#{ v; A Royal Burden. }

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part v

part one| part two | part three | part four | part five | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion. the king threatens sexual violence again. there is explicit consensual sexual content in this chapter with reader and jisung. first times, breaking of vows, lots of mental work packed in there lol.

chapter word count: 11500 words.

enjoy <3

-

Despite the delay, you reach the intended campsite before nightfall.  The king finds his own entertainment while everyone else works, erecting tents and constructing fire pits. 

Chan assigns Seungmin to watch the king while he occupies himself elsewhere.  The tension between the king and the leader ripples through the camp, though no one – not even the king – is audacious enough to remark on it. 

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else.  This manifests as protecting the king, so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed.   The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now.   Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king. 

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there.  Jisung accompanies him.  As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded. 

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him.  You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins.  You think of their loyalty and good hearts.  They both deserve better. 

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way.  It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.   

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents.  You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision.  You slowly look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you.  He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now. 

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title.  He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet.  The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees.  “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says.  “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions.  I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—”  He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle.  Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn.  “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says.  In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…” 

You are still too surprised to respond.  You stand there, hands folded in front of you, blinking at the man. 

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way.  Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today.  And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.” 

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned.  You stare at his footprints long after he has departed. 

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents.  Their attention turns to you,  followed by dips and bows. 

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart.  You sweep into a quick return bow.  When you turn away, you let out a breath.  Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing.  The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches.  You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity for tolerance.  Their motivations may be selfish, in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile.  Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor.  This time is the kingsguard Minho.  He stands as still and patient as marble, poised like a handsome statue, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation – or maybe that is scrutiny, studying you like your face holds the answer to some profound question. 

You are open as ever, as patiently marble, waiting for him.  

He exhales.  It sounds like a surrendering.   It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder.  The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and servants busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word, but a gesture, his closed first opening between you.  You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft.  You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide.  Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket, and that dress is now underwater.  You thought the draft was lost too.  You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances. 

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness.  Minho helped you through it.  Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle. 

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial.  When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny. 

You are not sure what to expect.   Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal and cordial.   He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan, accusing you of harbouring poison.  It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath. 

Minho sighs. 

“Will it kill him?” he asks. 

“Oh.”  It is not the question you are expecting.  Nonetheless, with sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No.  I swear.  It’s just a sleeping draft.  For – for myself.  To help me – at night.” 

He has clever eyes, full of thought.  You suspect he can deduce what that really means.    

“Mm,” is all he says.  He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it.  He gives you a look, something stern, something that demands secrecy without a word. 

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly. 

“Be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you reply. 

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering.  It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone. 

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts.  He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned.  Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out. 

The king stops a distance from you, shouting across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space – or maybe because he sees a fuming Hyunjin in his periphery.  He does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side. 

He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river.  Bathe yourself.  You will see me tonight.” 

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form.  The implications are not subtle.  They are also not surprising.  He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you.  Of course a cruel and violent man would wrestle back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong. 

You know he will make it awful.   He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night, but now you are certain he will be brutal.   He does not just want to use you, he wants to hurt you. 

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back.  Your heart is not built that way.  You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes. 

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho.  He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king.  He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink. 

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound. 

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious.  You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him. 

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward.  His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so.   He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed.  That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise. 

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says.  Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.” 

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone. 

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan. 

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait.  He smiles a very charming smile. 

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth.  It makes you blink in confusion.   

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin. 

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps. 

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back.  The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king, who huffs and shakes his head.  His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung.  It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow.  He stares wide-eyed at the ground. 

“Bard boy,” the king says.  “Take the queen.” 

You look at Jisung as he straightens.  His blinking gaze moves from the king to you. 

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other.  You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then.  You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you.  You feel like it gives everything away. 

But the king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important.  He does not even glance at Jisung, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away. 

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper. 

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears.  He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.  

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes. 

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle.  “I think it might kill me.” 

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement.  It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial.  You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities.  Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside. 

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water.  The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step. 

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable.  You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you.  You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see the special humanity in you. 

Your gaze rests on the flowing river, the setting sun as it casts streak of orange and lavender over the water.   The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize that is not the breeze.  The gentle touch is Jisung.  You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity.  It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower. 

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency. 

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice. 

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed.  You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity.  You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation.  The immensity of it all has you shivering. 

“You’ve already done so much,” you say. 

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush.  “I’ll help you.  Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come.  The king won’t care if it’s just me.  I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around.  His breath catches as your eyes meet.  His hand is still hovering, trembling, but he drops it to his side.  His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back. 

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing.  “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”  

“You—”  He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again.  He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” 

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation.  He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull.  He kisses you and it is more than a touch.  If some kisses are whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand. 

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.  This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips.  His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck.  Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder. 

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble.  His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline.  His startled expression makes you burst into giggles, still riding the high of the kiss itself. 

“That was – that was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess.  “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.”  He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard. 

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips.  Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances.  You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so.   The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more.  Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone. 

For now, you play his game.  A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention. 

You do not fully strip down, simply to your shift, as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors.  It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard.  It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles.  That is something you will remedy yourself, in the capital. 

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung.  You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water.  Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day.  You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter.  For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk. 

You find a smooth boulder to perch yourself, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin.  The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you. 

The sunset has lost its golden traces, from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead. 

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you.  He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction.  He exhales heavily when you look at him. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“I—”  He laughs, seemingly at himself.  He thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack.  “Nothing,” he says.  He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face.   “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now,” he says.  “Because honestly?”  He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble.  He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them.  “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile.  “I’ll keep you safe.” 

“Oh,” he says.  “Good.” 

You smile at each other for another moment.  It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance.  A couple of birds, no doubt settled for the night, fly out of the trees and away.  You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was so easy to escape. 

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever. 

The water is not very deep.  When you stand, it comes below your hips.  You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else.  “Robe, please.” 

Jisung is a very capable soldier.  You have witnessed it firsthand.  Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

But he trips over his own feet now.  He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand.   He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested. 

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm.  He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach. 

You finally clasp his wandering hand.  Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes. 

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination.  Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen.  Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you.  The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.   

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open.  He doesn’t say anything.  With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused.  Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses. 

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders.  “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream.  It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage. 

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says.  “I mean – fuck.  I can’t do that, obviously.  He’s the king.  I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked.  If you ask, it’s fine, I’d do anything for the queen.  I should obey the queen.  I must protect her.  Then again, if I hit him on the head, it could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that.  Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call.  I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right?  Right.  Fuck.  Sorry for cursing.  You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah!  I didn’t say that.  Maybe, instead, if I get him drunk, then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen.   He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead. 

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing.  I meant none of that at all.  Of course.  Unless you say otherwise, your Majesty.  Then I meant it all.” 

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore.  His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed.  He blinks at you.  You are already smiling. 

“Right,” he says.  “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him.  You go to your bag of possessions, kneeling down to find the phial. 

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say.  “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp.  His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin.  He marches to where you are knelt down. 

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it.  His eyes are on your face.

“Your Majesty,” Jisung says.  He crouches down so you can look at each other.  “I’m a lot better at speaking when I’m not – when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else.  That’s easier.  But I—”  He stares into your eyes.  His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely.  “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago.  I know I’m a mess now.  I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline.  It is still empty, of course.  The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity and masculinity.  He is probably stomping and brooding and yelling some more, glaring at Hyunjin and Chan, while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek.  Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron. 

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low, rasping voice, his face close to yours.  A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes.  “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but…   You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.”  His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver.  “I feel it too,” he says.  “I think I’m supposed to be here.  My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen.  The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right?  When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched.  It seems those feelings have grown with yours. 

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say. 

It is confident amidst his stammering, and it makes his eyes go wide.  You brush the hair away from those eyes. 

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say.  “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not.  I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm.  You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin. 

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer.  Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely. 

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.” 

You open your hand and reveal the phial.  His gaze drops.  His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle. 

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression.  You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic. 

“It’s not poison,” you whisper.  “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands.  He looks down at the phial again, then at you.  “Well,” he says and gets to his feet.  He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat.  “You could have opened with that,” he says. 

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet. 

-

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night. 

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality. 

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits.  The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin.  After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards.  The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth.  Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him. 

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day.  He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go.   You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you. 

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you.  While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says.  “Find me, yeah?  If you need… anything.” 

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however.  Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming. 

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds. 

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten. 

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king. 

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup. 

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it.  You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy.  The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him.  He is, however, very easy to antagonize.    

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering.  The king slaps it out of his hand.  Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication. 

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl.  He remains bent over while scampering around.  “It was an accident.  I’ll get you more food.  Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup.   The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly. 

You slurp some more soup. 

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep.  The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.  

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber.   This seems to a combination of acknowledging the day was very exhausting, but also sighing with some relief that there is no more yelling. 

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he shall sleep alone, and where you shall not be visiting any time soon.  

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent, but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal.  You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward.  Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least. 

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent. 

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits.  “He doesn’t like travelling.  And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh.  Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone.  “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

Jisung laughs, though it is more of an exhale. 

“So I’ve heard,” he says.  

The tent opens.  There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth.  The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space.  It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head.  One of your smaller trunks is in the room.  There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait.  The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed. 

You look at each other. 

It would require only a step, out of the darkness and into the light, and he could kiss you again.  Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications. 

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before.  You want him so much that you learned how to want.   Before him, you were numb but content.  Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips. 

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head.  You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation.  Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another.  You want him, but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, not with a command. 

“I enjoy your company,” you say.  “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me?  It would make me happy.” 

He releases a breath, laughter spilling out of him. 

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you.  “Yes, that would make me happy too.” 

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar.  You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose.  You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift.  It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry.  The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot. 

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns.  There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted. 

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking.  It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back.  Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock.  It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you. 

Though, you suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world.  Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted. 

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle.  You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood, looking at Jisung as he sits down.  He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground. 

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed. 

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it.  “Right.  Music.  Um.” 

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump.  The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the music surround you, the gentle plucking of each string.  He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too. 

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders.  The next song you do not know, but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days.  The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it.  Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply. 

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear.  He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.  

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh, as he is often doing everything to make you laugh.  Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror.  Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear. 

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar.  You suppose the story is not yet finished. 

The melody changes a little.  He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind. 

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you.  He had never even spoken to you.  You did not know him at all.  You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music. 

It feels like so much has changed, even while technically nothing has.  You are still married to the king.  You have both sworn oaths. 

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom.  He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony.  The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured.  He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face. 

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.” 

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose.  He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern.  “You can cry,” he says.  “If it will make you feel better.” 

Yes, you think it will.  You have too long repressed feeling.  You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad.  Crying and raging will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul. 

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes. 

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back. 

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools.  He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms. 

“What are you making?” he asks. 

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say.  “Spring is my favourite season.  It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers.  Everything sparkles all the time.”  

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it.   Now, you just sniffle and lay the fabric down.  You smile at him. 

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?”  His eyebrows lift.  His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs.  “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it. 

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say. 

“Why not?” he asks, laughing. 

“Because!” 

“All right, all right,” he says.  He taps his chin with great contemplation.  “Autumn?  No, no, it’s gross in the capital then.  The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall.  It sort of just – pings.”  He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles and rings out.  “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me.  Ah, winter?  No.  No.  Guard duty in the winter is the worst.  Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.”  He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing.  “So it’s not those.  Then, ah, let me think.  What’s left? Hmmm…” 

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says.  “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say. 

“Ah, of course.  Let’s think.  It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things.  Everything feels a bit like soup.  But…” 

“But…?”  You lean towards him as well, playfully eager, like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But,” he says, eyes dropping momentarily to your smile, then lifting again.  They crinkle with his own gentle grin, drawing your eyes there as well.  “That’s when we met,” he says. 

You look from his mouth to his eyes.  The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm.  Nothing exists past the golden light beside you. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Yes,” he says.  “Summer.  I think I used to hate it.  I think – I’ll never hate it again.” 

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again, “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.” 

You laugh, but it catches you off guard so it is a rather ugly laugh, more of a snort.  Your hand flies up to cover your mouth.  He laughs at that sound more than anyting, though he tries to stifle it. 

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down.  A kingsguard keeping watch, a bard playing music, that is one thing.  Giggling with the queen is a little different.   

He accidentally pokes himself on your needle.  It is laying between you, forgotten, and he puts his hand down.  He hisses as he lifts it, grimacing like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation.  You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents.  “Silly,” you say.  “Big strong guard, you are.  It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand.  It is not even bleeding.  Still, you bring it to your mouth. 

You do not intend to be seductive.  You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more.  The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent seems to shift.  If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted.  You stomach drops with a swoop, as if you took off flying. 

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth.  His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight.  Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body.  When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well.  It drops right between your legs when it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over. 

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet. 

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss.  You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back.  You definitely would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth.  You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before.  Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—”  He abruptly breaks the kiss.  He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush.  He pushes his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like that will pull him out of it. 

He looks at you, then your mouth, and falls right back in.  His eyes close like it is a little painful, and he groans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him.   He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily.  You follow, just as inexpertly but just as passionately.  You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth. 

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his.  He pulls back again, with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time.  You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before. 

“I—I’m so—”  he says, forcing himself to look away.  He stares down at the lantern.  His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well.  He rubs his face, pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers. 

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face.  “Jisung, I know.  This is – this is all crazy.”  He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair.  “I know,” you say.  “You’re not alone.  I know this is complicated.”  You stammer, tripping over your racing heart.  You cup his face and stroke his cheek.  “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers.  “I’m not scared of you.  I’m scared of me.  Of what I want to give.  It would be—”  He finally lets go of his hair.  It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead.  “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all.  But I—” 

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song.  He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts.  Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this.  He just breathes, in and out.  He tilts his head and looks at you.  He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving. 

“What about you?” he asks.  “What do – what do you want to – give?” 

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious?  “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious, but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome. 

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says.  He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down.  He takes your hand.  His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm.  He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard.  When he straightens, he says, “It is.  But when it comes to me, I—”  He laughs without much humour, looking at you, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating.  “I think I’m broken beyond help.  I think I always have been.  I don’t even have a good reason why.  I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the other vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently.  “Whatever that looks like, Jisung.  Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.” 

He nods, sharp and quick.  He rests his forehead against yours.  You close your eyes and stay there for a time, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again.  He kisses your forehead before standing.  You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that. 

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance.  He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it.  His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips.  You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does. 

“Ah, uh, you—”  He points behind you with the guitar.  There is still nothing there.  When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles.  “Um, the light,” he says.  “Behind you – it, um.” 

Oh.  The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift.  Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty, even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric. 

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out.  “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.” 

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly.  His eyes move down your body and up again.  It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind.  Then he swallows, closes his eyes, bows his head.  He departs without another word. 

You do not listen to hear if he and Seungmin speak some more.  You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets.  You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss.  With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again. 

-

You wake in the middle of the night.  You do not know what time, but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent.  You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp, but now it is silent, so you believe it is many hours later.

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern.   The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own.   He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette. 

Two silhouettes. 

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up, but it does, and you realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent.  You realize you are also right about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change.  That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation.  “She’s sleeping.  Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.”  That voice is unmistakably Jisung.  You would recognize his voice anywhere.  Your heart wakes up faster than your mind, skipping beats. 

“In the middle of the night?”  Minho asks.  “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain.  “I am!  Now let me see her!” 

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks. 

“I just—”  Jisung sighs.  You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing.  “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes.  “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her.  Like the world is only half full and I’m only—”  He jabs his chest, exhales heavily.  “Only half whole.” 

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers. 

“Please,” Jisung says.  “I’m just going to talk to her.  I’ll be fast.  She won’t mind.  The king will be passed out until noon at least.  This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says.  “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off.  The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post.  He plunks the light on the ground. 

You can no longer see his silhouette, but you can hear as the tent unlaces.  Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping.  You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent.  Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he tries to lace it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he evidently does not see you.  At first, he is preoccupied with the laces.  Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around.  Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted, and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds.  Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again. 

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping.  He slowly turns around to face you.  He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form.  He faces the correct angle, at least. 

