He could hear waves crashing far below. It was nighttime, with the full moon outlining your face in silver and shadow.
He was in the driver's seat and you were straddling his lap. You were wearing a sweater and a cute pleated skirt that seemed oh so short with the way you leaned over him.
"You've been ignoring me," you accused him. You were pouting in an adorably petulant way. He looked at your lips - red and slightly swollen - and knew that he'd just been kissing you.
"I haven't been ignorin' you sugar. I've just been busy."
He spoke with that same raspy voice that somehow wasn't his.
"Too busy to say hello or drop by for dinner?"
You shifted in his lap and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Oh, you damn tease.
"I'm filthy and tired after work sweetheart. You wouldn't want me."
You frowned, going from slightly annoyed to full blown angry.
"I always want you, you idiot. I'm not scared of a few stains. I like it when you come home smelling like the workshop. I like it when you're dirty from work." You tugged at his collar. "I like you. Why don't you get that?"
'Because you're too good for me.' He almost said it. It was on the tip of his tongue and it was only some dull instinct that kept him quiet. How couldn't you see it? You were everything he wasn't. You were educated and kind and selfless. He was just some bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.
He wanted to impress you. He wanted to be worthy of you. Fixing up the Mustang was just the start of it. He didn't care that it took him all summer and pretty much all of his pay cheque to do. He wanted a ride that he would be proud to pick you up in.
And it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough.
He looked away from you and stayed silent.
You sighed and brought your palms up to his cheeks, gently turned his face back to yours. "I like you. I'm dating you. I want to spend time with you, no matter how grouchy you are. Okay?"
He should be a gentleman and let you go, shouldn't take advantage of your kindness. He should be a good man.
"Okay," he said and leaned forward to kiss you.
He wasn't a good man. He wasn't a gentleman. He was going to hold onto you for as long as he could.
Colt woke up with a snarl, slamming his fist on his alarm so hard the clock face cracked.
"I didn't want it to end, goddammit."
He rubbed his hand over his face. The dream felt so real. He could feel the late fall chill, could smell your shampoo and taste your cherry lip gloss. He wanted to go right back to sleep and fall back into that wonderful fantasy.
He scowled and threw the covers off. Dreams could wait, work couldn't.
All through the day he was snappish and irritable. One of the apprentices messed up an order and he snarled at them to stop being so fucking useless and fix it. His coworkers shot each other looks behind his back. He was behaving entirely out of character but both him and his buddies were helpless to stop it. It was only when he got home at the end of his shift that he realised why.
He wanted to dream about you again.
There wasn't any guarantee that he would. Dreams weren't exactly scheduled network programming. But somehow he knew it would happen.
He ended up going to bed before eight, a world record for someone who usually only considered sleeping when it was well past midnight.
He was right. He did dream of you.
You were in a bikini this time, lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard. You had sunglasses on and there was a slight sheen of baby oil on your skin. Your phone was on shuffle and pop music was blaring from the speakers.
You weren't expecting him and he kept his steps real quiet as he approached you. He kept expecting you to hear him and shoot up, and he was slightly annoyed when you didn't. What if he was a serial killer or some sick pervert, sneaking up on you while you were so vulnerable? Did you have no spatial awareness?
He made it all the way to the back of your chair and you were still totally oblivious. There was a magazine and a glass of ice tea on a small table next to you. You were softly humming along to the music.
He took a minute to just admire you. Your body stretched out and entirely at his mercy. His girl, his gorgeous girl.
He leaned down until his lips were right next to your ear.
"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"
You shot up with a shriek, your sunglasses flying. You whirled on him, grabbing your magazine like thirty pages of glossy Cosmo was going to help you fight off an attacker.
Your eyes narrowed when you recognised him and you smacked his chest, hard.
"You asshole! You gave me a heart attack!"
He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you so riled up.
"You're lucky it was me and not someone else. Not everyone has such noble intentions."
"Yeah right. Was it your noble intention to scare the living daylights out of me?"
He held up his palms in a placating gesture. "Just teachin' you a lesson sweetheart. I was standing there for a good few minutes and you didn't notice a damn thing."
He cast a critical eye across your backyard. "I reckon some high wooden fencing would do the trick. 'Bout seven feet high, sunken flowerbeds on either side like trenches to make it even harder to get a leg up."
"I don't want a fence."
He ignored you, already mentally calculating how much lumber he'd need. "A nice light coloured wood. Pine maybe. Will match your house much better."
You sat back down, the fight draining out of you as your adrenaline dissipated. "What are you doing here? Did you get off work early?"
He narrowed his eyes but you didn't seem to notice. "Why? Don't want me around?"
That shocked you enough that you twisted around in your chair to look at him.
"Of course I want you around! Don't ever imply otherwise. This is a lovely surprise." You paused. "Near heart attack aside of course."
It was funny how easily you could calm him down. One sentence was all it took to get him smiling again. He leaned forward and hooked one finger under the strap of your bikini top.
"I haven't seen this one before. New?"
You blushed and looked down. "Mm-hmm."
"It's cute. But..."
You glanced up at him, suddenly self conscious. "But what?"
He grinned wolfishly. "But...you would look so much better without it."
He tugged at the bow holding your top up. The strings unravelled and fell down your back. The bra cups started to slip down too, and his eyes were glued to their steady fall.
He was going to teach you a whole 'nother lesson about wearing such a skimpy outfit where anyone could see you. Show you exactly what sick, twisted bastards would do to your body. Teach you a lesson you won't forget, so maybe, just maybe... you'd learn to be more cautious around men like him.
Colt woke up with a hunger like death. His cock so hard it was actually throbbing. He didn't feel well rested, despite having slept more than he had in two weeks.
It played over and over again in his mind. The strings unravelling, your bikini top sliding off... Always stopping right at the good part, the part he most wanted to see.
He got ready for the day with a savage efficiency. Bolting back his protein shake without even tasting it. He didn't realise it, but he'd started counting down the days until he could see you again. Just two more days. Two more nights of dreams and then you'd be there in the flesh and he could finally - finally what? He shook his head to clear away the dirty thoughts that were crowding him.
He was being a real bastard. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, when he had no right to. You hadn't shown any romantic or physical interest in him. You were clearly still grieving your man. He needed to get himself under control - what you needed in your life was a friend, not another man to obsess over you.
He forced himself to take a cold shower. Forced himself to avoid thinking about you. And to especially avoid thinking about the you from his dream.
'Good luck with that buddy. I used to be so tired I was falling asleep on my feet and I still couldn't get her out of my head.'
Work was thankfully busy that day and he threw himself into it with every feverish ounce of energy he had. Whenever his thoughts wandered towards you, he would find something else to do. He didn't eat anything at all and he didn't even notice getting hungry. He took on an extra shift and finished long after the sun went down, his muscles a hurting mess and his head not much better.
Christine was the last car left in the parking lot, sitting under a streetlight like she was waiting for him. He found his steps unintentionally getting slower the closer he came to her.
In the dark and lonely emptiness of the parking lot, she didn't feel like a normal car. If anything, she seemed to be watching him. Her headlights like eyes and her grille a silvery gash of a smile.
If he had to guess, he'd say the car was almost unhappy with him.
"Because I'm thinking about her?" He asked as he climbed behind the wheel. Immediately, he felt stupid and superstitious for talking out loud.
'Because you aren't thinking about her.'
He'd driven Christine to work the last few days despite not wanting to cause unnecessary wear and tear. Being in the car, driving it, was still a thrill.
Not tonight though.
He felt on edge, wanting to get out as soon as possible. She purred to life with the same thrumming power as always but his throat was tight with a nervousness he couldn't explain.
The inside of the car was suffocatingly quiet. He turned on the radio and old school rock 'n roll poured out.
'Just the sort of thing her boyfriend used to listen to,' he thought to himself. And then he laughed a stuttering, barking sort of laugh because there was no logical way he could have known that.
'Take it easy big guy. You and I are just gonna cruise. That's all.'
A nice cruise. Yeah, that sounded good. Calm his nerves, get rid of the nameless dread that was building all day. He relaxed into his seat, the streetlights crawling past in a hypnotic line of bright and dark.
He didn't notice when the radio dial moved on its own and the station changed from rock 'n roll to country. The singer sounded awfully familiar. His voice a kind of husky rasp. He was singing about his girl, his pretty woman, and he was singing about the grave and he was singing about the dark that waited.
'Oh,' he thought to himself dully, 'That's the voice I keep hearing in my dreams.'
When he finally reached home, it was two in the morning and the petrol gauge showed an empty tank. He'd somehow driven enough to eat through a full tank of gas. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took five hours.
He got out of the car on legs that felt numb and cold. He couldn't remember driving. He couldn't remember the strange music or the even stranger passenger that rode with him. In his mind, there existed the clear cut memory of leaving work and climbing into Christine. Then there was nothing but a long, grey blankness that was tinged with a muted terror.
He collapsed into bed still in his work clothes. By morning, his mind would have stitched over all those things too terrible to contemplate. He would wake up feeling groggy and confused, and probably put it down to the strain of a long day.
Colt slept after driving with the dead and didn't dream.
On the day before your date, he found an engagement ring under the passenger side carpet.
He had no reason to look there, no reason to pull the carpet up by its seams. But he did it anyway and his reward was a silver and diamond band with blood dried in the crevices. There was an engraving on the inside and he had to take it out into the sun to try and read it.
'Mine. Forever and always.'
He shivered despite standing in the bright midmorming sun. Most rings would say 'yours' instead of 'mine.' He had no doubt that the change was entirely intentional. Your boyfriend was staking his claim on you - not just with the ring but with the intention behind it.
He looked at the brownish red stains and knew in his heart they were blood. Your boyfriend's blood.
Colt didn't know how the man died, but looking at the ring, he felt sure that it was bloody and far from natural. How would a blood stained ring end up in Christine? If the guy had been in accident sure. But the car was in perfect condition. The ring shouldn't have been there.
Unless he was murdered. Soaked in blood and tossed around during the struggle, the ring probably got pushed under the seam of the carpet. It was a sealed off spot and even a forensics team might miss something that small.
It was an outlandish and macabre theory to be basing entirely off one mysterious engagement ring. If he stopped to think about it, he would no doubt be able to poke a dozen separate holes into his theory.
Somehow, he knew it was true. The same way he suddenly knew Christine wasn't just an ordinary car and that his dreams about you were far from natural.
He felt a queer prickling all across his nape. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but this... This frightened him. He didn't feel alone anymore. He felt like if he looked up at the rear view mirror, he'd see someone in the back seat. No, not just someone. He'd see the dead man who owned the car before him.
He'd see the man who wanted to marry you.
He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. He wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't let fancies of ghosts and ghouls affect him. But even he couldn't deny the way he felt. His gut was telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong.
He climbed out of Christine like a man scared of waking a sleeping bear. He didn't even bother to grab the keys.
He couldn't explain any of it. Not the dreams, not the thoughts that felt like someone else, not the prickling certainty that a man died right where he'd been sitting.
He got into his his Jeep and pulled out of the driveway, his eyes on Christine the entire time. Like she'd somehow roar to life and slam into him.
He didn't know where he was driving to until he parked. A bar across town, a real rough spot that on most days even he wouldn't want to stop at. But today wasn't like most days.
The place was dark and the folk sitting around weren't exactly the friendly sort. He settled at the bar and ordered a tequila without really thinking about it.
Funny. He used to hate tequila.
It went down like fire, and he shuddered. He wanted to laugh. What else was a mam supposed to drink when the world didn't make a lick of sense anymore?
"Give me another one." His voice was raspier somehow. Even though that never happened when he drank vodka or whiskey.
There were mirrored shelves opposite him and he caught sight of his eyes. A pale green. He tossed back his second shot and tried to tell himself it was just a trick of the light.
He wasn't sure who to talk to. Not the Sheriff's Office. Yeah officer, there was a man murdered in my car and now I can't stop dreaming about his girlfriend didn't exactly scream unimpeachable sobriety.
And not the pastor either. Father, I'm being haunted by filthy thoughts and I'm not sure if they're my own. He doubted the old man at his mother's church was qualified to deal with that sort of thing.
But he couldn't keep quiet either. He had to tell someone about it. If they called him crazy at least it was an acknowledgement. At least it was better than being dead drunk and being scared of his own eyes in the mirror.
Who could possibly know anything about it? Oh. Of course.
He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and almost threw it across the room when it wouldn't turn on. He charged it every night, goddammit.
"There a pay phone somewhere 'round here?" he asked the bartender.
The man jerked his face at the side door that lead to the back parking lot. Colt stumbled out - swaying on his feet far worse than two drinks should warrant.
It was late afternoon. He shaded his eyes and tried looked at the sun like it was deliberately lying to him. He arrived at midday and he couldn't have been in there for more than twenty minutes. How the hell was it this late?
'Time moves differently when you're dead cowboy. You should know that by now.'
The payphone was in the shadow of the bar and he shivered when he stepped out of the sun. Wrong. It was all wrong and he didn't know how to fix it. Why was the voice still in his head when Christine was all the way across town? Why did he still feel life he wasn't quiet alone?
It was only when he had the receiver up against his ear that he realised he didn't know your number. Shit.
He leaned his forearm against the payphone and rested his forehead against it. Could he maybe get a taxi and show up at your house? He scoffed. Yeah, that would go well. Showing up dead drunk just to say he knew you liked short skirts in fall and that he dreamed of pulling off your bikini top. He'd be lucky if you only mildly tazed him.
Fuck. Okay. Home again. Sleep it off. Charge his phone. Call you in the morning and try not to sound too crazy. He could manage that.
He called the taxi company listed in the phone book. Half wondering if they were still in operation. When it finally connected, the call was thick with static.
"Yeah?" The man's voice was raspy and standoffish.
"Can I get a cab at Ronnie's on Westside?"
The man laughed. "Oh you must be a real tough customer to be drinking there. Didn't think you'd have the balls cowboy."
Colt wanted to cuss him out. What kind of fucker answers the phone and insults you less than two sentences in? He squeezed the receiver until he felt he could control his voice.
"Yeah. I'm a real mean guy. So can I get my cab or not?"
"Oh, I'll send you a ride alright." There was a mocking tilt to his voice. "Best fucking ride you'll ever take. Just sit pretty. You'll know when it's for you."
The skin on the back of his neck crawled. He hung up without another word.
The streetlights were coming on and the gold of sunset was giving way to the awful in-between greyness of twilight. He waited for his ride.
You came home to find flowers on your doorstep. A bouquet of white roses. You froze. There was only one man who sent you flowers and he was cold and dead for the better part of a year.
You picked the card up by the edge and flicked it open.
Hope you didn't forget our date. See you soon dollface.
-Colt
Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.
Dinner tomorrow night with the cowboy. You took the roses inside and hunted around for a vase. Was it actually a date? He'd said it was a thank you dinner, but it wouldn't hurt to dress up a little. Do your makeup a bit fancy, maybe wear your new heels. It'd been months since you'd gone out, had a nice dinner with a friend. This could be good for you. Just one more step back into normalcy.
The clouds were starting to gather and as evening came on, they broke with a shudder of thunder.
You curled up on your couch, all the lights on. It was going to be a bad storm. The first really awful one in almost half a year. You tried not to, but it got you thinking about that night. The night your boyfriend proposed to you. The night you killed him.
You closed your eyes and tried not to see it, but the memories followed you even past the darkness. You couldn't run from them for long.
It was cold outside, rain drumming on Christine's roof. Sharp, constant. Your boyfriend was in the driver's seat, buckling his belt. A lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.
You liked it when he looked at you like that. Satisfied. Mellow. It never lasted long, but in the few minutes after fucking you, he would agree to just about anything.
"I'm drunk on you baby," he'd said once. "Heads all woozy. Would do anything for you. Fucking anything."
Christine's windows were all fogged up, and you traced little hearts on the glass. To be honest, you felt a little drunk on him too. Heart still pounding, head reeling. Cunt still fluttering and full. He was so good at reading you, at fucking you just how you needed it. No man before him could make you come so hard, or do it so easy.
"I got something to ask you, baby."
You turned to him, hand reaching out for his and pulling it into your lap.
"Yes?"
He rubbed a thumb across your knuckles. He wasn't looking at your face, just down at your interlinked hands.
"You're my girl, yeah?"
"Obviously. I love you."
"And you ain't going to leave me?"
"Never."
He sighed. Managed to raise his eyes to meet yours. You weren't used to seeing him nervous. Usually he'd just bull doze his way through a conversation, not stopping until he got what he wanted. This was...new. It made a whole new crop of butterflies start up in your stomach.
"Will you marry me?"
You froze. What? Where was this coming from? You loved him. You cared about him. But marriage? That was such a big step. Such a grown up thing.
"I've got money put away. And Christine. I can put a deposit down on a house by the end of the month. Can pay for a nice wedding too. All white and frilly, like you want."
"I..."
"You don't got to worry 'bout your student loans neither. We can pay 'em off a whole lot faster if we're together. You can even go back to school if you want. Get that second degree you're always talking about."
"I...can't."
You pulled your hands away from his. Looked away from him.
"I love you. I really do. But it's too...much. We're too young. I... I just don't want to rush into things and make a mistake."
He was quiet. Awfully, dangerously quiet. His hand was still in your lap and you could feel when he clenched it into a fist.
"Is there another man?"
"What?"
You whirled to face him, suddenly angry. How could he even suggest...
"I haven't touched another man since the day you asked me out."
He wasn't smiling anymore. His green eyes were narrowed, mean.
"Who are you fucking? Which bastard is it? Huh?"
"No one! There's no one else. I just don't want to get married and make a -"
"Mistake? You think I'm a fucking mistake?"
You flinched. His voice was even louder in the closeness of the car. It made your ears throb.
His fist uncurled and he grabbed your hand, hard. Yanked you towards him so your upper body was sprawled across the gear shift.
"Was it a mistake to fuck me? A mistake to say you loved me?"
"No! That's not what I-"
He cut you off with a hand around your throat.
"You want to leave me. That it? You're going to fucking leave me?"
You pulled at his fingers with your free hand but it was useless. His grip was getting tighter the angrier he got. Your head felt all swollen, your nose and throat burning.
"Please just -"
"No! No fucking please. No changing your mind at the last minute. You ain't gonna be my girl? Ain't gonna be my wife?"
He pulled you towards his face, his lips barely brushing yours.
"If you won't be mine, then you'll just have to fucking die. It's me or no one else, baby. I told you that, all those months ago."
You scrambled for some way to get loose, but you were in an awkward position and he had all the leverage.
"I fucking warned you. I told you that if you dated me you couldn't ever leave. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. Hell, I was half in love before you even said hello. I tried. But you just didn't listen, did you?"
Your hand brushed something cold and metallic in the centre console. His switch blade. He usually kept it in his back pocket to help with work. Oh, and he kept it sharp. You grabbed it, more on instinct than anything else.