“Um, yes?” he asks. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

“Oh, that,” he says.  “Right. Um.  You see.  I was thinking about everything you said.  And everything I said.  And did.  And we did.  And he said and he did, the king I mean.  And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.”  He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture.  “The. reason. I. am. here.” 

He lets his arms fall to his side.  You think he can see you much better now, because his eyes finally find yours. 

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip.  But you are not scared.  His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.  

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging. 

He takes a step forward.  His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves.  He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions.  Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt.  You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand. 

He crouches down, laying the sword on the ground.  On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes. 

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him.  He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing. 

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other.  His mouth is open like he has more to say, but he never finds the words.  You think there might be words, but they have all been said, and they are better encapsulated in a kiss. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in.  His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, as he has been holding your waist and hips when he helps you from here to there.  Then the kiss deepens, your eyes close.  His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm. 

He says your name, not your title, your shift messily gathered in his fists.  He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck.  You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat.  You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need.  You scratch  at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed. 

You want to tear the robe off his body, but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body.  You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it. 

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband.  Well, perhaps that last part is still true.  But it is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung.  You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head. 

You lean back, breathing hard, smiling at his face.  He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet.  He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift.  His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side. 

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly. 

“That was different,” he says.  “I couldn’t really look.  I tried not to look.  I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you.  I tried to pray instead.  But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me.  Now—”  His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail.  He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him.  “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips.  He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side.  His hands move everywhere, up and down. 

Before long, you are moving, laying on your back.  He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down.  You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin.  It will happen, you decide.  One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring. 

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine.  His arms are bare so you squeeze those too.  Your legs part to make room for his hips.  You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you.  You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could that other night.  But where he ran away that night, ignoring his own feelings, this time he lets your hand wander down.  When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back. 

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms.  He kneels between your open legs, pushing his hair back, swallowing as he looks down.  His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise when running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

That skin is very sensitive.  You are already jumping by the time his hand is on you.  You have to cover your mouth.  No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar. 

You are very wet, from earlier, from seconds ago.  He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure too, even though it his fingers, rubbing through all that wetness.   He finds that place he showed you, that he talked about, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands.  Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you that burst of pleasure.   He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure. 

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths.  You can keep your voice down on your own, but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you.  Your hips lift, chasing his touch, then drop in shy retreat, oversensitive. 

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth.  You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before, which was playful then uncertain and demure.  You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud. 

He takes his hand back.  The other drops from his mouth.  You look at each other, hearts racing.   His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little. 

You sit up to help.  With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position.  His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace. 

You look up at him, holding his gaze.  This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in.  You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over.   That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you. 

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up.  Truthfully, you are nervous again too, but also emboldened with passionate wanting.  You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law. 

I’m the queen, you think.  I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down.  When you are on your back, you lay your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you. 

He pushes his trousers down his hips.  He looks into your face for as long as he can, but he eventually needs to look down.  He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance.  He finds it, but your body is a little resistant even though you are so wet.  You wince a little, but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please. 

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king.  Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future.  It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his sweaty face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion. 

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness, but just the rightness.  You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt.  He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you.  He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more.  He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real.  “I have you,” he says.  “I have you.” 

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it.  He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him.  it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you. 

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips.  Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow.  Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly. 

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure. 

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly.  “One day.” 

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out.  It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too.   It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly.  It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again. 

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions.  Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you. 

Then, he smiles.  It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief. 

“We—” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, giggling too. 

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself.  It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here.  Eventually, he comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time. 

He can’t sleep here, but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle.   He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now, and you fear it will never be doused. 

You sit up together.  You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way.  He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared. 

“We need to be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face.  He brings it close to his, your noses touching. 

“I know you won’t,” you say.  “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.” 

He laughs, then steals one final kiss.  He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle.  You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers.  He smooths his hair as best he can.  He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed, but not entirely untouched.  You wonder if you look like that, if it’s all over your face, in the lines of your body.  You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally. 

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again, gives you one last departing smile before he steps out. 

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears.  You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses. 

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair.  Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this.  It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

Smiling, you lay down to sleep, safe for tonight.  With your growing allies, you are confident will you find a way to remain so.   

[lovelykhaleesiii]

A King to Fear...

PAIRING: King!Aegon ii Targaryen x Stark!fem!Reader

WORDS: 2,218.

SUMMARY: What you had intended to be a short, innocent trip to King's Landing, had turned into a bitter pleasure that would forever change the course of your life.

WARNINGS: thicc!aegon, infidelity [on Aegon's part], swearing, thigh riding, breeding kink, corruption kink, degradation kink, exhibitionism, p in v sexual intercourse, female receiving (fingering), brief mentions of cockwarming/creampie.

A/N - since the trailer dropped, the little glimpses we got of Aeg continue to haunt me and this is the product... I need this man to down me so bad, it's not funny anymore.

The chiming bells had rung a bellowing rhythm throughout the city. You felt as though the ancient, stone walls themselves shuddered from the distant echoes of the bells, shaking its very foundation, that Aegon, the Second of His Name, now roamed as the newly anointed King of the Seven Kingdoms.

His liege Kingsguard had rounded the spare subjects, yourself included, like shepherds tending to their frolicking herd. A part of you rooted inside, taunted at you for ever thinking it logical to leave Winterfell. Had Cregan received news of the scandalous outpour in the city, you were certain the wolves would be on the hunt... It was only a matter of when their arrival you had anticipated anxiously.

Hesitantly making your gradual way into the throne with the harrowing sound of scuttling feet, as you felt yourself confined in the centre of the bewildered crowd: every lord and lady by your side fearful of the King before them...

You had seen Aegon in passing before, during his days as a Targaryen Prince. You never found his looming presence to be threatening, nor intimidated by his appeal, often absent from royal events, or found drowning himself in his cups. Yet the young ladies of the court spoke often of his infidelity, that was all you could gather of the eldest Prince. Yet, in this precise moment, a different man sat atop the throne with might, and with his identical face.

Your gut viscously churned as your sole attention remained fixated on the young King. His hair had grown an inch longer, now resting atop his broad shoulders, his ruggedly handsome face looked fuller, as to match the sturdiness of his body. Mahaps, he grew to fit the heavy burden of the crown. He sat perfectly on the Iron Throne, as if the seat was made precisely in dedication to him. Those strange, alluring lilac eyes, remnants of the ancient ancestors of Old Valyria, remained visible as his stern eyes gazed upon his entering subjects. Rather than looking empty and sullen, as you had often remembered, there was a darker, more jeopardising tinge to their hidden intent.

"You stand before King Aegon, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. You have all been led to swear and declare your loyalties to the true King and heir of the Seven Kingdoms. Honour your King, and be rewarded generously... Or suffer the consequences of your treachery."

The uproar from the familiar faced, Dornish knight, Ser Criston Cole, sent an immediate wave of chills across your body. The familiar and other strange faces surrounding you began to anxiously peer, stretching from one another, as you all questioned the ordeal.

One by one, Ser Criston has called upon the noble houses, and those that stood present to come forth, some needing to be harshly pulled apart from the crowd, to make known. And one by one, some would see to it that the reward be mercy itself, whilst others, had been dragged away, in support of their loyalties and ties to Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The horrific sight before you, the terrifying screeches and screams of husbands and wives being separated, engraved into your saddened memory. You had completely grown oblivious to Aegon's silent presence, as his henchmen carried out his work.

It was only when the dark, booming echo of his voice, uttering the word "stop" had halted the commotion, an uneasy stillness filled the room.

"What of the North?"

The unseeing mention of home, had captured your attention fervently. As you turned towards the voice that spoke of your livelihood, you were met with the unfaltering gaze belonging to the King himself, his attention had already been fixated onto you, before the eyes of the room followed.

"Th-The North, your Grace?"

"Speak up to your King, woman!" Ser Criston Cole's voice boomed, an aggressive passion seeping through his words.

"I-I have no control over the judgement of the North your Grace, nor their fealty to the throne... I am merely a woman of the North."

"You are not Cregan Stark's younger sister? The beloved she-wolf of the North, that as I have heard, every man has pined and fawned for? Every Northern man, boy and bastard born has sworn to protect with their lives... It is you that, am I to believe, has no indifference with the North?"

Your anxious breath hitched in your throat, struggling to compel the words from your stuttering lips, that would ultimately determine your fate. You felt the dire wish for Cregan and his pack of wolves to burst through the grand, oak doors, ready at arms to savour your life. Those sworn men that Aegon had mentioned, were absent and you felt petrified.

"Y-Your Grace, I-"

"Everyone, out! Except for the she-wolf of the North."

"Aegon-" The sternly still tone of his grandsire, the Hand, Otto Hightower, proclaimed from the foot of the steps. Witnessing the exchange of their grim stares, almost convinced they had exchanged heated words telepathically, did his Grandsire finally retreat defeatedly, disappearing into a door in some narrow corridor. His Kingsguard were the last to leave, Ser Criston in particular, as he took the responsibility to body search you for weapons at arms. Your elder brother had from time to time introduced you to such weapons, yet you felt no obligation to soak in the training, and with your racing mind and empty hands, you had no hope to fight your way out of this.

The sudden shudder of the doors creaking close, sent your body into a complete state of suspense, frosting up like frozen petals during the winter.

"So it is true, I see. That your beauty was captivating enough to lure men to seal their fate. A fate to protect your own greedy, little life... Where are these men now to save you from me?"

Your eyes darted from the stony, grey steps of the throne, back to the hefty King that sat atop the violent throne. You felt his lilac orbs swallowing you whole, as your stomach churned uneasily against his words, desperately holding your hands together ever so tightly to avoid the terrible habit of fidgeting.

"The whispers that reach your ear from the North, your Grace, can be skewered. As I said before, I hold no power over the council of men... Even in the North."

"Do not toy with me, woman... I am the King, the rightful heir by law, and by the Gods. I want to hear where you stand in judgement of my reign."

"My opinion is not credible, your Grace. I-I hold no value here-"

"Answer me- Or I will fuck the answer out of you."

A flustering heat waved over you, as the sudden outburst and intent of Aegon's carnal words sparked an interest in you, snatching your complete attention once more.

"I-I cannot say I extend the pledges taken by my ancestors to heart. I do not know you, my Grace, nor do I know of your kin... I-I take a more... liberal approach."

"Get up here-"

Instead and wrongfully so, you felt your feet shifting backwards, taking slow paces back, adding more distance between yourself and the man who calls himself King. The chill in his tone felt colder than the blizzards of the North.

"Now."

Your thoughts had swayed to their senses, as your body became intact with your mind once more. Rather than ignorantly disobeying, you adhered to Aegon's command, taking hesitant step by step paces up the stony steps until you were a step beneath his Grace. Admiring him this up close, in finer detail, you noticed the faded scars across his supple face: unlike his younger brother, Aegon was much fuller, less lean. He had a bulkier build, and a more threatening, uneasy appeal.

"Wrong answer.... It seems the she-wolf has met her match with the dragon."

Aegon subtly reached over, pulling you strongly in by the arm, closing the last remaining distance between, as you felt his touch beneath your sensitive skin. He remained seated, almost as if he had been forged to the Iron Throne, as his hungry eyes lurked over every inch and detail of your body, before meeting your gaze peering wearisomely down above.

"Is the she-wolf scared? Does the dragon frighten her so? She need not be... Dragons protect the ones they take a liking to-"

Immediately, without a second to spare, Aegon began to hike up her lush silk gown, guiding her body to turn around, as she looked onwards from his royal perspective.

"Y-Your Grace, y-you are married-"

"Stay quiet, or I'll have that smart mouth of yours stuffed shut with my cock, balls deep in your mouth. You speak when I fucking tell you to-"

Once more, your mind instinctively shut, body mindlessly obedient to his demands.

Guiding your bare ass and cunt to seat itself down atop of him, you felt the hard, tense bulge brewing beneath his pants, between your cheeks. With each adjusting motion, your body would grind against his sturdy lap, your flesh colliding with his, only to cause a natural urge to crave for more.

"Look at what the she-wolf has done to her King, look at the power your sheer presence has over me. You think you have no value in court, yet this is your doing..." Aegon's warm breath, cooing his words directly into your ear. His strong, fleshy arms wrapped around your shaking body, coiled firmly around your waist and arms, as if to avoid you from escaping his strong grasp.

"What if I have my way with you, and send you back to the North carrying my bastard seed... What will the North think of their precious she-wolf then, hmm? What will your brother think of you?"

In unison with your King's haste movements, Aegon stood himself as he swiftly undid his trousers, his rigid, thick cock plunging out with excitement. Guiding his cock with one hand between your folds, his fingers ever so lightly grazing between as he teased your opening, making certain he aligned himself perfectly to your sweet spot.

"Already soaking for me, sweet one? It seems I have my answer after all."

Without so much as a second to spare, Aegon thrusts himself deep inside, burying his stiff, throbbing mass as your walls clench over his cock, desperate to ease the stretching tension. One muscular arm remained snaked around your waist, his calloused hand managing to reach to your bosom, where he cheekily squeezed and firmly kneaded your tit by the handful. Keeping you positioned steady as you sloppily bounced on his wide lap. His other hand however, oblivious to your own incoherent mind, to the front of your cunt, his pudgy digits teasing at your clit, pursuing to edge you more, enhancing the pressure that pulsated from inside. Your swollen bud, he intently enjoyed flicking at, earning a grizzly snicker each time you moaned and squirmed in retaliation.

"A fucking mess for me already. If only your dear, stupid brother could see you. The whimpering whore that you are, moaning my name like that. Accepting me as your King."

"A-Aegon-"

"Seven Hells, you feel so fucking tight for me, precious girl. A cunt made just for her King, already so obedient, so frightened of her King, she'll let me fuck her senseless, huh?"

"Hmm, A-Aeg. I-I shouldn't-"

"B-But you want this, baby. I can smell your ooze dripping. So fucking wet. A she-wolf as my pet. Where is the North to save you now? You don't want to be saved, though, look at you!"

"Mhmm- Your G-Grace-"

His thick fingers delved deeper, pumping hastily as his thrusts grew more forceful. Your breathless moans, incoherent besides a few words and his name, you could only build the sheer strength to muster. Your skin felt as hot as the summer wind of the city, Aegon's lips found themselves latched to your mottled hair and sweat-beaded skin. Sucking your very scent in, your taste lingering in his mouth, as he lowly growls.

"No-No, say it- Introduce me as you would your King."

"Hmm- A-Aegon, the S-Second of his N-Name-"

"That's it, sweet girl. Say it all."

"K-King of the A-Andals, the R-Rhoynar a-and the F-First Men. L-Lord of the S-Seven Kingdoms- Ugh A-Aeg-"

"Keep going, baby-" His tone thick and heavy, breathless, his own stocky chest heaving intensely in sync with your own breaths.

"A-And P-Protector of th-the R-Realm."

"That's it, b-baby. Such a good-good job, princess."

With his tender, soft-spoken words, Aegon's warm seed spills into you feverishly, a crescendo of mindless moans escapes your soft, moist lips, as Aegon's wetly coated hand leaves your raw, aching cunt, guiding your head to turn towards him. Meeting your lips with his own, as he seals the ecstasy with a passionate kiss.

"Let me taste you-" His tongue hungrily laps up the remnants of your cum off his thick digits, his alluring eyes shut as he blissfully devours your taste.

"Fucking delicious, they don't make them like the North do... Stay on my cock, princess. Be the good, little whore you are for me. My she-wolf will obey me and stay. I want to make sure you swell with my dragon seed before I send you back to the North."

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @aegonslawyer

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11

credit for dividers - @/itbmojojoejo

[novaursa]

- Note: So, I'll give this a go here. Those who followed my work on AO3 will notice some changes, but the gist is the same. Also, please be kind. If you don't like it, just scroll over it. I post stuff for people to enjoy them and escape the burdens of their lives with me for a while. There is no grand conspiracy here. Just read and relax. Also, this is an AU fanfic and my own personal toxic blend of the show and the book(s).

- Title: zōbrie ānogar

- Rating: Explicit (18+)

- Romance: (Aegon II/OFC)

- Warning: All flags are up for this work. Aegon is also a warning on his own.

- Summary: It was written by Archmaester Gyldayn that on the day Princess Vaella Targaryen was born she was supposed to die. Until she fed upon her twin, Baelon. And when she turned one and five, she sought her end in the lair of Cannibal, in Dragonmont. But instead of feasting upon her, the dragon wept with her. And Archmaester had written a lengthy thesis on how wild dragon recognized a kindred soul in the Princess, as they both dined on their kin.

- Word count: 9 000+

- Parts: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Final

Part 1

The air was thick with anticipation and the clang of swords as the tournament raged on in the fields outside King's Landing. Knights clashed in the lists, banners fluttered, and the crowd roared, their cheers echoing through the castle walls. Yet inside the royal chambers, the atmosphere was tense and fraught with fear.

Queen Aemma Arryn was in labor, her cries of pain mingling with the distant sounds of celebration. King Viserys I Targaryen paced the length of the chamber, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, worry etched deeply into his face. This was the moment he had long awaited, the birth of his male heir. But the labor was not progressing as it should.

Maester Mellos hovered nearby, his brow furrowed as he consulted with the midwives. "The babe is in breech, Your Grace," he said, his voice grave. "We cannot turn it. If we do not act soon, we will lose them both."

Viserys halted, his heart pounding. "What can be done?" he demanded, though he feared the answer.

"We can attempt to save the child," Mellos replied, his tone heavy with the weight of the decision. "But it will mean sacrificing the queen."

The king's breath caught in his throat. He looked at Aemma, her face pale and slick with sweat, her eyes filled with agony and desperation. She had given him so much, had borne the burden of his ambitions and dreams. And now, he was faced with a choice that would haunt him forever.

"Aemma," he whispered, kneeling beside her and taking her hand. "My love, they say... they say they can save the babe."

Aemma's eyes met his, wide with fear and pain. "Do what you must," she gasped. "Save our child, Viserys. Promise me."

Viserys felt his heart shatter, but he nodded, pressing a kiss to her trembling hand. "I promise."

The maester and midwives moved quickly, their faces set with grim determination. Viserys stood back, his hands shaking, as they prepared for the terrible task. He could hear the clamor of the tournament outside, a cruel reminder of the celebration that had turned into a nightmare.

The room was filled with the sounds of Aemma's cries and the maester's steady instructions. Viserys felt his world narrowing to this moment, every second stretching into an eternity. And then, a piercing wail broke through the tension.

"It's a boy," one of the midwives exclaimed, holding up the tiny, wriggling form. The babe's cry was strong, a sign of life and promise.

Viserys felt a brief surge of relief, but it was short-lived. "Wait," the maester said, his eyes widening in surprise. "There is another."

The midwives worked quickly, and soon another child was brought into the world, a girl this time, smaller and silent. The room fell into a hushed silence as they examined her, worry etched on their faces.

"She is not crying," one of the midwives whispered, her voice trembling.

Viserys stepped forward, his heart aching. "Vaella," he said softly, naming her after an ancient Targaryen ancestor. "My daughter, Vaella."

The maester nodded, though his expression remained grave. "She lives, but she is weak."

The twins were placed side by side, Baelon strong and crying, while Vaella lay silent and still. Viserys looked down at them, his heart torn between joy and sorrow. He reached out to touch Vaella's tiny hand, and in that moment, her eyes fluttered open, indigo and bright, meeting his with a quiet intensity.

"She will be strong," he murmured, a fierce determination filling him. "She will live."

The room was filled with the mingled sounds of the babes and the distant roar of the tournament, a poignant reminder of the life and death that intertwined in the halls of power. Viserys knew that this day would be remembered, not just for the birth of his heirs, but for the choices and sacrifices that had marked its passing.

...

A few hours later, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen arrived at the nursery, her heart heavy with grief for her mother. She had loved Aemma deeply and the pain of her loss cut through her like a blade. The celebrations outside had turned into whispers of tragedy, and the joy of new life was mingled with the sorrow of death.

Rhaenyra’s steps were slow and measured as she walked through the halls, her mind reeling from the news. She understood, intellectually, why her father had made the choice he did, but it did little to soothe the anger and resentment boiling within her. She had wanted a brother, yes, but not at the cost of her mother’s life. And now, not only had she lost her mother, but her father had chosen a name for her sister without consulting her. She had wanted her sister to be named Visenya, after their legendary ancestor.

As she entered the nursery, she found the room softly lit and quiet, save for the occasional murmur of the maids tending to the infants. Rhaenyra’s gaze fell first upon her brother, Baelon, lying peacefully in his cradle, a small dragon egg nestled beside him, warm and glowing with promise.

"He's so small," she whispered to herself, reaching out to touch Baelon's tiny hand. His fingers curled around hers instinctively, and she felt a pang of tenderness mixed with her sorrow.

Then, she turned her attention to the cradle beside her brother's. Her newborn sister, Vaella, lay there, wide awake and silent. Vaella was pale, almost translucent, with an ethereal quality that unsettled Rhaenyra. Unlike Baelon, there was no dragon egg to keep her warm, yet the babe seemed content, her indigo eyes staring up at Rhaenyra with a calm intensity.

Rhaenyra knelt beside the cradle, her heart aching. "Hello, Vaella," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I'm your sister, Rhaenyra."

"Hello, little sister," Rhaenyra said softly, reaching out to gently stroke Vaella’s cheek. The baby did not react, her gaze unblinking. "Father named you Vaella, but I would have called you Visenya. A name worthy of a queen."

Vaella’s tiny hand moved slightly, as if reaching out, and Rhaenyra took it gently in her own. She marveled at how small and delicate Vaella was, a stark contrast to the strong and robust Baelon.

"She doesn't cry," one of the maids said quietly, approaching Rhaenyra. "She hasn't made a sound since she was born."

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes never leaving Vaella's face. "She will be strong," she said, echoing her father's earlier words. "She has to be."

The maid hesitated before speaking again. "Your Grace, we were instructed to place a dragon egg in Vaella's cradle as well, but..."

"But what?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone sharp.

"We couldn't find one that seemed... right," the maid replied, her voice faltering. "The eggs are all warm, but none of them felt suitable for her."

Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened. "Then find one," she ordered. "She deserves the same chance as Baelon."

The maid bowed her head and quickly left the room. Rhaenyra turned back to Vaella, her expression softening. "I wanted you to be named Visenya. A name worthy of a queen," she whispered, brushing a finger gently across Vaella's cheek. "But Vaella is a strong name too. You will make it strong."

Vaella’s eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking and serene. Rhaenyra felt a strange sense of calm wash over her, as if the silent babe was imparting some of her tranquility.

She leaned closer, her voice a soft murmur. "I will protect you, Vaella. I will protect both of you. Mother's gone, but you have me. And I will not let anything happen to you."

Rhaenyra stayed there, watching over her siblings, her heart heavy with the weight of her promises and the sorrow of her loss. She knew that the days ahead would be fraught with challenges and dangers, but in that quiet moment, surrounded by the fragile beginnings of new life, she found a glimmer of hope and determination.

The nursery was a haven of calm amidst the storm, and as the first light of dawn began to filter through the windows, Rhaenyra vowed that she would honor her mother's memory by standing strong for her family, no matter the cost.

...

The next day dawned with a hushed stillness that seemed to permeate the entire Red Keep. The jubilation of the previous day had been tempered by the tragedy of Queen Aemma's death, but the court still held a flicker of hope in the promise of the newborn twins. Servants moved quietly through the halls, attending to their duties with a solemn air.

In the nursery, the maids and servants who had tended to the twins throughout the night were greeted by a scene of unexpected and harrowing sorrow. The once lively Baelon, who had been sleeping peacefully beside his dragon egg, was now eerily still in his cradle. His tiny chest no longer rose and fell with breath, his eyes closed in eternal slumber.

The discovery sent a shockwave through the nursery. Gasps of horror and grief filled the room as the realization settled in. The King's heir, his long-awaited son, was dead. The dragon egg that had been placed beside him now seemed like a cruel mockery of the life that had been so abruptly extinguished.

"Fetch the Maester," one of the servants choked out, her hands trembling as she tried to comprehend the tragedy before her. "Quickly!"

Maester Mellos arrived swiftly, his face a mask of concern as he took in the scene. He approached Baelon's cradle with a heavy heart, gently placing his fingers against the babe's tiny neck, hoping against hope for a sign of life. There was none. He bowed his head, his heart sinking with the weight of the loss.

As Mellos turned to the cradle beside Baelon's, a sudden and piercing wail filled the air. It was a sound so unexpected and startling that it caused everyone in the room to freeze. Vaella, the silent and still babe, had come alive with a cry that seemed to resonate with a power far beyond her fragile form.

"By the Seven," Mellos muttered, his eyes wide with astonishment. He moved to Vaella's side, noting the newfound vitality in her eyes, the strength in her cries. She was more alive now than she had been since her birth.

The servants exchanged uneasy glances, their grief for Baelon now mingled with a sense of unease. Mellos looked down at the wailing Vaella, his mind racing. It was an old superstition, a whisper from the past: when one twin died, the other sometimes took their soul, their strength. It was said to be a bad omen, a dark portent.

Mellos kept his thoughts to himself, though the notion unsettled him deeply. "It is a tragedy," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "The Princess Vaella has found her voice, it seems, but the loss of Prince Baelon is a heavy blow to us all."

One of the servants, a young woman with tear-streaked cheeks, looked at Mellos with a mixture of fear and confusion. "What does it mean, Maester?" she asked. "Why now?"

Mellos sighed, shaking his head. "I do not know," he admitted. "But we must inform the King. This loss... it will cripple him."

The servants nodded solemnly, their hearts heavy with the task ahead. As they prepared to deliver the devastating news to King Viserys, Mellos turned back to Vaella. The babe had quieted, her cries giving way to a strange, serene silence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something profound had shifted in the balance of life and death within this room.

"I will note this in my journal," Mellos murmured to himself, making a mental note to document the strange events surrounding the twins. He would keep his suspicions to himself for now, but the memory of Vaella's piercing wail would haunt him for years to come.

As the maids and servants moved to carry out their somber duties, the weight of the tragedy settled over the Red Keep like a shroud. The joyous celebrations of new life had been overshadowed by death, and the realm would feel the ripples of this loss for years to come. King Viserys, now a father and a widower, would have to navigate the treacherous waters of grief and responsibility, his heart forever marked by the sorrow of this day.

...

The day of the funeral dawned cold and overcast, the sky heavy with clouds that mirrored the somber mood of the assembled mourners. All gathered before the grand pyre that had been erected outside the Red Keep, a stark testament to the loss of both Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. The scent of incense and the crackling of torches filled the air, but a profound silence hung over the gathering, broken only by the distant sound of waves against the shore.

King Viserys stood closest to the pyre, his shoulders slumped and his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights of weeping. His grief was a palpable thing, weighing down the very air around him. He seemed almost a ghost of himself, hollowed out by the dual tragedies that had befallen him.

A little further down, Rhaenyra stood with her newborn sister Vaella cradled in her arms. She held the babe tightly, as if drawing strength from her tiny, warm presence. Vaella was silent, her indigo eyes wide and watchful, taking in the scene with an uncanny stillness.

Behind Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon Targaryen watched with a mixture of sorrow and concern. He stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. "It's time," he said softly. "Your father needs you now."

Rhaenyra turned her tear-streaked face towards her uncle, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and resignation. "I will never be a son," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And neither will Vaella."

Daemon's expression softened, and he squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "You are stronger than any son, Rhaenyra. And your father needs that strength now more than ever."

Taking a deep breath, Rhaenyra nodded. She stepped forward, feeling the weight of her duty pressing down upon her young shoulders. She could feel the eyes of the gathered nobles and courtiers upon her, their silent expectation adding to her burden. She glanced at her father, who seemed lost in his own world of sorrow, barely aware of his surroundings.

With tears streaming down her face, Rhaenyra looked up at Syrax, her beloved dragon, who waited patiently beside the pyre. The golden beast’s eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence, and she seemed to understand the gravity of the moment.

"Dracarys," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice breaking.

In an instant, Syrax unleashed a torrent of dragonfire. The flames roared to life, consuming the pyre in a brilliant blaze that lit up the overcast sky. The heat was intense, and the air filled with the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh. The mourners stepped back, shielding their faces from the searing heat, but Rhaenyra stood her ground, her eyes fixed on the flames.

The crackling of the fire was accompanied by the soft sobs and murmurs of those gathered. The loss of their queen and the young prince was a blow to the realm, and the grief of the people was a reflection of the profound sorrow felt by their king.

Rhaenyra looked down at Vaella, her tiny face illuminated by the firelight. "You are all I have left of her," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her sister’s forehead. "I will protect you, always."

Vaella gazed up at her, silent and solemn, as if she understood the weight of her sister's words. Rhaenyra felt a fierce protectiveness surge within her. She might never be the son her father had wished for, but she would be strong for him, for her family, and for her realm.

As the pyre burned, Rhaenyra stood with her sister in her arms, a silent vow forming in her heart. She would honor her mother's memory, and she would ensure that Vaella grew up knowing the love and strength that had defined their mother. The flames roared higher, a testament to the fire that burned within the Targaryen bloodline, a fire that Rhaenyra vowed would never be extinguished.

...

Six months had passed since the tragic deaths of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, and King Viserys had made a decision that shocked the realm. He chose to marry Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his Hand, Otto Hightower. This alliance was seen by many as a strategic move to stabilize the kingdom, but it also stirred whispers and discontent among the nobles. In a further surprising move, Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, a decision that defied tradition and set tongues wagging throughout Westeros.

Another year passed, and Queen Alicent gave birth to a son, Aegon. The realm celebrated the birth of a male heir, but the decision to place him in the nursery with Vaella, who continued to grow normally and thrive, added an interesting dynamic to the royal family. Despite Rhaenyra's attempts to give her sister a dragon egg to hatch, Vaella showed no interest in any of them. After several unsuccessful tries, Rhaenyra stopped bringing the eggs, accepting that Vaella was different in her own way.

The connection between Aegon and Vaella was immediate and profound. Vaella's quiet presence seemed to calm the newborn prince, who basked in the comfort of his half-sister's company. This bond often agitated Rhaenyra, who felt a mixture of protectiveness and jealousy. She would frequently 'steal' Vaella away from the nursery, taking her for walks around the Red Keep or in the gardens, much to the dismay and complaints of the servants. Aegon would become fussy and cry until Vaella was returned to him, a fact that both frustrated and amused Rhaenyra.

One sunny afternoon, Rhaenyra and Vaella were walking through the lush gardens of the Red Keep. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air, and the gentle rustling of leaves provided a serene backdrop. Vaella, now a curious toddler with pale blonde hair and indigo eyes, held tightly to Rhaenyra's hand, her steps wobbly but determined.

"Do you like the flowers, Vaella?" Rhaenyra asked, kneeling down to pick a bright red rose and handing it to her sister.

Vaella nodded, her eyes wide with wonder as she examined the flower. "Pretty," she murmured, her voice soft and clear.

Rhaenyra smiled, but her expression quickly turned somber. "You know, sometimes I wish things were different," she said, more to herself than to Vaella. "I wish Mother were here to see you grow. She would have loved you so much."

Vaella looked up at her sister, her indigo eyes filled with an understanding far beyond her years. "Mama," she said simply, reaching up to touch Rhaenyra's face.

Rhaenyra's heart ached with the weight of her sister's innocence and the loss they both shared. "Yes, Mama," she whispered, hugging Vaella tightly. "But you have me, and I will always be here for you."

As they continued their walk, they passed a group of servants who were nervously whispering among themselves. One of them, a young maid, approached Rhaenyra hesitantly. "Your Grace, Prince Aegon is very fussy. He won't stop crying without Princess Vaella."

Rhaenyra sighed, feeling the familiar pang of frustration. "He can wait a little longer," she replied curtly. "Vaella needs fresh air and sunshine."

The maid bowed her head, retreating with a worried glance. Rhaenyra led Vaella to a shaded bench under a sprawling oak tree, lifting her sister onto her lap. "You know, Vaella, sometimes I feel like I can't do anything right," she confessed, brushing a strand of hair from Vaella's face. "But when I'm with you, it feels like everything is okay."

Vaella looked up at her with a solemn expression. "Love Nyra," she said, wrapping her small arms around her sister's neck.