Your head was pounding and your heartbeat was pulsing in your ears. But the rain was somehow worse. Falling so loud you thought you'd never get the sound out of your head.
You tried to plead with him again, reason, beg, whatever it took. But when you tried to speak he just closed his fist even tighter and your words died in your throat with a shudder.
Oh god, he was really going to do it. He's eyes were wild, mad with something beyond reason. He'd seen reason in the rearview mirror about a hundred miles ago and now he was headed straight down the highway of fucking insanity.
How? How could the man you loved be choking the breath out of you?
Because he loves you. Because he'd rather see you dead than lose you. Because you were too damn blind with love to notice how dangerous he is.
White starbursts bloomed across your vision. Little fireworks to celebrate your brain dying.
You stabbed him.
You didn't fully mean to. You were half mad with fear, half dead in his grip. Not sure what you were doing until you felt the blood.
The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.
You didn't even pull it out. Just left it there and scrambled back when his grip on you loosened, your chest heaving. You throat and eyes and nose all felt swollen. Your lungs burned like fire.
He reached up and touched his neck. Looked down at his fingers like he couldn't believe the blood was his.
You might have tried to save him then. Might have come to your senses and called the ambulance, might have stripped off your shirt and tried to stop the bleeding.
But a knife in his throat apparently wasn't enough to stop him. He looked at you and there wasn't anything rational left in him. He reached for you again, hands curled like claws. He was dying and all he wanted to do was take you with him.
You screamed. So loud that it made your own ears ring.
You grabbed the knife and pulled. You didn't realise it was acting like a stopper until his blood splashed on you. Hot, stinking of metal. It sprayed across your face, got into your mouth and nose, soaked the whole front of your shirt.
You scrambled for the door handle and fell backwards out of the Mustang. Landed on your ass and pushed yourself away.
He was halfway over the passenger seat by then, hands still reaching, mouth pulled into an ugly snarl.
You kicked the door shut.
It slammed with a bang and mercifully blocked him from view. Your turned onto your knees, pushed yourself to your feet and ran.
The rain was coming down so fast that it stung your skin. You didn't rightly know where you were going. Only that it was away.
You still don't know how you made it home. You were a twenty minute drive away and it was too dark to see more than three feet in front of you. Must have been luck. Must have been fate.
When you got home, you were shaking so hard you couldn't even open the door for a good five minutes.
You stripped off your clothes right there on the doorstep and threw them in the trash. Switch blade too. You don't know how you managed to hold onto it during that wild, reckless run.
You took a long shower. Sat under the hot water with your knees curled to your chest. Too scared to cry.
At some point, the better part of your brain must have taken over. You vaguely remember burning the bloodstained clothes. Remember taking a drive and throwing the bleached switchblade out the window.
And when the call came a few days later, to please come down and identify a body, you were calm enough to not give yourself away.
If it was anyone else, maybe the cops would have tried harder. But your boyfriend was a rough man from the rough side of town. They gave you looks of sympathy but shook their heads behind your back.
Guy like him had it coming.
When it was all said and done, you and Christine were the only ones who knew the truth.
Colt waited all evening for a cab that never came. And when the storm started, he was annoyed enough to consider driving home on his own. He'd only had two shots. And that was a few hours ago. He'd be fine. Folk got away with worse all the time.
He left the bar with his jacket over his head and his eyes darting down the road. The rain was sheeting and he had to scramble to make it to his Jeep without getting totally soaked.
Wet and hungry and still a little drunk, Christine didn't seem like quite so big an issue. He was just jumping at ghosts. Tequila got his thoughts all twisted up, that's all.
Driving was miserable. Even with his headlights on bright and his wipers cranked all the way up, he was having real trouble seeing the road. The yellow line was the only thing he could properly rely on.
When the headlights showed up behind him, it took him a while to notice them getting closer.
"Guy's got a death wish, driving so fast in this weather."
The driver behind him was gaining quickly. Colt expected them to try and overtake, but they didn't. Just got closer and closer. A car's length away. And then half. And then almost kissing his bumper.
"Why is this dude so up my ass?"
He hit the gas, but the guy behind him didn't care. Just picked up and kept coming. Revved it a little and Colt could hear the engine even through the rain. Some kind of muscle car. A loud, growling thing.
Almost like a...Mustang.
His whole back suddenly felt icy. It couldn't be. Christine was back home, keys still in the ignition. Even if someone did steal her, why the fuck would they track him down? Must be another muscle car, with some ego tripping asshole behind the wheel.
He told himself all that and more, but his foot pressed harder on the gas.
And still the Mustang kept coming.
The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.
Too fast for the narrow roads, and sure as hell too fast for a rainy night like this one.
A curve was coming up soon, the road ringed off with guard rails. He could see the reflectors glinting orange at him. Shit.
He took it wide, drifting into the opposite lane. He could feel his tires slipping a little and he hit the breaks just enough to steady the Jeep.
The Mustang didn't have any trouble with the curve. Stayed in its lane and gained a little more speed, so that when they were straight again, its hood was in line with his trunk.
Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.
He couldn't see the car clearly. The headlights were bouncing right off his side mirrors. He couldn't even make out the silhouette of the driver.
Screech.
The Mustang's hood scraped against the side of his Jeep. The whole car lurched to the side, tires slipping.
"Fuck!"
Colt gunned it again, trying to out race the mad man. But whoever was behind him had no intention of letting that happen. They kept pace with him, blocking him from getting back in his lane.
Lightning flashed and Colt looked in the mirror just in time to see the car properly.
The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.
The car trying to run him off the road was none other than the 1969 cherry red Mustang that should have been sitting in his yard. Maybe he could have accepted it as a coincidence. Someone else had the exact same car as him and just happened to be driving like an asshole. Maybe he could have accepted that.
But the car didn't have a driver.
He saw it clear as day. The lightning glared straight through all the windows and there wasn't a single person in that car.
Impossible. This can't be real. There's no fucking way.
He could almost hear the laugh.
'Do I got you scared cowboy?'
Colt didn't have time to answer. The road was merging into the cliffside, and the wall of rock kept him trapped. There were lights coming straight at him, the blaring of a horn as whoever it was tried to warn him.
He slammed hard on the brakes. Christine shot ahead and at the last second he managed to edge back into his lane. The headlights roared past, the huge semi exhaling a spray of water and smoke.
It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.
Christine's tail lights were a pair of glaring red eyes in the rain, until suddenly they weren't. Gone.
Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.
The rain was drumming on the roof and his hands were shaking. He got out of the car, water soaking through his shirt almost immediately.
The paint on the back door was scratched off in huge swathes. The metal was dented.
He climbed back behind the wheel, mind teetering on the edge of something past sanity. The world wasn't sane anymore. Nothing was.
He heard the growl of the Mustang through the rain. No headlights this time, just the whine of tires on slick tar.
Where?! Where was she?!
Christine slammed into the Jeep head on. All Colt saw was her red face and silver smile in the glare of his headlights before his whole world was filled with the grinding of steel on steel. His head slammed backwards, the whole car shuddering.
The airbags came on, blinding him.
Christine didn't stop after hitting him. He yanked the hand break up but she kept pushing forward, edging his car closer and closer to the edge. He felt it when the guard rail scratched against his bumper.
An ugly scream of metal, but the rails held. Christine didn't seem to like that. She pulled back, her tires shrieking as she got ready to slam forward again.
Colt jumped just before she hit the Jeep. His seat belt was almost the death of him. It wouldn't release and he couldn't see the catch in the dark. He must have had at least one lucky star though, because the door wasn't too mangled and he managed to kick it open just in time.
He landed hard, on his hands and knees.
Metal shrieked. Christine slammed into the Jeep hard enough to send it through the rails. He turned just in time to see his car go tilting off the road and down into the dark.
For a second, he thought he might have made it. Maybe she didn't notice him. Maybe it was all over.
Christine pulled back and her headlights washed over him, still on his hands and knees. One of the lights was hanging loose from the crash, making her look lopsided. The rain was still coming down hard and the droplets were gold in the light between them.
She revved.
Colt scrambled to his feet and ran straight for the guard rail. He jumped.
It wasn't a sheer drop. It was instead a steep slope, thick with shale and slippery with water. His knees buckled under him and he ended up on his back, half rolling and half sliding down the embankment. His palms were bleeding and as he fell, the gravel lodged itself in his open skin.
He couldn't see where he was headed. Could only try and and protect his head and brace for impact.
His slide ended with a boulder. He slammed into it his ribs first. Heard a crack before all the air was knocked straight out of him.
He could see the headlights way up above him, cutting through the rain.
At least she can't follow me down here.
True. Christine couldn't follow him.
But that's when Colt saw him. The driver. Coming to stand in front of the headlights, the silhouette of a man.
The silhouette stepped through the gash in the railing left by the Jeep and dropped out of the light.
Colt knew he should run. He could hear the shale slipping as the other man came down. Controlled. Measured. Nothing like his own tumble.
But he couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing sent sharp spikes of pain all across his chest.
"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."
The voice was low and raspy, mean. He knew that voice. Had been hearing it in his head and in his dreams and was fool enough to think it was his own.
His eyes were getting used to the dark. He could just about see the stranger. Tall, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There was dirt thick on his boots, in the folds of his clothes. Not the black shale of the slope, but a reddish clay.
Kind of like in the cemetery.
No, he realised as the stranger squated down in front of him. Exactly like the cemetery. It was grave dirt he was seeing.
He was looking at a dead man.
The stranger might have been handsome once, but now one cheek was filled with holes. Ugly, clustered together things that showed his teeth. His other cheek was a mass of white. Worms, tiny little worms wriggling in and out of his face.