Rhaenyra felt tears prick her eyes, but she blinked them away, smiling through her sadness. "And I love you, my sweet Vaella," she whispered. "Always."

As they sat together in the peaceful garden, the bond between the sisters grew stronger, a beacon of light amidst the complexities of court life and the looming shadows of their past. The challenges ahead were many, but in each other's company, they found solace and strength to face whatever the future held.

...

Two years had passed, and Vaella continued to grow normally, blossoming into a lively child. She spent her days in the company of her half-brother Aegon, who refused to be parted from her for long. This inseparable bond often infuriated Rhaenyra, who cherished her moments alone with Vaella but had to contend with Aegon's tantrums whenever his sister was taken away.

Despite Rhaenyra's best efforts, Aegon and Vaella were rarely separated. The young prince's attachment to his half-sister was so strong that the servants, exasperated by Aegon's constant cries, eventually allowed the two children to sleep in the same crib. It was the only way to ensure Aegon's peaceful slumber.

In the royal chambers, Alicent Hightower, now visibly pregnant with her second child, often expressed her concerns to King Viserys about this arrangement. One evening, as she lay in bed with Viserys beside her, she broached the subject once more.

"This is not healthy, Viserys," Alicent said, her voice tinged with frustration. "Aegon is far too dependent on Vaella. They should not be sleeping in the same crib. It's not proper."

Viserys, weary from the day's duties, sighed and rubbed his temples. "They're just children, Alicent. They'll grow out of it. Let them be."

Alicent's eyes flashed with irritation. "It's not just about them growing out of it. It sets a bad precedent. Aegon should be learning to be independent, not clinging to his sister all the time."

Viserys shrugged, clearly not wanting to engage in another argument. "They're happy, and they're safe. That's all that matters."

Alicent opened her mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. Instead, she turned away, fuming silently. Her pregnancy had made her more sensitive to the disturbances in the household, and Aegon's dependency on Vaella was just one of many concerns weighing on her mind.

Meanwhile, in the nursery, Rhaenyra watched as Aegon and Vaella played together. Aegon's laughter echoed through the room as Vaella chased him, her own giggles filling the air. Rhaenyra felt a mix of love and exasperation as she approached them.

"Vaella, come with me," Rhaenyra said, holding out her hand. "Let's go for a walk."

Aegon's face immediately crumpled, and he clung to Vaella. "No! Vaella stays here!"

Rhaenyra's patience was wearing thin. "Aegon, you can't always have her with you. She needs to spend time with me too."

Aegon shook his head vehemently, his eyes filling with tears. "No! Vaella stays!"

Rhaenyra sighed, knowing that any attempt to separate them would end in another tantrum. She knelt down and gently pried Aegon's hands from Vaella. "I'll bring her back soon, I promise."

As she led Vaella out of the nursery, the sound of Aegon's wails echoed down the hallway. The servants exchanged resigned looks, knowing it was only a matter of time before Vaella would be brought back to soothe the young prince.

In the gardens, Rhaenyra and Vaella walked hand in hand. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the path. Rhaenyra looked down at her sister, her heart aching with a mix of love and frustration.

"Why do you let him cling to you so much, Vaella?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone softer now that they were alone. "Don't you want to have time just for us?"

Vaella looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Aegon needs me," she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "He cries when I'm not there."

Rhaenyra's heart softened at her sister's words. She knelt down to Vaella's level, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I know he does, but I need you too, Vaella. You're my sister, and I love you."

Vaella smiled and wrapped her arms around Rhaenyra's neck. "I love you too, Nyra. Always."

As they embraced, Rhaenyra felt a renewed sense of determination. She would find a way to balance her love for Vaella with the demands of their unusual family dynamic. No matter the challenges, she would protect and cherish her sister, just as she had promised on that fateful day by the pyre.

Back in the royal chambers, Alicent lay awake, her thoughts troubled. She placed a hand on her growing belly and sighed. The future seemed more uncertain than ever, but she vowed to do whatever it took to ensure the safety and well-being of her children. As she drifted off to sleep, her mind remained filled with the complexities of their intertwined destinies, each step a delicate dance in the ever-shifting sands of power and family.

...

Vaella was six years old, and her fascination with dragons had only grown with time. Despite her lack of interest in dragon eggs, her eyes would light up whenever she saw Syrax, Rhaenyra’s majestic golden dragon. One crisp morning, Rhaenyra decided it was time for her sister to experience the thrill of flying.

Rhaenyra led Vaella to the Dragonpit, where Syrax awaited. The dragon’s eyes gleamed with intelligence as Rhaenyra approached, her scales shimmering in the early morning light. Vaella’s excitement was palpable, her small hand gripping Rhaenyra’s tightly.

“Are you ready, Vaella?” Rhaenyra asked, a smile playing on her lips.

Vaella nodded eagerly. “Yes, Rhaenyra. I want to fly!”

As Rhaenyra helped Vaella climb onto Syrax’s back, the young girl’s laughter filled the air, a sound of pure joy and exhilaration. With a final check to ensure Vaella was secure, Rhaenyra mounted behind her and gave Syrax the signal to take flight.

The dragon’s powerful wings beat against the air, lifting them off the ground. Vaella’s eyes widened in wonder as the Red Keep grew smaller below them, the world unfolding in a breathtaking panorama. The wind whipped through their hair, and Vaella’s laughter echoed in the skies.

Meanwhile, back in the nursery, Aegon was throwing a fit. He had watched in dismay as Rhaenyra took Vaella away, his cries growing louder with each passing moment. Alicent, now heavily pregnant with her third child, tried to soothe him, but Aegon was inconsolable.

“Where is Vaella?” Aegon wailed, tears streaming down his face. “I want Vaella!”

Alicent knelt beside her son, her patience wearing thin. “Aegon, you need to learn to be apart from Vaella. She has other things to do, and you need to be strong without her.”

Aegon shook his head vehemently, his face red with anger and frustration. “No! You can’t take Vaella away from me! Rhaenyra can’t take her away either!”

In his tantrum, Aegon grabbed one of his toys—a wooden dragon—and threw it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. His screams grew louder, and Alicent’s attempts to calm him seemed only to fuel his rage.

“Aegon, please,” Alicent said, her voice strained. “This behavior is unacceptable. You must learn to control yourself.”

But Aegon was beyond reason, his cries echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Alicent stood, her hands clenched at her sides, her irritation mounting. She had tried to reason with Viserys about their son’s dependence on Vaella, but he had merely shrugged it off, much to her annoyance.

As Aegon continued to scream for Rhaenyra to bring Vaella back, Alicent felt a surge of frustration. She stormed out of the nursery, determined to find Viserys and make him understand the gravity of the situation.

She found him in the council chamber, discussing matters of state with her father, Otto Hightower, and other advisors. Ignoring the decorum, Alicent marched up to him, her eyes blazing with anger.

“Viserys, we need to talk,” she said, her voice low but fierce.

Viserys looked up, surprised by her sudden appearance. “Alicent, what is it?”

“It’s Aegon,” she said, struggling to keep her composure. “He’s in the nursery throwing a tantrum because Vaella is not there. He’s become too dependent on her, and it’s not healthy. You need to take this seriously.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alicent, they’re just children. Siblings often form close bonds.”

“This is more than that, and you know it,” Alicent snapped. “He can’t be apart from her for even a moment without falling apart. This dependency will only grow if we don’t address it now.”

Viserys looked at her, seeing the worry and frustration etched on her face. He nodded slowly. “Alright, I’ll speak with Aegon. But give them time, Alicent. They’re still so young.”

Alicent sighed, feeling a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. “Thank you, Viserys. I just want what’s best for them.”

Meanwhile, high above the Red Keep, Rhaenyra and Vaella soared through the skies on Syrax. The city of King’s Landing spread out below them like a tapestry, and Vaella’s eyes sparkled with wonder.

“This is amazing, Rhaenyra!” Vaella shouted over the wind, her laughter infectious.

Rhaenyra smiled, her heart swelling with pride and love for her sister. “I knew you’d love it, Vaella. There’s nothing quite like flying.”

As they flew, Rhaenyra felt a sense of peace. Despite the challenges and frustrations that awaited them on the ground, up here, they were free. She vowed to cherish these moments with Vaella, to protect and nurture her sister as best she could. For now, they had the sky, and that was enough.

...

As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the Red Keep, Rhaenyra and Vaella returned from their exhilarating flight on Syrax. The dragon landed gracefully in the courtyard, and Rhaenyra helped Vaella down, her heart still racing from the thrill of their adventure. The moment their feet touched the ground, Aegon came running toward them, his face streaked with tears and his cries echoing off the stone walls.

"Vaella!" Aegon wailed, rushing to her and wrapping his small arms tightly around her. "You’re back!"

Vaella hugged him back, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. "I’m here, Aegon. I’m here."

Rhaenyra watched, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface. "Aegon, you can’t just cling to Vaella like that all the time," she said, her tone sharp. "She needs her own space too."

Aegon looked up at Rhaenyra, his eyes filled with defiance and tears. "You can’t take her away from me! She’s mine!"

Rhaenyra’s patience was wearing thin. She knew it was foolish to argue with such a young child, but the possessiveness in Aegon’s voice grated on her. Vaella was the last connection she had to their mother, and the thought of sharing her sister in this way was intolerable.

"Vaella is not yours, Aegon," Rhaenyra snapped, her voice cold. "She is her own person, and you don’t own her."

Aegon’s face crumpled, and he let out another wail, his small body shaking with the force of his tantrum. "No! No! Vaella is mine! You can’t have her!"

The servants in the courtyard exchanged weary glances, clearly exasperated by the scene unfolding before them. Vaella stood in the middle, unsure of what to do, her eyes darting between her sister and her brother.

"Aegon," Vaella said softly, trying to soothe him. "It’s okay. I’m here now."

Alicent, drawn by the noise, arrived in the courtyard, her face set in a mixture of concern and frustration. "What is going on here?" she demanded, her gaze shifting from Rhaenyra to Aegon, who was still clinging to Vaella.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with anger as she looked at Alicent. "Your son doesn’t understand that Vaella isn’t his to command," she said sharply. "He needs to learn some boundaries."

Alicent’s expression hardened. "Rhaenyra, he’s just a child. He doesn’t understand these things yet."

Rhaenyra’s temper flared, and she took a step forward. "And he never will if you keep coddling him like this! Vaella is not his to cling to every time he wants. She’s my sister too, and I won’t have her treated like a toy!"

Alicent’s face went pale, and she took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. "This isn’t helping anyone, Rhaenyra. We need to find a way to help Aegon understand without making things worse."

Rhaenyra’s eyes filled with tears of frustration. "Vaella is all I have left of my mother. I won’t let him take her from me."

With that, Rhaenyra turned on her heel and stormed away, leaving the courtyard in tense silence. Alicent watched her go, a sigh escaping her lips. She turned her attention back to Aegon, who was still clinging to Vaella, his sobs quieter but no less heartbreaking.

"Come here, Aegon," Alicent said softly, kneeling down to his level. "It’s okay. Vaella isn’t going anywhere."

Aegon looked up at her, his face streaked with tears. "But she left me. Rhaenyra took her."

Alicent gently pried his hands from Vaella and pulled him into a hug. "I know, darling. But sometimes Vaella needs to do things with Rhaenyra too. You’ll see her again soon, I promise."

Aegon nodded, sniffling, but his grip on Vaella’s hand remained tight. Vaella, sensing his distress, squeezed his hand back, her expression one of quiet understanding.

Alicent sighed, looking at the two children. "Let’s get you both inside. It’s getting late."

As she led them back into the Red Keep, she couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of worry. The tensions between Rhaenyra and Aegon were growing, and she knew that unless something changed, these small conflicts could become much larger as they all grew older. For now, she focused on comforting her son and ensuring that Vaella felt secure, hoping that they would find a way to navigate these troubled waters together.

...

Fifteen-year-old Vaella Targaryen sat quietly beside her father, King Viserys I, in his chambers. The room was filled with the intricate model of Old Valyria that Viserys had been painstakingly working on for years. The delicate spires and towers of the ancient city gleamed under the soft light of the candles, casting intricate shadows on the walls. Vaella's small hands delicately placed a tiny bridge between two towers, her face scrunched up in concentration.

Viserys, now looking much older than his years, his health visibly deteriorating, watched his daughter with a fond smile. Despite his efforts to hide it, Vaella knew he was unwell. The signs were clear in the way he moved, slower and more deliberate, and the occasional wince of pain that crossed his features.

"You're doing wonderfully, Vaella," Viserys said, his voice soft but filled with pride. "You have a steady hand."

Vaella smiled up at him, her indigo eyes bright. "Thank you, Father. I love working on this with you."

Viserys nodded, his gaze drifting to the model before him. "It's a piece of our history. A connection to our roots." He paused, then turned to her. "How was your time with your nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys?"

Vaella's face lit up. "It was interesting. Maester Mellos was teaching us about Targaryen history, the stories of our ancestors. Then Laenor told us about the great sailors who ventured all the way to the Summer Isles. I love hearing about their adventures."

Viserys chuckled, a raspy sound that ended in a slight cough. "I'm glad you're learning and enjoying your time with them. It's important to understand where we come from." He hesitated for a moment before asking, "And how is Aegon handling the changes?"

Vaella's smile faded slightly, and she frowned, her brow furrowing. "Not very well, Father. He doesn't like it when I'm away. He gets upset and still sometimes throws tantrums."

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. "Aegon has always struggled with separation. He has a strong bond with you."

Vaella nodded, looking thoughtful. "I know he loves me, and I love him too. But sometimes it's hard. He doesn't understand that I need to spend time with others too."

Viserys placed a gentle hand on Vaella's shoulder. "It's not easy being the center of someone's world. Aegon needs to learn that you have your own life, your own interests."

Vaella looked up at him, her eyes filled with determination. "I'll help him understand, Father. I'll be patient with him."

Viserys smiled, his eyes softening. "You're wise beyond your years, Vaella. Your kindness and patience will serve you well." He paused, his expression turning more serious. "And how are you, my dear? How are you handling all these changes?"

Vaella shrugged slightly. "It's a lot, but I have you and Rhaenyra. And I love spending time with my nephews. They make me laugh and I enjoy learning with them."

Viserys nodded, feeling a pang of pride and sorrow for his young daughter. "You're a strong girl, Vaella. Stronger than you know. Always remember that."

Vaella hugged her father tightly, feeling the frailty in his embrace but also the warmth of his love. "I will, Father. I'll always remember."

...

In a quieter corner of the Red Keep, Aegon paced back and forth, his young face twisted in frustration. His younger brother, Aemond, sat nearby, trying to focus on a book but finding it impossible with Aegon's incessant complaining.

"They took her again, Aemond! They took Vaella to spend more time with Rhaenyra and her bastards," Aegon fumed, kicking at a loose stone on the floor. "They think those boys are more worthy than me!"

Aemond looked up from his book, his blue eyes sharp. "You shouldn't talk like that, Aegon. It's dangerous."

Aegon scoffed, his face a mask of indignation. "Why shouldn't I? Mother calls them bastards all the time. Everyone knows it's true."

Aemond closed his book with a sigh, setting it aside. "Just because Mother says it doesn't mean you should repeat it. It's disrespectful, and it will get you into trouble."

Aegon glared at his brother, his anger unabated. "You’re just jealous because Vaella likes me more than you."

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite his annoyance. "Why is Vaella so special to you, Aegon? Why do you always want her around?"

Aegon’s expression hardened. "You're stupid for even asking that, Aemond. She just is. Nobody loves me like Vaella does. She understands me."

Aemond rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall. "That's stupid. She's just a girl. She can’t make everything better."

Aegon stepped closer, his fists clenched at his sides. "Shut up, Aemond. You don't understand anything."

Aemond shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Maybe I don't. But I heard Maester Mellos talking to Mother once. He said Vaella ate her twin. Maybe that’s why you think she’s so special. She’s got something extra from her dead brother."

Aegon’s face contorted with a mixture of horror and fascination. "What are you talking about?"

Aemond smirked, enjoying the shift in power. "It’s true. Mellos said Vaella didn't cry when she was born, not until her brother died. Maybe she took something from him. Maybe that’s why you feel so close to her."