Colt wanted to scream. And vomit. And then scream some more.
There was a dark hole in the stranger's neck and when he moved it oozed a sticky, thick kind of blood.
"You know why I'm here?"
Colt didn't really notice it at first, but his voice was different. Thicker somehow. Like his vocal cords were packed full of dirt and blood.
Colt coughed and his whole chest hurt so bad he thought he was dying. Something was definitely broken. He'd be lucky if there wasn't internal bleeding too.
"Let me guess. Came to punish me for my sins?"
The dead man laughed.
"Not yours, no. Don't give much of a damn about you. I'm here to get what's mine."
The pieces were clicking together in his head.
"Your girl."
"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.
He reached for him, the nails on his hand either blue or totally ripped off. His skin filled with holes that showed pale white tendons and ugly pink flesh.
That was when the adrenaline really kicked in. Colt shoved at the man with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. It was like touching a carcass at the butcher. Cold. Limp. Just a piece of meat. No human should ever have to feel a body in that state.
He made it to his knees before the bastard hit back. Your boyfriend kicked straight at his jaw and Colt's head flew backward, smashed into the rock behind him. He dropped back down like a stone.
"Why you gotta be so fucking difficult, hmm?"
Colt was too out of it to pull away. The man reached for him and the skin of his hand was crawling with bugs. He grabbed his collar and dragged him up.
"Just gonna go to sleep for a little while cowboy. Maybe you'll wake up. Maybe you won't. Either way, I've waited too fucking long to let this chance go."
The corpse kissed him. Or more accurately, pressed his open lips against his and breathed.
His lips were cold and stiff and utterly beyond human. The taste was rancid. Worse than the worst thing he'd ever had. Metallic like blood, sweet like rotted meat.
Colt fainted.
The rain drummed down. Christine sat on the roadside and waited, her hood and paintwork back to normal. In bed, you tossed and turned in the hands of a nightmare.
The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.
It was your phone that woke you up. Your ringtone blasting even through your dreams.
You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.
"Hello?"
The call was thick with static. Still, you recognised the voice. Would know it even from beyond the grave.
synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent)
words : 12.7k
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It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.
Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.
He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.
That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.
It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.
Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.
At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.
You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.
Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.
“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.
Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.
“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.
You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.
Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.
It had been a long day.
You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.
Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.
And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.
From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.
Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.
Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.
“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”
After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.
You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.
Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.
Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.
The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.
Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.
“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.
How had he known?
He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.
But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?
You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.
What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.
When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.
Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.
“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.
For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.
But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.
That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.
A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.
You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.
You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.
When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?
It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.
“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”
You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.
Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.
Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.
“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.
You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.
You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.
God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.
“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”
Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.
“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.
“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”
And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.
“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.
He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”
Oh.
You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.
But of course Clark did.
You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”
Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”
He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.
“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.
Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.
You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.
Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.
Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.
You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.
“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.
Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.
You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.
Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…
You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.
The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.
Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?
So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.
Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.
Clark.
Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.
He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.
He looked good. Too good.
“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.
He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”
You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.
“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”
Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”
He’d been different with you lately.
Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.
A start.
And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.
“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”
Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”
His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.
“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”
You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.
Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.
You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.
Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.
The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.
Solid. Warm. Safe.
Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.
“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?
What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.
You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.
It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.
And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.
Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.
You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.
Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.
What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.
Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.
Maybe Jimmy was right?
“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.
“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.
The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.
Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.
You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.
Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.
You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.
Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.
The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.
You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?
You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.
“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.
You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.
“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”
“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.
But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.
“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”
You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.
Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.
“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”
You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”
“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”
He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”
You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”
“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”
“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”
Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”
“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”
“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”
You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.
There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”
You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”
That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.
“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”
You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.
“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.
It felt like you knew him.
Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.
But the thought lingered.
“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”
You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.
Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”
You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.
“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”
There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.
That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.
But where?
After that night, Clark started acting... different.
Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.
He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.
It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.
You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.
Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.
Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.
He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.
It was a weird dynamic.
Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.
Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.
Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.
But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.
Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.
Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.
And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.
And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.
Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.
Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.
He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.
You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.
It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.
Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”
You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.
“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”
You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.
You didn’t get far.
An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.
“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”
You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.
“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."
It was his turn to scoff.
You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.
For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.
This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.
“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”
His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.
“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”
You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.
And so you shifted. Softened.
“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”
That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.
You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.
“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”
His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.
You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.
“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”
Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.
“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”
He stiffened. You stepped back.
“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”
Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.
Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.
Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?
An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.
“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”
“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”
Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.
You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”
He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”
You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”
You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.
Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”
You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”
“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.
That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.
You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.
It was nice. Sweet, even.
You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.
Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.
He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.
Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”
He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”
You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.
The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.
Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.
You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.
It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.
So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.
You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.
You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.
Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.
Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.
Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts
Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.
Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.
But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.
Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.
You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.
The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.
“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.
He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.
You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.
“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.
You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.
And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.
They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.
That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?
Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.
Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.
As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.
Clark.
He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.
“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.
He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.
“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”
Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.
You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.
“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.
You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.
“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.
Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.
You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.
Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.
“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”
You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.
They were both watching you. Waiting.
It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.
What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.
The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.
You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.
Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.
Yeah. Tonight had been good.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.
“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.
You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.
So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.
But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”
You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.
The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.
Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.
You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.
You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.
Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.
Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.
“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.
But Clark heard you. Of course he did.
Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.
He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.
It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.
This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.
You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.
Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.
His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.
His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.
Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.
You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.
Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”
Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."
Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.
“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.
“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”
“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.
“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”
Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.
The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.
His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.
His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.
Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.
He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.
“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.
His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.
His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.
You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.
You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.
Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.
Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.
After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.
Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.
You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.
Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.
You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.
"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.
He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.
You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.
“Clark,” you moaned softly.
“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.
“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”
How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?
Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.
His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.
Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.
He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.
It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.
Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.
His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.
Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.
After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.
But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.
He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.
Greedy little thing you were.
And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.
Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.
And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.
Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.
Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.
Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.
You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.
He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.
“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.
“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.
The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.
When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.
He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.
He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.
The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.
You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.
You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.
His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.
Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.
Weird.
Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.
You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.
The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”
His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.
You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”
Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”
Silence. Your brain stalled.
“You could… what?”
His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.
Me: You HAVE to draw gay commedia dell’arte characters.
Also me, somehow: I do?
Me: You are OBSESSED with commedia dell’arte characters.
Also me: I am???
✤ FOREIGN AFFAIRS ✤
Foreign Landlord Yandere x Reader
AN: So this is a fic that literally nobody asked for but I've had it in my drafts forever and I thought it would be a shame to waste the idea. Whoops. Enjoy.
CW: 18+ ONLY, NON-CON Cunnilingus, Brief mentions of spitting in mouth and spanking, Threat of pregnancy, Sort of implied American reader but you could read it as any english speaking country, though there is a dig in there that is pretty much aimed at Americans,
It’s hard being a foreigner in a country where you can’t speak the language. Harder than you’d thought it would be when you moved halfway across the world for work.
Getting around is tough and it’s hard to remember all of the customs and formalities, but the worst part about living so far from home is how lonely it is.
At the beginning, you spent most nights curled up in your tiny apartment, crying and googling time differences to see your parents would be awake to call. Things haven’t changed much since then. You know a little more of the language but you're still lonely. You still haven't made any friends.
Well, unless you count your hot landlord who lives next door.
He doesn’t speak a lick of english, but you don’t need to speak the same language to fuck.
You aren’t quite sure how your arrangement came to be. One minute you were handing him rent money and the next he was lapping at your cunt like a starved man. It doesn’t matter. You're content knowing that if he’s waiting on the staircase when you get home from work, it’s going to be a good night.
He’ll pull you down the hall, hands tangling in your hair and lips crashing against yours, fumbling clumsily with his keys to unlock the door to his apartment, all but kicking the door open and carrying you inside.
His kisses are hungry, greedy. Filled with a passion that you’ve never felt with boys back home. Maybe it’s just the fantasy-fulfillment aspect of having a hot foreign lover, but if he’s anything to go by, the rumors of men overseas being better at sex are definitely true.
Before you can even make it into the bedroom, your clothes are peeled off and shed on his kitchen floor. He's all over you the minute you’re naked, grabbing and touching you like he wants to commit the feeling to memory, worshiping every nook and cranny like he may never feel you again.
You and him will somehow stumble into his bed in between hot kisses. Sometimes he’ll chase you playfully, sometimes he’ll lead you by the hand, sometimes he’ll scoop you up and throw you onto the mattress; mumbling something in his language that you don’t understand but sounds pretty hot regardless.
Then he’ll climb on top of you and take you apart piece by piece. Suckling gently on your nipples while his fingers work your clit, nibbling little love bites on your thighs before lifting your hips so he can bury his face in your cunt, pressing teasing kisses down your body, mumbling what you assume to be praise of your figure in between each one.
He just understands your body. He's attentive, a quick learner. It only took about a week of sleeping together for him to know exactly how to unravel you. He’s a generous lover. You’ve never slept with him without orgasming at least once. You’ve never had to fake an orgasm either, which is a massive improvement from the past men you’ve been with.
It's not lost on you that the way he treats you is kind of strange for a fuck-buddy...
...But damn if it isn’t hot when he gets down on his knees and mumbles a prayer of adoration into your stomach.
Once it’s his turn to receive it can go one of two ways:
He’ll either be gentle, caressing you like fine china as he rolls his hips into yours, making love to you slowly, reverently, using your moans as a guide on how to touch you. He’ll cum with you, holding your hand as you both tumble over the edge, then pull you into his chest as the two of you come down and prepare for round two, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.
Or he’ll be rough and relentless. Pounding into you unforgivingly, tossing you into whatever position he pleases before fucking you hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall. He’s quite kinky, you’ve learned. When he’s in these moods he likes spitting in your mouth and pulling your hair, calling you filthy names as you cum for the third time.
You’ve learned a few new words in his language since you met him: faster, slower, slut, fuck, and I’m going to cum.
Not very practical for day to day use but still nice to know.
Once the two of you are spent, you’ll shower and he’ll pour you a glass of wine, then you'll sit on his small balcony in silence, looking out at the rooftops of the surrounding buildings.
It’s…nice. Peaceful. It’s strange that you feel so intimate with him when the only real conversation you’ve ever had was a google translated text message about rent.
But just like any good drama with a foreign fling, it can't last forever.
As great as he is in bed, this country isn’t your home. You miss your family and friends and being able to ask for directions without feeling like an idiot. You’ll miss him—no doubt lie in bed sometimes and wonder what he’s doing, if he still thinks of you—but it’s better this way. You don’t belong here, you never have.
You’re sitting on his balcony basking in afterglow about three weeks before you’re set to leave when you drop the news. It’s better sooner rather than later, you decide. It’s not like you could irish-goodbye him, he is your landlord.
“Leaving…” his brow knits. He says it like the word tastes sour in his mouth.
“Yeah, in three weeks.” you smile, holding up three fingers for clarification.
He puts his cigarette out in the ashtray, shaking his head and mumbling something that you can’t understand. He looks…distressed. You hadn’t expected him to be thrilled by the news, but he looks like someone just punched him in the gut.
“Are you alri-”
“You aren’t leaving me.” he snaps, grabbing your wrist hard. Possessively, as if he’s nervous you might run away from him.
You're surprised by his hostility, but more so by the response he gave you. It was heavily accented and short, but it was grammatically correct English—something he’d never given any indication of knowing.
“What are you-”
You're cut off by a searing hot kiss. Ravenous and passionate, full of teeth and tongue—but not in the way they normally are. This one is… darker, like he’s trying to establish his dominance.
You squirm and try to push him off of you but he won’t let you go, fisting a hand in your hair to hold you in place as his mouth claims yours.
“Did we mean nothing?” he asks, backing you against the wall, pinning your wrists above your head, “We’ve been making love for months and you want to leave?”
“English…” your eyes tear up as he nips at your neck, “I thought you…”
“I’ve known it the whole time,” he lets out a small laugh of amusement. “They teach us English in school. We actually have good education here.” You cry, feeling his hot breath on your skin as he alternates between making out and nibbling at your neck, “I thought you'd think it was romantic, having a foreign lover.”
Each kiss steals your breath, makes you dizzy. He licks his lips, eying you hungrily, “I was going to pretend to learn english for you. I thought it would be a cute story to tell our children…”
Your eyes widen. Children? He wants to have kids-
Your thoughts are interrupted by him rising to his feet, hoisting you up with him and walking you to his bed. He tosses you on the mattress, climbing on top of you, hissing something quietly in his language that you don’t understand as he rocks his hard erection against your thigh.
“You aren’t leaving.” he growls, “I’ll handcuff you to this damn bed if I have to. There is nothing where you came from that you don’t have here”
You writhe as he kisses down your torso, bucking and squirming, trying to push him off of you. He tugs your hips down with a growl, sinking his fingers into the squishy flesh to keep you from moving.
“P-please…” streams of tears roll down your cheeks as he tugs down your pants, “M-my home… My family.”
“This is your home now,” he growls, holding you down with one hand, fumbling with his pants with the other, taking out his hard penis.
He chuckles to himself in amusement and lines up with your hole, murmuring the next part in against your swollen lips as he pushes himself in.
“And I’m gonna make you a brand new family tonight.”
You once heard that foreign men are better lovers.
He's the sun god bored out of his mind until a new girl, Y/N arrives in town. Y/N is a new temple maiden by the way.
He's quickly enamored with her as she is sweet and kind to everyone, but he doesn't like that she has sutiors. She turned them all down though.
One gets handsy to her discomfort but Luffy intervenes with a lightning strike and people see it as an omen and Y/N becomes off limits!
One day to his luck, Y/N arrives to his temple to do cleaning at night, he appears to meet her. Saying he has been watching her since she arrived.
And with some soft coaxing, Luffy starts to spend a real steamy time with her. There won't be a part of her he won't touch! Or taste!
And through that time he makes Y/N his goddess! Which kind of Goddess is up to you!
i have done my best
SUN GOD AU: LUFFY x Y/N
(cw: sun god!au, sorta spoilers, sfw, cheek kiss, reader can't see luffy, food mention)
(a/n: okay so sorry this took so long, this is sorta what i have so far, i just haven't written the smut yet. it's sorta plot heavy, so i hope you still enjoy this!)
words: 1.1k
****
Sun God Nika is bored.
She's dusting the altar again, singing to herself. He peers down from the marble pillars, legs wrapped around the column as he stares at her working. She's wearing a soft chiton, pastel pink like the rose petals she sprinkles on the golden offering dish. Luffy'd much prefer meat.
"Hmm," he stares down at her, swinging upside down from the pillar. She doesn't see him yet. He wonders if he should say something, maybe get her attention. Most priestesses can see him, if he speaks up. She's singing now, murmuring little lullabies with a songbird's voice.
Luffy smiles.
She's pretty.
So he spirals down the marble pillar, letting his limbs snap back to his torso with a whack as he lands. He stands, grinning, his fists on his hips. He's shirtless, wearing nothing but his clouds and snow-white shorts. His sash swishes violet around his waist, as he steps up behind her with a shit-eating grin on his face. He's sending out rays of sunlight, he can tell, since she's all lit up sparkly and gold as he approaches her.
She's sweeping as she hums, brushing away the dried rosebuds and sunflower seed shells from this week's previous offerings. He likes the seeds, but since he can't eat roses he wishes she'd leave the petals out of it. She stops, suddenly. She shifts, as she starts to sense his presence.
She turns, and Luffy stands with his biggest grin to greet his newest friend.
She's staring right at him, but her eyebrows are furrowed as she scans the room. He waves.
"Hi!"
She screams.
"Ah!" She yelps, jumping in place as she drops the broom. It clatters to the floor, scattering shells and petals everywhere. She swirls around, shaking visibly in surprise. "Wh-what the fuck?! Is there someone here?" She's breathing heavily, nostrils flaring as she tries to keep her cool. Her soft dress sways around the scattered rosebuds. Luffy's confused.
"Hello?" He says again, head tilted. She stares at the space he's occupying, but sort of past it. Luffy waves again, but she doesn't respond. Oh. She can't see him.
That's a first.
"Huh!" He says, stumped. But then he gets an idea, and he's smiling again as he saunters up to her. "It's me!" He smacks a kiss on her cheek, expecting the swoon he usually gets, but she screams and slaps him in the face. She scrambles backward, swiping up her broom to wield in front of herself like a bo staff. She's flushed, chest heaving in fear.
Oh.
Luffy scrunches his lips to the side: he's somehow made a mistake.
Nami, his sister-goddess (she governs stars, currency, and navigation), would smack him upside the head for something like this. He frowns, sitting cross-legged in midair as he stares at the frightened human. She swallows heavily, starting to shuffle around to behind the altar. She looks like she's going to bolt at any second.
"Okay, okay, sorry!" He waves his hands in surrender, but then drops them as he realizes she can't see his gestures. He casts about him, searching for a way to calm her down. "Ah…uhh," he swirls around to the other side of the altar with her, sending as much radiance and light as he could. "See that? See the sunlight?" He asks hopefully, seeing the gold reflections in her eyes.
She stares.
"S-sorta…," she allows, still brandishing her bo-staff-broom.
Luffy snickers, setting his feet down on the marble floor. His sandals crunch over the scattered shells. "It's me! Sorry ya can't see me, I dunno what that's about…" He frowns, scanning over her face. She seems like she can see other stuff, like how she stares at the rose petals and the flickering candle lights. Or her own fists wrapped tight around the handle of her broom.
"Here," he says softly, alighting his fingertips onto the tip of the handle. He pushes it down, just so she can feel his weight manipulating objects in the mortal world. She gasps, but doesn't drop the broom. He slowly slides his hand down the handle, until his fingertips are almost touching hers. He doesn't want to scare her again, so this time he asks.
"S'okay if I touch ya?"
She hesitates, but nods.
So he softly traces the backs of her knuckles, before wrapping his hand around her fist. She's smaller than him. She seems to glow a little bit, being touched by a god. She breathes in a sigh of relief, shoulders visibly relaxing. She lets go of the broom with one hand, letting her fingers tangle with his invisible ones. She's soft as feathers.
"Doesn't hurt, does it?" He asks cheekily, and she smiles as she shakes her head.
"S'warm," she confesses, letting his fingers trail up her inner forearm to dance at the crease of her elbow. She scrunches her nose, "Tickles."
"Shishishi," Luffy snickers and pulls away. He sits back up in midair, legs crisscrossed under him. "So, what's it like serving me? S'fun so far?" He tilts his head, floating along behind her as she sets the broom to the side. She seems much more comfortable now, since she knows he's real. She's all melty and relaxed, like she's been sunbathing for a while.
She smiles dreamily, fingers playing in her hair. It's decorated with gold jewelry, with a sparkling jewel at the center of her forehead. Third eye, Nico Robin would call it. She's much better at this spiritual stuff than Luffy is, truthfully. But his temple priestess is suddenly flustered again, except this time she's blushing instead of breathing heavily.