Aegon stood silent for a moment, absorbing his brother’s words. Then, a twisted smile spread across his face. "Good. If her dead brother gave her something extra, then it's better for me. He would have taken her from me too."

Aemond frowned, not expecting that reaction. "You’re strange, Aegon. You know that?"

Aegon shrugged, a hint of madness in his eyes. "Maybe. But Vaella is mine. And no one will take her from me. Not Rhaenyra, not anyone."

Aemond sighed, shaking his head. "You’re going to get us all in trouble one day, Aegon. Mark my words."

Aegon ignored his brother, his mind already returning to thoughts of Vaella and the frustration of being separated from her. He would find a way to keep her close, no matter what it took.

…

The morning sun cast long shadows over the Dragonpit as Jacaerys, Lucerys, Aegon, Aemond, and Vaella made their way to the massive structure. The air was filled with the heady scent of dragon musk and the sound of wings flapping. Inside the pit, three dragons awaited their riders, their scales shimmering in the sunlight. Vaella stood quietly by Aemond's side, the two of them the only ones without dragons to bond with. While Aemond's frustration was evident, Vaella seemed content, her serene demeanor a stark contrast to her younger brother's visible agitation.

As the dragons were led out one by one, Vaella watched with a mix of awe and quiet longing. When Sunfyre appeared, his golden scales glinting brilliantly, Aegon eagerly grabbed Vaella's hand and pulled her along. "Come on, Vaella, let's attend to Sunfyre together."

Vaella allowed herself to be led, her eyes widening as they approached the magnificent dragon. She gently stroked Sunfyre's scales, feeling the warmth emanating from his body. Aegon stood beside her, his pride evident as he showed off his bond with the dragon. Vaella smiled softly, her affection for her brother momentarily overshadowing her usual frustrations with him.

Later, once the dragons were fed and content, Aegon let go of Vaella's hand and turned his attention to Aemond. There was a mischievous glint in his eye that Vaella did not like. Aegon, Jacaerys, and Lucerys huddled together, whispering and giggling before calling Aemond over.

"Come here, Aemond!" Aegon shouted, his voice filled with feigned excitement. "We found a dragon for you!"

Aemond's eyes lit up with a mixture of excitement and suspicion. He approached cautiously, glancing back at Vaella for reassurance. She gave him a small, supportive smile, but her unease grew.

As Aemond drew closer, the boys stepped aside to reveal a pig adorned with makeshift dragon wings and a painted snout. "Behold, the Pink Dread!" Aegon announced with mock grandeur, barely able to contain his laughter.

Jacaerys and Lucerys burst into laughter, pointing at the pig and doubling over with mirth. Aemond's face turned bright red with humiliation, his eyes welling up with tears. Vaella's expression darkened, her initial amusement giving way to anger.

"Aegon, Jace, Luke, that's enough!" Vaella's voice was sharp, cutting through the laughter. "How dare you humiliate Aemond like this?"

Aegon's laughter faltered as he met Vaella's furious gaze. "It was just a joke, Vaella. We didn't mean—"

"Do I deserve the same?" Vaella interrupted, her voice cold. "I don't have a dragon either. Is this how you plan to treat me too?"

Aegon stumbled over his words, his face turning pale. "No, Vaella, I didn't mean—"

But Vaella had already turned on her heel, her expression stormy as she walked away from the Dragonpit. Aegon rushed after her, desperation in his voice. "Vaella, wait! Please, don't be mad at me. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Vaella stopped and spun around to face him, her eyes blazing with anger. "You always do this, Aegon. You act without thinking and hurt the people who care about you. Aemond looks up to you, and this is how you treat him?"

Aegon reached out, but Vaella stepped back, shaking her head. "I thought you were better than this."

"Vaella, I'm sorry," Aegon pleaded, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to hurt you or Aemond. Please, forgive me."

Vaella took a deep breath, her anger still simmering but her voice softening slightly. "Apologize to Aemond. Make it right with him. And think before you act next time."

Aegon nodded, his eyes filled with regret. "I will. I promise."

As Vaella turned and walked away, Aegon stood there, watching her go with a heavy heart. He knew he had to make amends, not just with Aemond but also with Vaella. The bonds of family were fragile, and he had to learn to cherish and protect them.

Inside the Dragonpit, Aemond stood alone, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Vaella approached him, her expression softening. "I'm sorry they treated you like that, Aemond. You deserve better."

Aemond looked up, his eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Vaella. You're the only one who seems to understand."

Vaella hugged her brother tightly. "We'll find our own dragons one day, Aemond. Until then, we have each other."

As they walked away together, the bond between them strengthened, a promise of loyalty and support in a world filled with uncertainty and strife.

…

That evening, Vaella sat in her chambers, the events of the day weighing heavily on her mind. The candles flickered softly, casting gentle shadows on the walls, as she tried to find some semblance of peace. Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.

“Vaella, it’s me,” Aegon’s voice came through the door, hesitant yet determined.

Vaella sighed, already knowing why he was here. “Come in, Aegon.”

Aegon entered, closing the door behind him. He looked uncertain, his usual bravado tempered by a mix of guilt and frustration. “I wanted to apologize again. The idea was Jace and Luke’s, not mine.”

Vaella made a grimace, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Then why does it reek of you, Aegon?”

Aegon’s irritation flared, and he stepped closer, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why do you care so much about annoying Aemond? He’s just—”

“He’s my brother too, Aegon,” Vaella interrupted sharply, her eyes blazing. “Just like you are.”

Aegon pressed on, his voice lower but intense. “But you love me more, don’t you?”

Vaella frowned, seeing the familiar possessiveness in Aegon’s eyes. It had not diminished with time, if anything, it had grown. “Aegon, I will always love you. But I also love Jace, Luke, Aemond, and even little Joffrey. We’re all family.”

Aegon stepped even closer, their faces now mere inches apart. “But you love me more, right?” he asked, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper.

Vaella’s heart pounded in her chest, her emotions a whirlwind of love, frustration, and understanding. She met his gaze steadily, her voice soft but firm. “Yes, Aegon. I love you more.”

Aegon’s tense expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead, a gesture that held both affection and possessiveness. He then began to shed his attire, his movements slow and deliberate. Vaella watched him, her own feelings a mix of resignation and affection.

“Aegon,” she warned gently, “if your mother finds out we’re sharing a bed again, she’ll yell at both of us.”

Aegon shrugged, climbing into her bed with a dismissive smile. “Let her yell. I don’t care. Come here.”

Vaella’s resolve wavered, and eventually, she couldn’t help but smile. She slipped into the bed beside him, the ritual familiar and comforting. They had been sharing a bed since they were babes, a habit that had persisted despite Alicent’s disapproval.

As they lay together, Aegon wrapped his arms around Vaella, holding her close. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The warmth of his embrace was soothing, a reminder of their unbreakable bond despite the chaos around them.

They didn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, they lay in the quiet, drawing comfort from each other’s presence. Vaella felt Aegon’s breath against her hair, his hold on her gentle yet possessive. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax for the first time that day.

“Vaella,” Aegon murmured, his voice soft in the darkness. “I promise I’ll never let anyone come between us. Not Rhaenyra, not anyone.”

Vaella sighed, her heart aching with a mixture of love and sadness. “I know, Aegon. And I’ll always be here for you.”

They held onto each other, finding solace in their shared closeness. The world outside might be fraught with tension and uncertainty, but in this moment, they were simply a brother and sister, bound by love and loyalty.

…

Alicent Hightower strode through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, her frustration mounting with each step. She had been looking for her eldest son, Aegon, to confront him about the cruel prank he and Rhaenyra’s sons had played on Aemond. Finding his chambers empty had only intensified her annoyance, as she knew exactly where he would be—once again with his half-sister, Vaella.

Alicent had tried her best to separate the two as they grew older, understanding the potential complications their bond could bring. But no matter her efforts, Aegon always found his way back to Vaella, their connection unbroken. She couldn't help but recall Maester Mellos’ words about Vaella being strange since birth, and the implications of that observation gnawed at her.

Meanwhile, in Vaella's chambers, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to Alicent's rising tension. Vaella and Aegon lay in her bed, still entwined in their embrace. Aegon’s lips trailed down her cheek to her neck, eliciting a soft hitch in her breath. She clutched at him gently, feeling the warmth of his body against hers.

“Aegon,” she whispered, her voice breathy with both pleasure and concern, “promise me again you won’t mock Aemond like that again.”

Aegon’s kisses paused for a moment as he sighed. “I promise,” he murmured before resuming his tender exploration. His hands roamed over her curves, their touch growing more familiar and intimate with time. His movements against her nightgown became more urgent, her quiet moans filling the room.

Just as Aegon’s urgency peaked and he found release, spilling his seed onto Vaella’s thigh, the door to her chambers swung open. Both Aegon and Vaella sat up abruptly, alarmed and disheveled.

Alicent’s worried frown deepened as she took in the sight before her. She quickly closed the door behind her, her gaze intense. “Did you do it?” she demanded, her voice strained with a mix of anger and fear.

Vaella blushed deeply, realizing the insinuation behind Alicent's question. “No, Mother. We didn’t… we never go that far,” she stammered, her words tumbling over each other.

Alicent sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly with relief, though her irritation remained. She turned her focus to Aegon. “And what about the pig, Aegon? The Pink Dread?”

Aegon deflected, his tone dismissive. “It was Jace and Luke’s idea.”

Alicent scolded him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me, Aegon. You were just as much a part of it.”

Aegon rolled his eyes and lay back on the bed, clearly unwilling to continue the conversation. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered.

Vaella interjected, her voice calm but firm. “I made him promise not to mock Aemond again, Mother.”

Alicent’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at Vaella. Despite the tension, she recognized the sincerity in her stepdaughter’s words. “Good. That’s good,” she said quietly. Before leaving, she turned back to them, her expression resolute. “This is the last time you two will share a bed.”

Vaella nodded, understanding the gravity of Alicent’s words but knowing deep down it was a promise neither she nor Aegon intended to keep. “Yes, Mother,” she replied.

Alicent gave them one last look, a mixture of concern and resignation in her eyes, before she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

As the door clicked shut, Aegon sat up again, his demeanor shifting from defiance to a more contemplative mood. “She won’t keep us apart, you know,” he said softly, reaching out to take Vaella’s hand.

Vaella squeezed his hand gently, a small smile playing on her lips. “I know, Aegon. But we should be careful.”

He nodded, pulling her closer. “Always,” he promised.

They lay back down together, the quiet of the room wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. In the stillness of the night, they found solace in each other's presence, knowing that no matter what, they would face the world together.

…

The meeting of the small council was underway in the grand chamber of the Red Keep. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles and the tension of unresolved conflicts. Rhaenyra, dressed in her regal black and red attire, sat at the head of the table, her face composed but her eyes betraying the urgency of her thoughts. King Viserys, though visibly weakened by his illness, was present, his presence lending an air of gravitas to the proceedings. Alicent Hightower, her face a mask of controlled composure, sat beside him, her eyes watchful and calculating.

As the discussions turned to matters of succession and alliances, Rhaenyra seized the moment to present her proposal. "To ease the tensions between our families," she began, her voice steady and clear, "I propose that my son, Jacaerys, be betrothed to Helaena. This union would strengthen our family bonds."

A murmur ran through the room, and all eyes turned to Alicent, who clenched her hands in her lap to keep her composure. "And to further show goodwill," Rhaenyra continued, "when Syrax lays her next clutch of eggs, Aemond may choose an egg for himself."

Alicent's face tightened, her distress at the idea of her daughter marrying a boy widely rumored to be a bastard threatening to show. She forced herself to remain calm, her voice measured as she replied. "While your proposal is... thoughtful, Princess, I counter with a suggestion of my own. Let Aegon and Vaella be engaged to each other instead."

Rhaenyra's eyes flashed with anger, but she controlled her temper. "That is out of the question," she said firmly. "Vaella deserves more than a life tied to Aegon."

Viserys, who had been silent, finally spoke up, his voice weak but resolute. "I agree with Rhaenyra. Aegon is my son, but he is not suitable for Vaella."

Alicent's composure slipped for a moment, her eyes blazing with frustration. "You did nothing to sever the link between them, Viserys. And now you dispute this match? How can Rhaenyra's son be good enough for Helaena, but our son is not good enough for Vaella?"

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. "Aegon is impulsive and lacks the qualities necessary to care for someone as precious as Vaella. She deserves a kind and understanding partner."

Alicent stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "This is not about what Vaella deserves," she snapped, her voice shaking with barely controlled anger. "This is about your favoritism, your willingness to sacrifice my children’s future for the sake of Rhaenyra's."

Rhaenyra remained seated, her expression unyielding. "Alicent, this is not about favoritism. It's about what is best for Vaella and the realm. Jacaerys and Helaena's union would benefit everyone."

Alicent glared at Rhaenyra, her frustration and anger boiling over. "I will not allow my daughter to be used as a pawn in your game, Rhaenyra. This discussion is over."

With that, Alicent turned and stormed out of the chamber, her mind churning with resentment. How could Rhaenyra's bastard be deemed good enough for Helaena, yet Vaella be too good for her son? The injustice of it all gnawed at her, fueling her determination to find a way to secure her children's future.

Back in the council chamber, an uneasy silence settled over the room. Viserys looked tired, his earlier resolve waning. "Let us continue," he said quietly. "There are other matters to discuss."

Rhaenyra nodded, her mind already moving to the next topic, but the tension from the earlier confrontation lingered. She knew that Alicent's anger was far from quelled and that the coming days would bring new challenges. But for now, she focused on the task at hand, determined to protect her family and secure a future where they could all find peace.

…

Vaella Targaryen noticed the change in the atmosphere of the Red Keep after the birth of her sister Rhaenyra's third son, Joffrey. The castle felt like a simmering pot, ready to boil over. The departure of Harwin Strong and his father, Lyonel, back to Harrenhal only added to the tension. Whispers and sideways glances became more frequent, and the sense of unease permeated the halls.

One afternoon, as Vaella was wandering the corridors, she overheard some of the servants talking in hushed tones. "Did you hear? Princess Rhaenyra is taking her family to Dragonstone."

Vaella's heart skipped a beat. The idea of her sister leaving was unthinkable. She hurried through the winding passages, her mind racing with worry and confusion, until she found Rhaenyra in her chambers, packing her belongings.

"Rhaenyra!" Vaella cried, bursting into the room. "Is it true? Are you leaving for Dragonstone?"

Rhaenyra turned to her, her face calm but her eyes betraying the storm of emotions within. "Yes, Vaella. We are leaving."

Vaella felt a lump in her throat. "But why? Father will be devastated. And I can't bear the thought of losing you. Please, you can't leave me here."

Rhaenyra walked over to her sister and placed her hands on Vaella's shoulders. "You know why I must leave," she said gently. "The situation here is becoming untenable. For the safety of my children and myself, we need to be away from the court and its intrigues."

Vaella's eyes filled with tears. She knew the truth about the parentage of Rhaenyra's children, but it mattered little to her. They were her nephews, and she loved them dearly. "But people will talk no matter what you do," she said, her voice trembling. "Why can't I come with you?"

Rhaenyra sighed, her heart aching at the sight of her sister's distress. She pulled Vaella into a tight embrace. "You are so brave, Vaella," she whispered. "But I need you to stay here and look after our father. His health is failing, and he needs someone he can trust by his side."

Vaella clung to Rhaenyra, her tears soaking into her sister's dress. "I don't want to lose you," she said, her voice muffled.

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, looking into Vaella's indigo eyes. "You won't lose me. We'll write to each other, and I'll visit whenever I can. But you must promise me that you'll be strong and take care of Father. He needs you more than ever now."

Vaella nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of the responsibility. "I promise," she whispered.

Rhaenyra kissed her sister's forehead, a bittersweet smile on her lips. "You are my heart, Vaella. And I know you will do great things. Stay strong, for both of us."

As Rhaenyra continued to pack, Vaella stood by, feeling a mix of sorrow and determination. The castle felt more oppressive than ever, but she knew that her sister was right. She had to be strong for their father, to be the anchor he needed in these troubled times.

The day Rhaenyra and her family left for Dragonstone, Vaella stood beside her father, watching the dragons take flight. The sky was filled with the beating of powerful wings, and Vaella felt a tear slip down her cheek. She glanced at Viserys, who looked frail and weary, a shadow of the king he once was. She took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

"Don't worry, Father," she said softly. "I'll be here for you. Always."