"Oh, um! I should have offered you sunflowers, or something–"
"You're good!" He's sick of flowers, "Is there any meat instead?"
"Meat?"
Luffy flicks a sunflower seed off the gold offering dish. He sits on the marble slab, relaxing amid the candles with his head propped up on his hand. "S'my favorite! Any kind of meat will do," he watches her cast about breathlessly, a soft blush decorating her cheeks.
She's cute.
Luffy likes her, he decides, although he'd already liked her singing.
She shakes her head, comma of displeasure forming between her eyebrows. "I-I don't think so… I'd have to go to the market," she twists her fingers in front of her, tangling them in the soft pink fabric of her dress. She stares to the left of where Luffy stands. "Is…that okay?"
"Sure!" Luffy chirps, sliding his warm hand into hers. She blushes ferociously, but she squeezes his hand in comfort, anyway. He swings their arms between them as he starts leading her toward the front door. "Let's go!"
She stops, stricken. "Wh-what?"
Luffy snickers, "Let's go together! Cmon, it'll be an adventure!"
She swallows, letting him start dragging her back towards the door. She scuffs her sandals along the sandstone floor, but she doesn't refuse. "Okay," she says quietly, "I think I'd like an adventure," she smiles at him, sorta to the side, and Luffy beams back. He squeezes her hand.
"Let's have an adventure, then!"
She smiles, and lets Luffy drag her all the way to the town square.
Hear me out (NO, it's not the kind you are thinking)
We know Death has a job, right? To collect souls and most likely release them to the afterlife.
And for this job, he has to be there when somebody is about to die, as demostrated with him being there moments before Puss' eight death.
Supposing he is THE Death and he has been doing this since the beginning of time (or at least when there were enough stories of the Grim Reaper to adquire a physical form) that means he has seen a lot, A LOT of awful things.
Murders, suicides, massacres, death of infants, people who didn't deserve to die alone, animal cruelty, some other heavy stuff I won't mention here, etc etc etc.
And we thought "man, how is he able to cope with all of that? That job has to be utter torture for someone."
Probably many of you could think that he is able to do that because he is Death, and he was "born" with that purpose and only him can reap souls perfectly.
But while he is a force of nature, he also WAS a force of nature. Let me explain it well: He adquired a personality enough to be angry, excited, frustrated, amazed, happy, among other emotions.
While he has supernatural power and is most likely the most powerful being in the Shrek Franchise (or in Dreamworks as many say) he is also a PERSON.
Someone with a code of honor, morals, opinions, beliefs, etc.
Returning to the question "How can he bear all of that?" taking into account he is no longer an inevitable force, but a character of his own.
The answer is something you may relate to, and that is: Creativity and escapism.
To be the embodiment of Death, the guy is a very creative fella.
First of all, his design. I heard many people saying here and in Twitter that his design is something they would come up in their edgy, teen years of drawing their first fursona.
Guess what? They are right, the wolf form is someone's fursona. It's DEATH'S fursona. He clearly came up with this badass, piercing canine form to blend with the Fairy Tale Land assuming the form of the "Big Bad Wolf". He most likely had other forms he designed over the centuries and was able to present as them like if he were on a role play game in the living world.
His sickles? The weapon of choice with the little crossed cats on it to have a bigger effect of terror for Puss? Those who can become knuckles and join to create a scythe? Those are his creation, probably after thinking it for a while and writing all of those functions on a paper.
The way he presents himself? In the bar? The coins in his eyes as a "watching you" sign while being a cool reference to the Ferryman of souls? He transforming Perrito's forest into the background of a skull? The chilling reveal at the Cave of Lost Souls? The fire ring? It was all him.
As for the escapism part...
When the world becomes too heavy to deal with as real life issues tend to make us feel bad, depressed, angry... we tend to escape it somewhere. And in our time the common place would be the internet as in webpages or comics, stories, etc.
But what has to do with Death Wolf you may ask?
Well, while he would NEVER be able to escape his job entirely, he can have moments where he can enjoy a good hunt of people who don't appreciate life, like the whole plot of the Puss in Boots sequel could demostrate.
He managed to have a little time outside his eternal routine to chase an arrogant cat who took life for granted. He enjoyed it, it was thrilling, it was exciting.
It was a way to escape a monotonous, grim "life", if just for a short moment.
So, when the chase ended as his prey no longer feared him and now was ready to fight for his last life, the wolf retreats, happy for Puss' character development but resigned because he once again had to return to "The Eternal Duty"
And that's not even counting all the times Jack "I'm dead inside" Horner had to interrupt Lobo's hunt and remind him of his job even in his "spare time"
Death knew the chase had to end eventually, but he didn't want it to end.
He didn't want to return to his own world
And if we look at Death like that, then he is probably one of the most relatable characters Dreamworks has ever make.
In the Shrek Franchise:
Monsters can be loved
Princesses don't have to fit the perfect standards of beauty
Handsome guys can be possesive jerks
Love at first sight doesn't work like one would think
Happily ever afters had to be built and not just obtain them with magic
And Death is the most creative and "full of life" being in the world
Because he would absolutely go crazy with his life/work if he wasn't.
Because in a world of Kings, Poets and Soldiers, he's the Supreme King
And he's also a perky goth but none of you are ready for that conversation.
The horror and the wild (Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader) Medieval Fantasy AU
You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life.
You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor.
Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.
CHAPTER 1
Word count: 4906
Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig
This fic on AO3
— I do not wish to speak about politics before breakfast!
— Your Highness, I’m afraid, politics would not be waiting patiently until you’re finished with your sweet pastries.
— What do you mean?
— The Emperor’s army is on our doorstep.
The look on the face of the Princess – your Princess – was priceless. First, it was a surprise, her adorable features all twisted in a very unladylike gasp. Then, it was terror – the first time you saw her ever express that emotion since the palace was always clear of anything that could scare her royal highness, from mice and snakes, and up to severely ugly people(poor, poor Elvin – he’d a good life if it weren’t for his pointy slabby jaw). Then, and it was the final emotion on her illustrious face – it was anger. To nobody’s surprise, the anger was mostly coming at you.
You see – you’re a Princess's most loyal handmaiden. Raised under her crib, going to the same classes, doing everything in favor of your royal highness, from warming up her jewelry and to trying the food first to see if it’s poisoned – your whole life’s goal is to make sure that the Princess is as comfortable as possible. You’re her shadow, her servant, the closest to a friend she can have – and if you were the bearer of the bad news, it’s only natural that she would be angry at you in the first instance, and not at the imperial army clashing down at your tiny bordering kingdom.
— Where are the guards?!
— Judging by the screams I am not sure if there are any left in the outer levels of the castle. And if the King didn’t come with a usual note after breakfast, it’s safe to assume that he is more busy.
With a trained movement, you quickly duck under the table when the Princess, naturally, throws a plate in your direction. You knew she wasn’t meaning it – your poor, innocent darling Princess, she was just as scared as you were but had not learned of how to hide her emotions under sarcasm and false calmness. Your job is to keep her safe – and calm – even if there is no royal family to serve anymore. You don’t want to think of the possible outcomes – King took you in, a simple peasant girl with no talents whatsoever, and gave you an illustrious education, the most sought job in the whole kingdom, and an allowance that would allow you to study in the real collegium, were they to accept women. You don’t want this place to fall in Northern Empire clutches – and you especially don’t want the Princess to learn the harmful ways of two pretty young women trapped in a castle full of enemy soldiers.
— How could this happen?!
— I’d have an answer for this question, Your Highness, but you ordered to urn any mail from the Northen Empire. Perhaps, they send us quite a bit of war declarations before finally going down.
Your hand goes to the side of your skirt, clutching on the suicide dagger – if something happens, you’d have to kill the Princess first, take the sin of killing oneself from her innocent soul – and then go down after her, hoping that your dog-like loyalty would allow you to serve her in heaven.
The Princess has many things that she’d like to take with her to the afterlife. You better start preparing her package soon – this castle wasn’t built to be protected from the army of beasts, hiding under human skin – your kingdom never provoked any wars, always trying to search for the opportunity of negotiations – and now this comes to bite you right in your soft rear, without a sufficient amount of guards or a suitable army to protect itself.
You’d pray for the god, but your god wants you to die.
— Princess, we need to…
Before you could say anything else, an explosion erupts somewhere in the southern tower – the closest place to enter the Princess chambers. You can hear screaming, you can hear laughing – a foreign language, the one you are proficient with, but it never made it less barbaric, less harsh. These people talk like swords clangs against each other – like a harsh metal against your skull. You’d give up anything to not understand what they are talking about.
There is something to be done before the soldiers arrive, finding only a few guards and two pretty, terrified young things. You might not be afraid of death, but you sure are terrified of what will come before their blades would slit your throat. You do not wish to die with blood between your legs. You do not wish that fate for the Princess either.
“The Princess should be here.”
“Did Lord say anything about trophies?”
“Don’t take anything now. Tiger said we were never here – he would pay us later”
“What about…”
“Don’t kill the Princess either. Emperor want her to himself, remember?”
“Come on, are we here for a whore?”
“A royal whore, dumbass. Now shut up before Emperor hears you.”
They laugh and you can hear the Princess whimpering, crying softly – all of the layers of harshness are washed away with every tear rolling down her perfect cheek. You move to them as fast as you can – these stupid clothes allow you at least some freedom of movement, saved from the excessive decorations and expensive, heavy fabrics – you are only as few levels higher than cleaning rags. you could probably rip away the lower levels of your skirt and run – the Princess wouldn’t even be able to move without your hand steadying herself.