Viserys looked down at his youngest daughter, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sadness. "Thank you, Vaella," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You are my strength."

As the dragons disappeared into the horizon, Vaella felt a sense of resolve settle over her. She would honor her sister's trust and protect their father, no matter the cost.

[shroomdreams]

What Happens In The Labyrinth…

M!Minotaur x GN!Reader

NSFW

CW: gender neutral reader, reader is depicted with a vagina (clit, cunt, pussy used), fingering, usage of magic, first time, p in v, cumming inside, impregnation, petnames (little sparrow) A/N: minotaurs are hot ok? 1.7k words

The first time you met the minotaur, you were a green adventurer who had been abandoned by their previous group, thought to be a burden on resources. Instead of sleeping bodies, you were met with an empty campsite with a snuffed out campfire. You had a moment to cry before picking up your sword and following the trail out of the forest. With each step, you took a moment to assess the situation as you unknowingly approach the Labyrinth in the woods.

Looking up at the tall walls that block out the sky, you remember that this is the place where you team was headed. The job you were assigned was to merely speak with the minotaur so there wouldn’t be any further issues for the new wizard tower being constructed near his home. However, with how brazen your ex-companions were, you aren’t entirely sure if they would be the diplomatic types… And sure enough, you saw the telltale signs of battle around the entrance of the Labyrinth, the ground singed with arcane fire and broken arrows littered around the space.

However, standing near the doorway was the minotaur himself. A bull with sleek, black fur and brilliant horns, the minotaur was a silent figure with an intimidating aura. He huffs when you walk into view, his tail flicking in annoyance. “Another one sent to drive me out of the labyrinth, hm?” He cocks an eyebrow as he speaks, his baritone voice sending shivers down your spine. Shaking your head, you merely bow.

“No, sir. I was just looking for where my companions went. Though judging by the signs around this space, I can hazard a guess they were here before.” You lift your head after you reply, looking him in the eye. “I assume they did not inform you of why they were here?” At his gruff “no,” you sigh in exasperation. No doubt the party decided to flee, either to blame you or to claim they have failed the mission. “We were sent to inform you that the Imperial Wizard wishes to construct a tower in the area. His royal highness hopes to not disturb you or those living in the forest, and merely wants for your blessing.”

The minotaur stares at you, and sweat begins building at the back of your neck. Though you don’t doubt the strength of the minotaur or your party, you’re still quite new and lack the proper experience in a fight. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to flee if the minotaur decides you’re easy pickings? Before you could contemplate your options the minotaur nods.

“I will allow the construction of the Wizard’s tower.”

In your inexperience, you beam up at him, brimming with happiness.

“On one condition.”

You droop, and the minotaur chuckles. Cheeks flush in embarrassment of your transparency. Suddenly, the minotaur walks up to you and lifts your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

“I’ve been in need of someone to bear a calf for me… Not a lot of minotaurs come around here, I’m sure you know.” The words ignite a strange sort of heat between your legs. “I’m getting old, and this labyrinth will need someone to take care of it once I return to the Fields. If his royal highness is able arrange a volunteer to carry my heir, then I will give him my blessing.”

Maybe you’re overthinking things. Maybe he’s just bluffing. But the hand that holds you gently caresses your cheek, and you think you see his breathing shift just the tiniest bit.

“A-and… Does it have to be another minotaur?” You shyly ask.

“Magic can do so much, little sparrow. Even species deemed incompatible may be blessed with a child if done right…” The minotaur whispers into your ear.”Human, elf, dwarf… As long as they are willing, I will take care of everything.”

Biting your lip, you bat your eyelashes and try your best to put on the charm, however useless that is. “Then… Do you mind making a calf right now?” You cringe a little at the words spilling from your mouth, wondering if such a phrase would kill the mood.

Instead, the minotaur seems appreciative, gently pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Come along,” he says, holding your hand as you walk into the depths of the labyrinth…

“Mmmmmh! Oh gods…!”

Breathy moans filled the intimate space, your hands struggling to stifle the lewd noises trying so hard to escape from you. Within the minotaur’s private quarters, sectioned away from the perilous challenges of the Labyrinth, the two of you had began the process of what he called the Spawning Rite. Under the guidance of the fertility god, the minotaur needed to prepare your body before he could sow his seed. To do so, he had his fingers breaching your most private areas, massaging your gummy walls and drooling cunt with ease. Arousal soaks his digits as he mooed in approval, watching the crest appear where your womb would be located. Short breaths puff out as he removes his fingers, spreading your labia and watching you clench around nothing.

“There you go, little sparrow. You’re ready for me now.”

Through the haze of lust clouding your vision, you can help but let out a moan at the sight of his magnificent cock. The whole time he was stoic, so you thought he wasn’t as excited as you were at the prospect of mating. But seeing such a stiff length leaking precum from its tip makes you realize that he was enjoying this as well. Your last coherent thought as the minotaur positions his cockhead near your entrance is perhaps he just wanted a lay.

“Mmmmm-ah! Ah! Oh~”

“Easy, little sparrow… Relax…” The minotaur breathed out, leaning down to nuzzle into your neck.

Every fiber of your being felt like it was being warmed up and turned into a soup of hormones, and you were entirely certainly your brain was leaking from your ears from how intense the stretch felt. Turthfully, you always thought your first time would be with someone with more… appropriate anatomy. However, you quickly dismissed those thoughts as foolish, sobs choked as he slid more of himself inside. The minotaur grunted, letting you hug his cock as you adjusted to his size. There were still a few more inches of him still outside, but he would be lying to himself and the gods if he said you didn’t feel heavenly…

“Just a few more, little sparrow… Mmph…” He panted, reaching down to thumb your clit. You wailed at the sudden stimulation, throwing your to your pillow as he coaxed himself further inside. It felt like you were going to die from how full everything felt, and you fear you may pass out from the intensity of it all. Still, you had a promise to keep, and you weren’t about to get out of this without at least one orgasm! So you took deep breaths, clinging onto the minotaur like a lifeline as you willed your body to accept the intrusion.

Eventually, your mouth hangs open as you panted, legs twitching as the minotaur fully sheathes himself inside you. He leans down so press gentle kisses to your cheek, thumbs rubbing small circles on your hips to add to your comfort. “Are you… hah… Are you okay?” He asks, wiping away the sweat building on your forehead. You nod in response, feeling your body start to relax. The press of his cock against your walls has you whimpering, hips bucking up in an attempt to get him moving. Thankfully, the minotaur gets the message. He draws his hips back ever so gently, shallow thrusts at first, setting a gentle rhythm that has you keening for more.

At some point his thrusts grow heavy, his pelvis smacking against you, your pussy gushing from the stimulation. “Ah…! Ahh! Ahhhh, pl-please!” You whimpered, nails digging into his back. The minotaur grunts, spurred by your pleasure as he quickens his pace. The smell of sin fills the room as the crest on your body glows, increasing the lust tenfold. Ever fiber of your being is set alight as he sets your legs on his shoulders, pressing his body down while bullying his cock deeper inside. Combined with his length, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, you didn’t last for long. Suddenly, your back arches as your walls tightly squeeze around the minotaur’s dick, lewd fluids clinging to the fur on his pelvis while a creamy ring forms around the base of his cock.

“B-By the gods… I can’t hold it any longer…!” The minotaur groans out, his hips thrusting in an irregular rhythm. Within your warmth you felt his length harden, a sure sign that he’s about to reach his high. You squeeze him as best you could- “Hnnnngh!” He draws his length out and then-

SMACK!

“HaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!~”

Thick, creamy streams of white coat your walls, the minotaur sinfully pressing himself deeper into your warmth while you cum for the second time. Clear liquids spurt from where you’re connected, soaking the minotaur’s fur as you pant, out of breath from your high. The minotaur groans as he grinds against you, his cock still twitching from the simulation. When you whimper and drag your hands against his back, the minotaur takes it as his sign to remove himself from your hole.

He sits back to admire his work. Your face, dazed from pleasure, while his seed leaks from your hole. To his delight, the crest glows brighter than ever. “The… hah… The rite worked. In due time, our calf will be growing within you.” He nuzzles your cheek, his hand gently rubbing your stomach. You giggle deliriously, but you understand that he’s happy. Later on, your dare not mention the whole ordeal to his royal highness when he asks you how you managed to convince the minotaur, raising a brow when you murmur something about a calf.

In some odd months later, you give birth to a healthy minotaur calf, fulfilling the deal you made with their father. Of course you stayed to raise your child, and it helps that his father quite the conversationalist. By the time the Wizard Tower had reached completion, your son took over as the Labyrinth keeper, while his siblings wrestle in the fields and boast of the feats they’ll accomplish when they’re older. The minotaur holds you close, fondly nuzzling your cheek as you giggle.

[mrs5sn0w]

Serenade of Shadows

I : A Dance of Shadows -> II : Whisper of Deceit -> A Symphony of Heartbreak-> IV : Fractured Reflections -> V : Shadows of Allegiance -> VI : Echoes of Decent

Series Masterlist

Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

warnings: Arranged marriage, MILD ANGST, unrequited love, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers

Reader's surname : Flare

Time frame : Before, during and after tbosbas

synopsis: In the events of Panem's political dynamics and the 10th annual Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow and her find themselves entwined. Standing at the brink of an enforced union, 6 years later, their mutual trust unravels amidst a damaging misinterpretation, prompting Coriolanus to believe the wrong. As the glacial barriers guarding his emotions begin to melt, a revelation of profound feelings unfolds, initiating a sprint against time for redemption.

The grandeur of the Capitol unfolded like a tapestry of opulence on the day Coriolanus Snow and her were bound in matrimony. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, and the opulent venue shimmered in the soft glow of chandeliers. The Capitol's elite had gathered to witness the union of the President of Panem and the Flare family, one of the most prestigious families in the whole Panem, their wedding was a spectacle that rivaled the most extravagant of royal weddings.

As she walked down the aisle in her resplendent gown, a vision of ethereal beauty, the weight of the ornate veil seemed to mirror the heavy burden on her heart. Coriolanus, standing at the altar in a meticulously tailored suit, wore a mask of composure that hid the turbulent emotions within.

He did not want to be there. He does not want to marry her.

The ceremony unfolded like a symphony of obligations, the vows echoing through the grand hall as if scripted by Capitol decree. Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, met with his cold and indifferent eyes. The congregation, unaware of the loveless undertones, erupted in applause as the Capitol celebrated the union of the two.

As the reception commenced, Snow and her navigated the intricate dance of social formalities. In front of the Capitol's watchful eyes, they exchanged pleasantries and smiled for the cameras, their every move orchestrated like pieces on a strategic board.

In a quiet corner, away from the prying eyes, she summoned a smile that barely concealed the turmoil within.

"Corio-"

"It's Snow." He reminded her not to call him by what she called him years ago.

"Snow, we are the talk of the Capitol today," she remarked, her voice carrying a hint of wistfulness.

He nodded curtly, his gaze fixed on the swirling dancers. "It's expected. our union of significance, a merging of legacies."

A fragile smile played on her lips while Coriolanus' eyes remained impassive, a fortress against the vulnerability she tried to breach.

"Sentimentality has no place in our world. Our duty is to uphold the Capitol's ideals. I'm just doing my duty by marrying you."

He then continued

"Don't get ahead of yourself if you think you can have a chance. Everyone may have forgotten what you did, but not me."

"Cor- Snow, I did what I had to do, to protect you-"

"protect me ?" He scoffed

"The only protection you did was throw my future away"

"But you're here now" she argued

"You still did it to me. It will never change." he demanded

He still believes that she did it.

but until this very day, he did not know the whole truth of what she did.

As the night wore on, the facade of marital bliss cracked in the shadows. She resplendent in her gown, felt the weight of isolation. She approached Coriolanus with a delicate grace, her eyes seeking a connection amidst the artifice.

The reception continued, a lavish display of decadence, but in the hidden recesses of their shared existence, the echoes of unspoken pain reverberated. She was once Coriolanus Snow's closest classmates, and she found herself as a stranger in his indifferent world.

"Snow," she began, her voice tinged with both sadness and defiance,

"do you ever wonder what our lives could have been if things were different?"

He looked at her, the coldness in his eyes softened by the moon's gentle caress. "Wondering is a futile endeavor. Our reality is the only truth we know."

"The only thing i wished to be different is that I didn't have to marry someone like you"

"Anyone but you"

Before she could respond, the distant strains of music heralded their return to the festivities. The grandeur of their wedding, an illusion of splendor, concealed the fractured emotions beneath the surface.

As the night waned and the Capitol reveled in the spectacle, Coriolanus Snow and his wife danced through the shadows of their union, a poignant duet of obligation and unspoken regret.

Snow's wife would always remember this day as the day she gave her life up to be stuck in a loveless marriage.

It didn't matter to her, as long as she was married to the person she loves even when he hates her with every beat of his heart.

[jaredxenoengage]

Royal Archetype Symbolism:

This will be major spoilers for the endgame of Metaphor Refantazio from 9/24 onwards. Do not read this if you don’t want spoilers from here on or the entire game for that matter.

The Royal Archetypes are the final Archetypes to be unlocked in the game. They are some of the strongest Archetypes in the game and are exclusive to the respective party members. I.e., Royal Warrior for Strohl, Royal Knight for Hulkenburg, etc.

With the exception of The Prince (which is unlocked automatically and is their own Archetype separate from the Seeker), the Royal Archetypes are essentially Prime Personas. To give an example, Orpheus Telos from Persona 3 FES onwards is a reference to Prime Personas in Persona 2, which serve as mid tier evolutions for the Personas. Royal Warrior, among others, are the “Prime Persona” counterparts to their initial forms.

Furthermore, the Royal Archetypes requires the Max Rank 8 in the bonds of your allies.

I mainly want to talk about the requirements for each Royal Archetypes and how they take after to the Followers of the respective Followers that embodies said Archetypes:

This includes the following:

• Samurai + Warlord = Royal Warrior

• Paladin + Dark Knight + Elemental Master = Royal Knight

• Ninja + Dragoon + Tycoon = Royal Thief

• Persona Master + Trickster = Royal Masked Dancer

• Devil Summoner + Soul Hacker = Royal Summoner

• Destroyer + Martial Artist = Royal Berserker

So based on these requirements needed to unlock the Royal Archetypes not named Prince, you notice how each of the Archetypes are the final forms that are linked to many followers of the game. Warlord is Bardon, Elemental Master is Gallica, Dragoon and Tycoon are Neuras and Brigitta respectively, Trickster is Alonzo, and Martial Artist is Catherina.

Soul Hacker is an interesting case; while the Seeker Archetype is embodied by More, Will (the Protagonist) is the one who awoken to the Archetype. And even then, it makes sense once you realize that More is the deceased King Hythlodaeus V who is the father of the Prince Will. Ergo, Will inherited the Seeker Archetype from his father.

This post’s main purpose is to show how each character foils to the Followers who have the Archetypes that ties to the requirements for the Royal Archetypes. Be it their tribes, personalities, role in their stories and roles in Will’s ascension to the throne, etc.

⁃ Strohl and Bardon; the way of the Royal Warrior’s sword:

◦ Bardon’s Archetype embodiment is the Commander linage (where Warlord stems from), which focuses on strategy by hitting elemental weaknesses and bypassing resistance via Almighty attack, buffing party members and attacking advantage of the front and back rows. This fits perfectly with Strohl being the main strategist of the party. Starting with the Heismay Arc until halfway through the Altabury Arc, Strohl has been shown being the one to plan out each strategy Will and Co. have for the Tournament for the Throne.

◦ Both Strohl and Bardon deal with the burden of their respective countrymen in their own ways. Strohl’s story resolves around wishing to avenge the death of his parents and the victims of Halia (a village that was destroyed by a Human attack). Bardon is a Guardsman for the village of Martira and becomes their leader after the events of exposing the true culprit behind the kidnappings (Joanna, not Heismay).

◦ Strohl’s follower story focuses on his efforts to help the survivors of the village, an owe to his creed as a noble to help people in need. While Bardon must face his own struggles in helping the people of Martira. Later in Bardon’s Bond, we are tasked with fighting the same Human that we had to escape from the butt before Martira shares the same fate as Halia.

◦ Both Strohl and Bardon are good people, but quick to anger. When all is said and done, they bare a great burden to the people that they feel they failed to protect. Be it the victims of Halia or the people in Martira who suffered from the kidnappings Joanna caused. And by the end, they learn not to shoulder their burdens alone as they both make their deceased predecessors’ proud.

⁃ Hulkenburg and Gallica; wisdom of the Royal Knight’s shield:

◦ Hulkenburg is of the Knight Archetype, while Gallica (while she can’t fight, is still considered to be a party member) is of the Mage Archetype. Hulkenburg’s introduction in the party is when Synthesis Skills (where Archetypes grant power to another Archetype for a team attack) is unlocked. Later stages of the Mage Archetype have skills that better the usages of Synthesis Skills (Wizard’s Arcane Unity and Elemental Master’s Magic Link). Synthesis Skills are about teamwork and the bonds of friendship, as well as strategies in the Archetypes you use.

◦ Both Hulkenburg and Gallica are devoted in their mission to save the prince, and they are both unwavering in their loyalties to those they devoted their power and trust to. However, the truth behind the prince’s identity and the true culprit behind the curse alludes them. The Prince was Will all along and was cursed by Rella, not Louis. And also, both of them knew Grius/Alces longer than anyone else and are heavily impacted by his death and the fight against his undead self.

◦ Even after learning the truth among other truths, their devotion to the true prince (Will) only became stronger than it ever was before. Hulkenburg is delighted to know that Will was the Prince the whole time and that everything she did wasn’t in vain. And Gallica learns that the memory of her and Will being long time friends was just a fabrication. This doesn’t stop Gallica from being Will’s friend and would continue to devote herself to him of her own volition.

◦ Beyond that, they both have self deprecation issues as far as their roles are concerned. Gallica has been shown very early into the game that she wishes to help Will as much as possible and feels regret when he’s in danger. And Hulkenburg doubts her role as a knight for not being able to save the prince. Will seems to be an emotional button for them as well. Hulkenburg turns into a grieving mess when the original prince is found dead during the events of 9/24. And when Will dies by crushing his vessel to prevent his second Human transformation at Louis’s hand, poor Gallica is left crying over his fresh corpse.

◦ Overall, in their own ways, both Gallica and Hulkenburg have Will as their emotional guide because the two of them are devoted to him in their own ways.

⁃ Heismay, Neuras and Brigitta; the Royal Thief’s walk of atonement:

◦ Heismay, Neuras and Brigitta are interesting combination of characters to talk about considering that all of their Archetypes play wildly different roles. A Thief, a Gunner and a Merchant. How exactly do all of these Archetypes work to fit with the requirements for the Royal Thief archetype?

◦ It’s not necessarily the gameplay that tied them together. It’s their respective roles in who they are as people. What do I mean by this? It’s simple, Heismay, Neuras and Brigitta are all adult followers. And as adults, they have their own personal burdens that ends with them resolving to ensure that the younger generation doesn’t pay the price for the old ones’ mistakes.

◦ Both Heismay and Brigitta are both cynical about the world around them as a result of their backstories: Heismay lost his child to a Paripus riot, while Brigitta was a street urchin who became cynical of the ways of the world. It’s thanks to Will’s actions that both of them begin to find hope and walk out of their respective dark paths.

◦ Heismay and Neuras are both the only known characters in the team that actually drink. Neuras has been drunk a few times, while Heismay is very careful with how much alcohol he consumes. He only became drunk when he ate the Dragon’s Tear (not that he could have known its properties until was too late).

◦ On a more serious note, while both of their sidequests and stories resolve around certain items (Heismay’s son’s remains and the Relics), both of their Bond stories end with a resolution regarding them. Heismay decides to turn his son’s urn into a necklace with Eupha’s help, while Neuras destroys the relics after realizing their world destroying properties. So in a way, both Heismay and Neuras learn from the past so that the future won’t be affected by it later on.

◦ To me, Heismay serves as the adult figure of the group that Grius initially served. Some may say that Grius’s death unintentionally undermines that message of equality between the races as the team loses their only Rhoag representative. While I can understand the sentiment, Grius’s spirit remains with the cast through other characters like Maria. Heismay and Neuras serves as the adult figures for the team twice over, and Brigitta, while not a party member, is a fellow Rhoag that knew Grius.

◦ Heismay finds similar themes with Neuras and Brigitta through the fact that they are the adult figures that fills the void Grius left behind. His spirit is with us through various ways, and it shows here.

⁃ Junah and Alonzo: the Royal Masked Dancer’s hidden depths:

◦ Junah and Alonzo both are of the Nidia tribe, often deem by other tribes as deceiving, lying scum. And it’s not hard to see why they get the reputation. Both Junah and Alonzo both use deception in their own way, but they both do it for greater good.

◦ Junah is acting as an undercover agent on Louis’ side, working to find a way to break the prince’s curse. While Alonzo uses his deception to help Will, acting as the future King’s intelligence advisor. Both also have adoptive family members of different races that ultimately die in their stories (For Junah, Rella who is an Ishika, and Alonzo’s mother who was a Paripus). And Junah and Alonzo’s actions going forward are in their memories.

◦ Their respective Archetypes in Masked Dancer and Faker both have final forms that serve as a reference to the Persona games: Persona Master takes after mainly Persona 3 and 4, while Trickster mainly takes after 5. Persona Master’s main Synthesis Skill is shown to be reference to both 3 and 4 via the Tarot Cards, the Invokers that SEES uses (which are guns) and cut ins. While Trickster is based on what P5’s Joker is often called in the story: “A Trickster.”

◦ Junah and Alonzo both aspire to be beacons of hope to those around them in their own ways and are good people at the end of the day. Junah’s singing is what gives her hope, and she wishes to spread that hope to others. While Alonzo uses his lies to help the people around him, even if they deem him a “parasite.”

⁃ Eupha and Will (son of More): the Royal Summoner’s journey through life:

◦ I have already made a post on how the Seeker linage being the prerequisite to evolve the Summoner Archetype is fitting with Eupha’s growing love for Will throughout their bond: https://www.tumblr.com/jaredxenoengage/765352399442526208/i-love-that-euphas-archetype-summoner-requires but let’s see if there is more to it than that.

◦ The Seeker Archetype, as we know, is the Archetype that is cultivated by More/King Hythlodaeus V, who is Will’s father. Will awakens to the Seeker Archetype linage first, and not the Prince. So while More isn’t a party member, Will is. So technically speaking, out of all of the Royal Archetype requirements, this makes Eupha the only one that needs a linage that was awaken by a fellow Party Member.

◦ Will (knowing that he is the Prince) and Eupha had both lost their parents, obviously. And both of them have ties with the greater lore of the entire game as a whole, which depicts stories of the old world that was once humankind (which is what Eldas are). Eupha has a sworn duty to fight alongside the Dragon God: Eht, Dragons are made of pure Magla. With the revelation that Will is the Archetype of the Prince given a human form, he too is a being a pure Magla. Which is why Eupha was able to speak through his mind during her introduction. Just as Eupha is meant to fight alongside the beloved god, Eupha also finds herself fighting alongside another being made of Magla. This plot point compliments itself further with the Dragon Trial’s (which were made for the protagonist) in mind.

◦ As for More, it’s the same thing as Will, he is the Archetype form of King Hythlodaeus V who was killed by Louis at the start of the story. How do Eupha and More foil each other? The main difference between them is that Hythlodaeus lost hope because of the death of his wife and the lost of his son. He sought his own death and used the Royal Magic in hopes that he could make someone into a better king than he was. While Eupha was convinced her whole life that her life was meant to be sacrificed for the sake of her village. Eupha eventually breaks free from this mindset and awakens to her Archetype. Eupha did what More could not in her lifetime, find hope and a reason to live.

◦ The Elite forms of the Summoner and Seeker Archetypes are both named after the Atlus related games: Devil Summoner and Soul Hacker respectively.

◦ And it’s just Eupha herself says in game, she, like Will has the power to journey into the unknown world. An unknown future. Will had the power to awaken this resolve in her, and with it, blossom potential love between the two.

⁃ Basilio and Catherina; the Paripus’ Royal Berserker soul:

◦ Basilio and Catherina are both Paripus with rough dispositions on the surface, but both prove to be earnest people. They both initially had reasons to oppose the protagonist at first; Basilio was working with Louis, the one who killed the king. While Catherina, who is a fellow candidate. has no hard feelings towards Will, but she wants to become Queen to help the future of the Paripus. Both eventually see the folly of what they were doing and eventually turn coat (Basilio joins the team after his brother’s death, while Catherina drops out of the race because her folks were crossing a line she wouldn’t have).

◦ The Berserker and Brawler Archetypes both revolve around physical strike attacks and dishing out as much damage as possible. Notice how Berserker doesn’t use HP like Brawler does. Basilio may be of the Berserker Archetype, but when he is calm, Basilio is a lot more insight than it would seem. As he is the first person to truly question if what Louis is doing is truly right for him and his brother, and the future of those that can’t fend for themselves. Catherina is much more reckless in comparison. And it takes seeing how her race to become Queen becomes a risk for Paripus to go the extreme to get ahead to see that what she is doing might bring more harm than good.

◦ Even their Follower Stories are mainly different with some similarities being that it’s about Basilio and Catherina stopping their fellow tribesmen from crossing further lines. At least Catherina was able to convince followers to walk down a better path eventually, but Basilio isn’t as fortunate. As he was forced to put Vinca down.

⁃ Will; the prince’s path to be king:

◦ 9/24 reveals that Will is a living breathing Archetype created from the Prince’s wish to travel the world and lead the kingdom to peace. The Seeker Archetype was the first Archetype to awaken in Will. It embodies the very essence of this game’s themes to explore the unknown without fear.

◦ As Will journey continues, and he eventually learns who he really is, the Prince Archetype embodies the Ruler Archetype from Carl Jung’s 12 Archetypes (which is what the aforementioned powers are based on). And based on Carl Jung’s take on the Ruler Archetype, it also falls in line with the themes of what makes a good king.

◦ In contrast to his father; as the previous king, gave up on his hope that he had for the Kingdom. As such, by leaving most of the circumstances in Forden’s hands, Louis lost all faith in him and decides to kill him. Will becomes king and defeats Louis by staying true to his ideals.

◦ Although the Prince Archetype is its own Archetype, it takes after the Seeker Archetype in many ways. It has the same One Handed Sword usage, the same Hero Passive in Cooperative Chase, and has the most Synthesis access in the game. However, Seeker doesn’t have Synthesis Synergy with the Summoner Archetype (ironic given that Will and Eupha are the most romantic coded relationship in the game). Eupha’s Arc contains the most truth about the old world in all of Euchronia. We get the full truth about the old world after Will awakens to his true Archetype, which can perform Synthesis Skills and grant them between all Archetypes. This is when Will and Eupha’s bond is at its strongest.

The fact that so much intention to detail that comes with the Archetypes and the Followers is the type of writing talent that I have come to expect from Atlus.

[book--brackets]

Curse Workers by Holly Black (2010-2012)

Cassel is cursed. Cursed by the memory of the fourteen year old girl he murdered. Life at school is a constant trial. Life at home even worse. No-one at home is ever going to forget that Cassel is a killer. No-one at home is ever going to forget that he isn't a magic worker.

Cassel's family are one of the big five crime families in America. Ever since magic was prohibited in 1929 magic workers have been driven underground and into crime. And while people still need their touch, their curses, their magical killings, their transformations, times have been hard. His granddad has been driven to drink, his mother is in prison and his brothers detest him as the only one of their family who can't do magic.

But there is a secret at the centre of Cassel's family and he's about to inherit it. It's terrfying and that's the truth.

The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison (2014)

The youngest, half-goblin son of the Emperor has lived his entire life in exile, distant from the Imperial Court and the deadly intrigue that suffuses it. But when his father and three sons in line for the throne are killed in an "accident," he has no choice but to take his place as the only surviving rightful heir.

Entirely unschooled in the art of court politics, he has no friends, no advisors, and the sure knowledge that whoever assassinated his father and brothers could make an attempt on his life at any moment.

Surrounded by sycophants eager to curry favor with the naïve new emperor, and overwhelmed by the burdens of his new life, he can trust nobody. Amid the swirl of plots to depose him, offers of arranged marriages, and the specter of the unknown conspirators who lurk in the shadows, he must quickly adjust to life as the Goblin Emperor. All the while, he is alone, and trying to find even a single friend... and hoping for the possibility of romance, yet also vigilant against the unseen enemies that threaten him, lest he lose his throne – or his life.

The Looking Glass Wars by Frank Beddor (2004-2009)

When Alyss Heart, newly orphaned heir to the Wonderland throne, flees through the Pool of Tears to escape her murderous Aunt Redd, she finds herself lost and alone in Victorian London. Befriended by an aspiring author named Lewis Carrol, Alyss tells the violent, heartbreaking story of her young life. Alyss trusts this author to tell the truth so that someone, somewhere will find her and bring her home. But he gets the story all wrong. He even spells her name incorrectly!

Fortunately, Royal Bodyguard Hatter Madigan knows all too well the awful truth of Alyss' story - and he's searching every corner of our world to find the lost princess and return her to Wonderland, to battle Redd for her rightful place as the Queen of Hearts.

East by Edith Pattou (2003-2018)

Rose has always felt out of place in her family, a wanderer in a bunch of homebodies. So when an enormous white bear mysteriously shows up and asks her to come away with him — in exchange for health and prosperity for her ailing family — she readily agrees. The bear takes Rose to a distant castle, where each night she is confronted with a mystery. In solving that mystery, she loses her heart, discovers her purpose, and realizes her travels have only just begun.

Circle of Magic by Tamora Pierce (1997-1999)

With her gift of weaving silk thread and creating light, Sandry is brought to the Winding Circle community. There she meets Briar, a former thief who has a way with plants; Daja, an outcast gifted at metalcraft; and Tris, whose connection with the weather unsettles everyone, including herself. At Winding Circle, the four misfits are taught how to use their magic - and to trust one another. But then disaster strikes their new home. Can Sandry weave together four kinds of magical power and save herself, her friends, and the one place where they've ever been accepted?

The Chronicles of Alice by Christina Henry (2015-2020)

In a warren of crumbling buildings and desperate people called the Old City, there stands a hospital with cinderblock walls which echo the screams of the poor souls inside. 

In the hospital, there is a woman. Her hair, once blond, hangs in tangles down her back. She doesn't remember why she's in such a terrible place. Just a tea party long ago, and long ears, and blood... 

Then, one night, a fire at the hospital gives the woman a chance to escape, tumbling out of the hole that imprisoned her, leaving her free to uncover the truth about what happened to her all those years ago. 

Only something else has escaped with her. Something dark. Something powerful. And to find the truth, she will have to track this beast to the very heart of the Old City, where the rabbit waits for his Alice.

Sunshine by Robin McKinley (2003)

"Sunshine" is what everyone calls her. She works long hours in her family's coffeehouse, making her famous "Cinnamon Rolls as Big as Your Head," Bitter Chocolate Death, Caramel Cataclysm, and other sugar-shock specials that keep the customers coming. She's happy in her bakery--which her stepfather built specially for her--but sometimes she feels that she should have life outside the coffeehouse. One evening she drives out to the lake to get away from her family, to be alone. There hasn't been any trouble at the lake for years.But there is trouble that night for Sunshine. She is abducted by a gang of vampires who shackle her to the wall of an abandoned mansion, within easy reach of a figure stirring in the moonlight. Sunshine knows that he is a vampire and that she is to be his dinner. Yet when dawn breaks he has not attempted to harm her.And now he needs her help to survive the day...

Amina al-Sirafi by Shannon Chakraborty (2023-present)

A pirate of infamy and one of the most storied and scandalous captains to sail the seven seas. 

Amina al-Sirafi has survived backstabbing rogues, vengeful merchant princes, several husbands, and one actual demon to retire peacefully with her family to a life of piety, motherhood, and absolutely nothing that hints of the supernatural.

But when she’s offered a job no bandit could refuse, she jumps at the chance for one final adventure with her old crew that will make her a legend and offers a fortune that will secure her and her family’s future forever.

Yet the deeper Amina dives the higher the stakes. For there’s always risk in wanting to become a legend, to seize one last chance at glory, to savour just a bit more power…and the price might be your very soul.