You need strength to not slap her right now – you know that the pain on her perfect puffy cheek would help get her to listen, but nothing in your body moves to ever hurt her, no matter the cause. You push yourself to the door, thinking – your castle isn’t the highest one in the whole world, if anything, the Princess would be able to escape either via the window or the secret tunnels – but they would search for her, they would never accept defeat like that. Even if you’d stall them for long enough, pulling every bit of luck you don’t have – they wouldn’t stop if they had the goal of catching the Princess.
— Your radiance, we have to go!
— Where? The castle is going to crumble any second now, and Mama and Papa are…
You press your ear against the tough wood, listening to the soldier’s speaking – language is even harsher now when the adrenaline runs through your veins instead of blood. You would give up anything to be strong – to have your dancing and embroidering lessons switched to sword fighting, to archery, to read dark arcana books instead of romance novels that you and Her Preciousness liked so much. Your hands are soft and delicate, only a bit harsh from occasional cleaning and serving – you’re a shame to any servant in the castle, a house pet made to entertain and please, not to fight and work.
The Princess is a cherished treasure for your kingdom. Protected and hidden away, the King was smart enough to know that a royal gem like her would make all the old rulers of kingdoms surrounding yours go into a frenzy – so Her Radiancy wasn’t ever allowed to any royal mingling and balls until she’d reach the age of at least 21. Her birthday was next month – a small mercy, knowing that there was a possibility of never getting of that age.
“Is that a Princess?”
You hear a woman – probably one of the higher members of the court, considering her high-pitched accented whimpers with a familiar voice. God bless her soul and dedicate her a quick death – you don’t want to think what would come of her if not for this prayer.
“Princess should be in her quarters. This one definitely doesn’t speak like a royal meat”
“How do we even know which one is the Princess?”
“She should speak like one. Would be easier if her family ordered a fucking portrait.”
But…you were with the Princess your whole life. You know how to act like her, you know how she talks, how all royals talk. You know how manners, you know how to sing, how to dance, you received the education that allowed her to copy your study work and give it to her personal teachers – her own reflection wouldn’t copy her better than you would.
You’re young, like a Princess, you’re pretty, almost like a Princess – and you’re loyal like a dog, itching to pay your debt to the royal family.
— Your Highness! You need to run, please, just take the secret route through the walls and…
It was the most horrible moment for her to put her foot down.
— I…I live to serve the royal family. Dying for you will be the greatest of honors.
— I will not just leave you here!
— They’d defile and kill us both, Your Highness. But if I just pretend to be you, they won’t come looking for you, won’t they? They would have what they wanted and you will be free.
— What about you?
You’d feel hurt for how quickly she ran to the secret tunnel – if such feelings were normal for a servant to have. You’d feel betrayed if it wasn’t the life or death situation – if you weren’t putting on her dress as swiftly as possible before the soldiers would come running for you. It’s funny, how you always wanted to try her dress – how you were jealous of everything she had, even if you were the closest to her – you pride yourself in not caring about such silly mortal possessions, and yet, you always wanted to try something as beautiful as her dress.
You stare at yourself in the mirror – terrified, small, ready to die at any point or to be hauled back to the Northern Empire like a piece of meat. Dress suits you, the bright pink would tell about innocence and radiance – but not it smells of blood and betrayal. If the soldiers thought that the Princess killed herself in her room, they would surely not think about trying to find her.
You push the tiny dagger against your wrist, praying to all of your knowledge of medicine that your death will be quick and as painless as possible. You left out a silent prayer – knowing that the god would only welcome you after your death.
Not a war, Horangi corrects himself – a massacre.
***
Tiger of the North was fucking tired.
This whole mission – declaring war that no one seen and no one wanted, marching through the street without an army behind him, felt more like a bandit’s doing than something that a general of the best army in the world would do. This whole operation is a stunt, an order from the Emperor that no one expected – seriously, sometimes he still felt like a child with new, exciting toys. For all he knew, König never saw a Princess – yet, he sent his best men to take her out, not caring that this would mean a war on the bordering kingdom.
Not his fault this shithole didn’t even bother to reply to any of the Emperor’s letters regarding the marital status of the Princess. Not his fault they don’t even have a proper army – the king died, gutted like a fucking pig, and the queen followed soon after. Their unit can count less than 20 people, with royal hounds and other animals to help – yet, no one was able to foresee them entering the castle and butchering it. It’s a hunt, not a war or even an assassination – a hunt for the Princess, the useless fucking thing.
If they’d only bothered to get at least some portraits – something to tell what she looks like. Perhaps, she is ugly, a mix of a toad that fucked a pile of shit. Perhaps, she is crazy and eats pillows and keeps her handmaidens' heads like a trophy. Perhaps, she don’t fucking exist and the king just didn’t want to say out loud that his dick was never working enough to produce an heir.
— Search the quarters! I don’t want them to have time to know that their precious king is dead.
The low rumble of König beside his almost makes him dart from surprise. He wears a mask, of course, not even trusting his people to see how he looks like – perhaps, he is as ugly as a toad that…ah, shit, he is using the same comparison again.
A faceless ruler and a faceless Princess – a match made in heaven.
— You think other kingdoms would send their condolences?
— I’m sure that Price is already aching to write a congratulatory letter for the expansion of the empire. A nice addition to the title, ja?
The emperor laughs, a sword in his hand, dark from the king’s blood. Horangi still doesn’t understand why he would decide to go on such a dangerous operation – if anything, they could haul the Princess back to the capital, or at least the nearest Empire territories – but no, König decided to go here himself, searching for a Princess that would, surely, not be worthy his attention. If this man didn’t want to marry all the options other kingdoms offered him, he surely wouldn’t be satisfied with a girl from this shithole of a country. Their land is barely enough for a normal castle, let alone all of the riches that the Empire provided.
Yet, König stumbles in every room, searching for something – for someone. Other soldiers don’t dare to take trophies in front of their emperor, knowing that this operation should be as secretive as possible – no other rulers would bat an eye for a mysterious royal passing and the quick marriage of the Princess of this kingdom, but Graves would be quite concerned and bitching about the Northern Empire coming close to his kingdom. God, if König could just bathe every last one of them in blood, he would have.
— Sir, I believe the Princess should be here Unless she killed herself already.
— Those people honor death more than they do life. Better be fast before I’d have to marry a corpse.
— We could bring her back.
— Nothing can wash off the dead smell even after resurrection. You think why Krueger can only have sex with common whores?
They both have to suppress their laugh at the thought of the royal advisor. Poor, dead Krueger, serving a contract that even death would not be able to break – it’s a good thing to have it on their side. Provides a good amount of jokes just from being around him.
König rushes to the door that looks the most guarded – judging only by the amount of dead servants around it. The Princess must be here and, knowing the traditions of your kingdom, he has about a minute before you’d kill yourself, yelling something ridiculous about finding solace in death and that they would never take you alive. The door comes crashing down ridiculously easy – or it’s his strength challenging in the form of barbaric savagery. When he pushed into the room, he didn’t see what he was expecting to see.
He sees something better.
You look divine in the moonlight, your form, draped in an expensive dress that you only managed to take on halfway through, getting stuck in that stupid corset and billions of tiny bows and cutting jewels. You look majestic, godlike, you look like something from a fairytale. He was anxious before this, thinking if it was worth it – overthinking every bit of the operations, evaluating if the enemy kingdoms would be fine with him just taking you. König wasn’t sleeping a good few nights before this – now he looks at you and wants to kneel in front of your perfect form.
— No wonder they didn’t have portraits. They wouldn’t capture your beauty.
He shook the knife – little thing, as dainty as you are – from your trembling hands. Poor thing terrified of him – he’d pick you up and haul you on your shoulder already, but he wants to take a moment and just admire the comparison between his huge, muscular arms and your fragile form. He knows he is big, imposing, threatening – but compared to you, he feels like a war god paying tribute to his newest sacrifice.
You shake in his grasp, not fighting it – Princess wouldn’t fight, you remind yourself. If killing yourself is not possible, if your dignity is tarnished, the death and torture shall be met with silence – you put your lips together, as firmly as you can. Still, you can’t stop yourself from sobbing when his hand goes to cup your face – a faint trace of your makeup staining his dark gloves.
— This is the declaration of war. You were…
— This is no war, meine Liebe. How could we fight the nation with a dead king?
The Princess would cry, learning about the death of her parents. You try to force more tears, making yourself look as miserable as possible – it isn’t hard in this brute’s hands, with his soldiers surrounding you – but, for some reason, he doesn’t look surprised when you are not crying immediately at the mention of the death of your supposed parents.
He laughs, cupping your face in a rough, crude gesture. He shouldn’t treat Princess like this – even you are not used to men being this vile, to speak of such lewd matters with his men. They surround you, laughing, not even bothering to pay the least bit of respect in front of their Emperor.
He wears a hood and it makes him look like an executioner, not a ruler. But, perhaps, you would welcome a butcherer more than you would a husband.
— Let me go! The guards shall rise to my abduction and they will not leave thou to…
You don’t even need to force yourself to speak like her – you’re royal by any means, other than blood and service. You can imitate her your whole life if needed, shadowing her your whole short existence – it only hurts you more when you are praying that the Princess, dressed up in your garments, would be able to escape. You know that someone will save her, and take care of her – it’s just like the plot of your favorite romance book. An abandoned Princess of the burned kingdom rises to be the wife of a mysterious, masked blood knight, saving him from pushing his soul into the darkness. You, in this story, would be just a minor victim for the author to kill.
— The guards would rise if they weren’t dead, Princess. Too late to call for them now.
He sneers at this “Princess” like a snake, ready to sink her teeth into your soft, limp body. You whimper, finally trying to get your knife from his hand – as gracefully as you can, remembering that you are to stall the time for her to escape, not to actually save yourself. He laughs and lets you go suddenly – only to pick you up like you weigh nothing. Pick you up like a bride, not a pig for him to gut.
The tip of your ears is burning – your whole face is burning, you feel ashamed, embarrassed, angry, every emotion swirls in your head as he doesn’t even try to be subtle about his affection. You thank god for the layers of skirt you are wearing – but the upper part of the dress is barely holding together, showing a scandalous amount of shoulder. You are tainted – a scandal in the court, if there was a court alive.
— Put me down this instant. My kingdom will not just accept these levels of disrespect!
You say this weakly than you wanted to. He laughs – thunder and bear roar, ocean waves against the mountains – you whimper when his hand goes to rip the upper part of your dress entirely, leaving you barely covered, with only three layers of clothing and a corset between you and his horrible, dangerous hands. A lady should not be seen by men when she is in less than five layers of clothing – still, you feel much better when the heavy fabric lets go of your skin. Still, you feel mortified, knowing, what would happen when he started to take off your clothes.
Well…you think you know what will happen. You and Her Highness read books with a scandalous amount of intimacy – touches, hugs, kisses even, the last book having record five instants of the main heroes being in close proximity with each other – you also know that whenever a male enemy soldier captures a woman, he is doing…something before killing them. Not quite sure what, but obviously torturous.
— The only kingdom that is left for you, your Highness, is what lies between your legs. I’ll be sure to pay my regards later.
Before you could say something – anything for that matter, he already hauls you away, still stuck in his hands like a trophy. You thank god that he doesn’t see the difference between you and the Princess. You never knew your acting talents would be of this amount, but nonetheless, you feel complete, knowing that the Princess is safe and sound.
— What is the purpose of your actions?
You are weak, voice whimpering and quiet. You don’t want to touch him, but the hungry gazes of his soldiers make you weak and fragile – you cling to him, trying to cover your modesty. The corset is a part of the wardrobe that no fine lady should ever show to men – yet, this is the only thing now that is keeping your tits together, saving at least some of your dignity. The heavy skirt of the torn dress lingers on your legs, covering you as much as barely holding up fabric can. König’s chest rumbles with a laugh when he notices you clinging onto him like a helpless kitten.
— I’m taking my bride as your parents were not kind enough to answer any of the proposals.
— Why didn’t you just visit?
If it were for him, he would just sprawl you on the ground and take what he wants. He would, were he a simple soldier, not the North Emperor – he would if there weren’t any witnesses if there were no intentions of marrying you later. But alas, he needs your hands in marriage – he needs you whole in marriage, from head to toe, from your heart to your soul, from your pussy to that sweet mouth of yours – and he can’t have all that unless he is patient.
— I did. Right now, for that matter.
— As the only heir to the throne, this would mean the death of my country. You can’t just…
— Who is there to stop me, little one? Your parents? Dead. Your army? They would kneel for my men were we at actual war.
You close your mouth. He laughs again, this terrifying hood of his moving when he shakes his head. You sob, tears flowing freely down your cheeks – it’s a wonder you can still talk while crying like this, but you need to keep up the act and you need to stall the time as much as possible. His hand goes to wipe away your tears and, for a second, you almost want to bite him. But, Princesses don’t bite – they lay in the hands of their captors and wait for princes to save them.
— The other kingdoms would protect us, we had war pacts!
— Were you loved enough to start a war with the Empire to protect you from getting married?
— I shall…
— You’re too young to speak like a queen, Liebe. Leave that to me, ja?
You open your mouth.
You close your mouth.
You open your mouth again.
— Please, let me go.
This is a quiet, soft sob – König stops for a second, looking at your fragile, vulnerable expression. You’re as weak as a kitten, as adorable as a bunny – and precious, his little treasure, tucked away nicely in the deepest corners of this kingdom. He almost feels bad for breaking you, for taking you away. He killed many men, the king included, and he captured more land than his father ever could dream of – the biggest empire lies at his hands and yet, he feels weak when you cry in his hands.
It still suits you more – a pained expression, pure terror, all the emotions that a young woman like you should experience when she is captured by someone like him – he believes in terror through submission and the tears streaming down your face makes his cock twitch in his pants.
— I have all the right for you, little one. It’s your father’s fault that you were not protected more.
He laughs, his large, imposing hand goes to cup your ass – you don’t even understand how his touch manages to get through this many layers of clothing. Your skirt is in complete disarray when he touches your legs, squishing and destroying the crinoline parts and whale bones. So much went into creating this skirt, a horrifying construct that never allowed the Princess to move freely, stuck in one place like a glorified little dolly – now it becomes your grave, mortifying and freezing you in one place.
— You can’t…no, please, don’t…
He grabs your hips with the ferocity of a warrior, not an emperor. Rulers shouldn’t kidnap Princesses from neighboring countries, and they shouldn’t lead their troops on an operation that would destroy any diplomatic relationships with them – but he stands here, no more than a normal soldier, and you were never this terrified in your life before. He is a monster, a beast, an anomaly that shouldn’t exist in this world – even your desire to protect the Princess isn’t stopping you from crying and shaking. You bite your lips and sob softly, quietly, hoping he won’t just throw you to his men.
— This is what politics leads to, no? Your father decided to stop being diplomatic…and I did too.
He isn’t my father, you want to scream. He did nothing but take you from the streets, and slums you were scrambling aimlessly like nothing more but a tiny critter under his boots – he gave you everything, any book you wanted, the best company in the whole kingdom. He isn’t your father, still, but you pay for his mistakes – mistakes that you had no idea of. Princess ordered you to ignore any mail that would come from “This Northern brute” and you didn’t know that it could come to this.
If only you were to steal those letters and read them instead of throwing them away…but what would it come to? Princess wouldn’t marry someone like König, she had no like for the emperor twice her age, for the human who defiled the very laws of nature, sitting in his high castle, ordering the undead soldiers around. Monster with, probably, three heads and two faces, with four hands hiding under his magnificent armor. A beast who is…
A best who is cradling you in his arms like you were his lover, not his victim.
— Put me down. Please.
— I’m getting tired of listening to little Princesses wailing. Tell me, Liebling, do you wish to continue this journey quietly or unconsciously?
His hand goes to your neck – no doubt, he would be able to squish the life out of you if he so wished. No doubt, you are fucked – utterly and completely, with his ability to do whatever he wants your inability to stop him in any way. Sobbing softly, not wanting for him to continue this humiliation, you simply nod – to whatever option he deems appropriate. Princess would be screaming, yelling for help, and she would stomp her adorable feet on the ground until she’d get what she wanted – but you are no Princess, and playing pretend already makes you miserable enough.
— I do not wish to see the destruction of my kingdom.
— It’s not destroyed, little Princess. Merely defiled, captured and burned down.
— You didn’t…
— Of course not, kleine Hase. I wouldn’t dare to burn the newest addition to my empire…unless you would make me to.
It’s not a threat – it’s a promise, poorly concealed by the obvious smile in his voice. You cling to his chest and hear the rumble of his laugh when he pushes his cape over your shivering form. It’s a small form of comfort, but an unwelcome one – you’d rather be shivering, naked, and exposed in front of his troops than find comfort in the way he treats you. His cloak is heavy, more suited for the harsh weather of the central parts of the Empire – not your kingdom, mostly warm and wet, with bountiful rains and plentiful soil. You understand why he would want this land – you don’t understand why he would want you.
— Don’t hurt my people.
— Be nice then. You can be nice to your husband, ja?
If you weren’t a Princess, you’d claw his fucking eyes out – get your dainty hands under his hood and scrap the pulsating flesh, turn his face into a mush of blood and gore. If you were real Princess, you would declare war on the Empire and die the protector of your kingdom – not a terrified girl.
But you’re neither a Princess nor a commoner.
You push your lips together, allowing König to take you away. Accepting your fate not with dignity, but with quiet, fearful acceptance.
people love to shit on the failings of a classic protagonist in favor of more interesting side characters but what appeals to me about a harry potter is that he’s a huge bitch
the minister for magic will say “sirius black has escaped from azkaban prison” and harry will be like “and what do you want me, a 13 year old with much more serious 13 year old problems (can’t go to hogsmeade), to do about that 🤨?” he’ll have his first kiss with a girl he’s been crushing on for Years and his review? wet. someone will bring up his parents and he will not hesitate to tell them to put their manners back in. umbridge assures her students that voldemort hasn’t returned and he interrupts in front of the whole class with “so, according to the ministry, cedric diggory dropped dead of his own accord?” and he rocks for it.
see this is actually why harry and ginny are good together … two mean hot jocks … and in the 90s ohhhhhhh think of the VIBES … and then they got to be the bitchiest parents at the bake sale together that’s love i fear
Enjoy this heartwarming fic about the importance of having reliable nondescript friends in the face of a scary situation. You and her can totally fight off a prospective attacker together, you’re sure - after all, you’ve got the power of friendship!
Yan!Chrollo x Reader
Word count: ~ 1.9k
You’ve got a stalker. You know this for sure.
Wherever you go, you can feel a gaze.
Your train rides and walks through some of the dodgier parts of the central business district after a busy day have always had their fair share of sketchy characters - it’s been a near-daily part of your life since you first came here several weeks ago - but this feeling was different. It wasn’t some junkie looking for a punch-up, no. It was specific. It was targeted.
baratheonpilled
jbbartram-illu
izzy806
dededos