October Daye by Seanan McGuire (2009-present)

The world of Faerie never disappeared: it merely went into hiding, continuing to exist parallel to our own. Secrecy is the key to Faerie's survival—but no secret can be kept forever, and when the fae and mortal worlds collide, changelings are born. Half-human, half-fae, outsiders from birth, these second-class children of Faerie spend their lives fighting for the respect of their immortal relations. Or, in the case of October "Toby" Daye, rejecting it completely. After getting burned by both sides of her heritage, Toby has denied the fae world, retreating into a "normal" life. Unfortunately for her, Faerie has other ideas.

The murder of Countess Evening Winterrose, one of the secret regents of the San Francisco Bay Area, pulls Toby back into the fae world. Unable to resist Evening's dying curse, which binds her to investigate, Toby is forced to resume her old position as knight errant to the Duke of Shadowed Hills and begin renewing old alliances that may prove her only hope of solving the mystery...before the curse catches up with her.

The Near Witch by V. E. Schwab (2011)

The Near Witch is only an old story told to frighten children.

If the wind calls at night, you must not listen. The wind is lonely, and always looking for company.

And there are no strangers in the town of Near.

These are the truths that Lexi has heard all her life.

But when an actual stranger-a boy who seems to fade like smoke-appears outside her home on the moor at night, she knows that at least one of these sayings is no longer true.

The next night, the children of Near start disappearing from their beds, and the mysterious boy falls under suspicion. Still, he insists on helping Lexi search for them. Something tells her she can trust him.

As the hunt for the children intensifies, so does Lexi's need to know-about the witch that just might be more than a bedtime story, about the wind that seems to speak through the walls at night, and about the history of this nameless boy.

[perfinn]

the heat that drives the light

aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc - part v

wc: 4.4k

summary: aemond and cecily have a much needed conversation.

cw: NSFW, this is the one y'all! j pushes her aemond/mr. darcy agenda, fingering, almost a handjob, p in v, titty suckin

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

Aemond thinks the only being who truly knows him is Vhagar. Too big, too much to be confined in any castle or dragonpit. When Aemond is in the sky with her, or otherwise, he feels he is himself. 

“I suppose the thing that confuses me the most,” he says to her in soft High Valyrian, reclining against her neck on some beach somewhere in the Crownlands. “Is that she truly seems to want it. To know me, I mean. Carnally and… otherwise.”

Vhagar grumbles where she’s settled, head in the sand and her green eyes watching the waves lap at the shore. She’s a fine listener, but has never been much of a conversationalist. 

Aemond sighs. “It is not ladylike, is it?” He says. “To desire sex so readily. A man desires sex. A man or a whore, perhaps.”

Vhagar huffs at that, seeming to disagree. 

“Well, I’m sure you do,” Aemond grumbles, smiling in amusement. “You are an animal. It's different for you. But I suppose men are like animals too. We fuck like hounds. Ladies, highborn ladies as fair and fragile as Cecily, they shouldn't want that. I don't know how I can make her see that I only deny her out of respect for her position.”

Aemond looks out at the crashing waves. He must be somewhere near Duskendale, he thinks. Far enough to be freed of the suffocating walls of King’s Landing, at least. There is a fishing boat on the horizon. Aemond wonders, distantly, about the men on it. Are they married? What must it be, to be common and married? There is so much more opportunity to love one’s wife, he is certain, when it comes not with the pressures of political alliance. Not that he wishes he were common, oh no. He only finds himself envying that they lack the same burden of responsibility. 

“I don't know what to do, Vhagar,” Aemond admits. “Dragons sing to one another. I cannot sing to her.”

Vhagar shifts her head so one of her eyes can see Aemond. She seems, as ever, to be judging him. 

“It is not as simple as you make it out to be,” he says. He’d never speak like this to her with anyone listening. Treating her as though she responds verbally. But none are around for miles save for the fishing boat that is becoming only a dot on the horizon. “She believes I hate her. And in truth, I do not think I do.”

Vhagar blinks slowly, a low rumble sounding in her throat. Aemond can feel the vibrations of it against his back. He feels glad he can interpret her answer however he wishes. Use her to give voice to the thoughts he dare not raise himself. 

“I suppose I ought to just talk to her. Prove to myself she is not so humiliating. She seems… smart. Strong willed. I suppose I do like that in a woman.”

Vhagar lowers her head to the ground again, ancient gaze on the ocean yet again. Aemond wonders if she ever sees the sea and thinks of the Lady Laena. What it must be to live so long and lose so many. 

Aemond stands, sighing and nodding with determination. “You are wise, my girl,” he says, turning around and running a hand over her drooping scales. “I can hope only to match a portion of your wit someday.”

Aim high, Vhagar seems to say. But do not strain yourself reaching for what is impossible.

Aemond makes his way to Cecily’s chambers that evening. It is Ser Erryk stationed outside her door today. 

Cole had initially protested the idea of stationing a Kingsguard outside of Cecily’s door each night, but it had been Alicent to suggest it and then insist upon it. Cecily was a part of the royal family by marriage, and more vulnerable by far than any of them bar the children. Ser Harrold had agreed with the queen’s conclusion. Aemond had concurred, though quietly. 

He knocks on the door, entering when Cecily calls him in. She’s sitting in the settee by the hearth, a needlework hoop in her lap.

“Cecily,” he greets. Cecily startles at the sound of his voice, moving to stand up. “No, don’t. I mean… you may sit. I hoped I could join you.”

Cecily fails to hide the surprise in her face, but after a moment she nods and gestures to the armchair across from her. She adjusts in her seat, wearing her nightgown and a silken green robe. Her chestnut hair is loose, falling in soft ringlets down her back and around her face. She smiles nervously. 

“I wasn't expecting company,” she says, fiddling with the hoop in her lap. “Yours especially.”

Aemond hums, looking down at the hoop before spotting a well organised wooden box on the table full of thread, each spool labelled by embossed letters. “How do you do that when you cannot see it?”

Cecily blinks, smiling a bit and lifting the hoop back up into her hands. “Very slowly.”

Aemond huffs in amusement. “I can imagine. How do you know if it looks good?”

“I haven't a clue,” she admits, lifting the hoop and turning it to face him. “What say you?”

It seems to be half finished. What has been stitched is a dragon of shining green, and the charcoal sketch around it shows roses. It is not as refined as, say, Helaena’s work, but for a girl who cannot see, it is fine work.

“It looks fine,” he tells her truthfully. “A dragon and roses?”

Cecily smiles wryly, setting the hoop back in her lap. “Yes. My father’s suggestion. I suppose he means for me to gift it to you. He tells me your dragon is green.”

“She is,” he says.”Though some might call her brown.”

“All the same to me. She was green in the history books.”

Aemond is quiet for a moment. “You remember?” 

Cecily leans forward and feels for the table before carefully setting the hoop down. “I do. Or, at least, I have memories of things I saw. But I never know whether I can trust them. May I tell you a truth?”

Aemond nods. Then, he feels his cheeks heat. Idiot. “Yes.”

“I fear that I have actually forgotten it all, and my mind is filling in the gaps of how people look.”

Aemond stares at her in silence a moment. “Is it not all filling in the gaps?”

She shakes her head. “Not always. I told you, my parents are said to look the very same as they did when I went blind. But memory is a funny thing.”

Aemond watches her, not wishing to interrupt until she feels she’s finished speaking. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “You probably do not want to know.”

“No,” Aemond says quickly. “No, I do. Or I would not have asked.”

Cecily smiles nervously. She nods, fiddling with the stitching of her robe. “I do wish I could see you, sometimes. But I have a clear image of your face in my head now.”

“I have been unkind to you,” Aemond blurts out, kicking himself for speaking his mind so carelessly. 

She seems just as shocked by the admission, doe eyes blinking slowly. “Not unkind.”

“Yes, unkind,” he says firmly. “I have been cold and rude to you when you have not earned it. In truth, I believed you a burden.”

She’s quiet a moment, fidgeting now with the embroidery on her robe. “Because I am blind.”

“Yes,” Aemond breathes. “I thought our parents matched us because of our deformities. I thought… you were chosen for me because they believed that my one eye is all I am.”

“And in turn you believed my blindness is all I am,” Cecily says quietly, carefully. There is no coldness or resentment in her voice. How can she speak to him so calmly when he admits to her such cruelty? He would surely be seething if she admitted to the same. “I noticed as much. And it hurts more than I am prepared to say.” 

Aemond’s throat grows tight. He opens his mouth once, twice, before he can find the strength to tell her, “I’m sorry.”

“I do not blame you,” she admits. “People with sight base their thoughts and impressions on what they see first. I am given the privilege of being able to do nothing but judge people on their character alone.”

Won't she accept his apology? Can't she know how much it pained him to say so little?

“May I ask you something, lord husband?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, then adds, “Please call me Aemond.”

Cecily nods, taking a deep breath. “Do I repulse you?”

“Re-repulse me?” Aemond sputters. “How could you repulse me? You are beautiful.”

She purses her lips. She doesn't believe him. He can see it.  

“Cecily,” he murmurs, reaching across and gently placing a hand on her knee. She startles for just a moment. “I desire you. Most ardently.”

Cecily exhales, lips parted. Aemond cannot take his gaze from her. “Yet you will not touch me.” 

Aemond shifts out of his seat, moving so he kneels before her. He takes her hand. “There is little in this world that would make me feel worse than to disrespect you so readily.” He pauses, staring up at her. He lifts her hand to his mouth, lips brushing over her knuckles. “Is it what you truly want?”

He sees his wife shiver. “More than anything.”

For a moment, Aemond closes his eye, taking in the sheer relief of the truth. His desire is not unfounded, not bred in sin and shameless lust, it is requited. She does not simply desire the wanton pleasure of sex. She desires him. He sighs softly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before standing up slowly. 

“Stand,” he encourages. 

Cecily rises. Aemond tilts her chin up so he might see her face. He reaches for the velvet ribbon tying her robe and pulls on it slowly, parting the silk which he slowly slides from her shoulders. The nightgown beneath is a gauzy white fabric, hemmed with lace. 

Such opulence merely to sleep in. Such opulence only to be removed. There is a small string tied to a bow at her chest, securing the gown on her shoulders. He takes the end of it and gently pulls, freeing the knot. The chest of the nightgown falls open.

It does not expose her completely, but he can see the gentle curve of her breasts, the way they sit upon her chest. Cecily’s breath catches and she closes her eyes. 

Aemond moves slowly as he slips it from her shoulders, giving her each and every opportunity to pull away or stop him. 

She does not. 

He slips the nightgown from her shoulders and watches it slip down her body and pool around her feet. There's nothing beneath it– he has bared her to him. 

“No smallclothes?”

Cecily’s cheeks flush. “I do not like to sleep in them,” she murmurs. “I-I wasn't expecting-”

“It's alright,” Aemond assures, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently trailing down the length of her arms. Her skin is warm. Milky pale and scattered with moles. The firelight flickers against her form, dancing across her skin. 

“May I undress you?” She asks softly, reaching up and resting her hands on his chest. 

“You may,” Aemond grants, hands continuing to explore her body as her fingers search for the clasp of his doublet. He lowers his hands to her hips, examining the way they dip inward slightly and tracing over them. Cecily finds the clasps, slowly undoing them, one by one. 

Aemond is given ample time to explore her body. His cock twitches in his pants but he ignores it, trying instead to commit the shape of her to memory. He slides his hands up to the slight dip of her waist, gently rubbing his thumb over a round mole a few inches below her breast. 

She is not maddening. Not in the way he thought she’d be. He has not lost all control of himself in touching her, but he is maddened all the same. How can he ever let himself do anything else but explore her?

He lowers his hands when Cecily pushes his doublet off his shoulders, shrugging it off and wasting no time in pulling off his tunic, dropping it to the ground so his chest is bare before her. Her deft, delicate fingers find his stomach, a soft breath leaving her mouth as she traces the defined muscles there. 

Aemond raises his own hands back to her waist. One large palm settles on her warm skin while the other ventures upward, brushing gently over her nipple. Her breasts are small, round things that sit seemingly perfect on her chest. Cecily sighs softly when Aemond’s fingers brush over them, and he feels a smirk pull at his lips. 

“You’re so…” Cecily trails off, a look in her eyes that Aemond hopes is admiration. He had once believed there was naught but emptiness in her eyes, but there is so much. Just because they do not see, does not mean they do not sparkle like amber. “Strong.”

“And you are beautiful,” he murmurs, experimentally pinching at her budding nipples. 

She gasps, eyes fluttering closed. Her hands travel down, finding the lacing of his breeches. “Aemond, that feels…”

Good, he hopes. He watches Cecily bite her lip, hands pulling at the lacing with more urgency. Though he wishes not to think often of his night in the brothel with his brother, where so many of the whores chuckled at the young prince, he cannot say that the woman he did lie with– he dare not recall her name in such a moment with his wife – did not leave him without any knowledge of how to please a woman. 

He hopes she had been truthful in her teachings, and that he may please Cecily. 

“Good,” Cecily continues, tugging his breeches down. “Very good.”

Aemond grasps her hips, kicking his pants away. “I’m going to walk you back toward the bed,” he warns in a murmur. Without waiting for an answer, he steps forward and urges Cecily’s hips back. She acquiesces, trusting him to lead her safely to the bed. 

“Step,” he warns, just a moment too late. Cecily stumbles, and while Aemond’s face drops into terror for having scared her, his wife only begins to giggle.

She wraps her arms around him for stability, sweet laughter filling her chambers. 

“Are you okay?” Aemond asks, her laughter infectious enough that he feels a smile pull at his lips.

“Yes,” Cecily giggles breathlessly, leaning her forehead against Aemond’s bicep. “Yes, I’m golden. I can keep walking.” 

Aemond huffs a soft chuckle, gently leading her the rest of the way to the bed until the backs of her thighs hit the mattress. Cecily pulls away to climb back onto it, shimmying back to lay half upright against the pillows while Aemond climbs over her. She wears a comfortable smile, and Aemond’s heartbeat quickens. She is so beautiful when she smiles. How could he ever bear to make her frown?

Her hands find his body again, trailing down his torso as he settles himself between her legs. Her fingers brush through the small amount of silvery hair at the base of his cock. His breath hitches, and he almost reaches to stop her again. But he resists, letting her trail her fingers to his hardening cock.

Cecily’s mouth opens and fascination fills her eyes. “May I?” she asks shyly.

Aemond smirks. “Wanton woman,” he mumbles, only making her smile. “You may. If I may do the same.”

“Of course.”

While his wife wraps her soft fingers around his length – Seven hells, it’s better than he imagined – he smooths his hands over her inner thighs, spreading them enough so that he might see that which he desires most. 

Beneath a thick bushel of dark hair sits her cunt, pretty and pink and all but untouched. It fills him with swelling pride to know no one has touched it but himself. He exhales slowly, gently dragging his thumb through her slick folds, gathering enough that he may rub the pad of the digit over her pearl. Cecily shivers, inhaling a sharp gasp. Her hand squeezes Aemond’s cock and a similar noise escapes him. 

He cannot focus on her while she strokes his cock as she does. He takes a gentle hold of her wrist, pulling her hand away from him. “Allow me to take care of you,” he murmured. 

“I want to make you feel good too,” Cecily insists softly. 

“It is I who has denied you too long. Allow me to make it up to you.” He drags his gaze away from her core to see conflict on her face. “Please.”

She worries her bottom lip a moment before nodding. “Okay. But next time I will return the favour.”

Aemond chuckles. “As you wish,” he says, looking back down to her cunt as he rubs slow circles onto her pearl. Cecily shivers again, dropping her hands and winding them into the sheets beneath her. Aemond lifts his gaze to her face a moment as he toys with her, watching the way it twists in confused pleasure. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” He asks. 

She shakes her head, cheeks flushing pink. “No,” she murmurs. “I-I would not know how.”

“Mm,” he hums, moving to pet his middle finger over her entrance. “That is okay. Then we must find what makes you tick together.”

Cecily tilts her hips up, mewling softly at the feeling as he presses a slender finger into her waiting heat. He goes slow, gaze flicking between her face and her cunt. He cannot decide which sight is more delectable– the way her face twists and slackens as her body accepts the stretching pleasure, or the way she so eagerly accepts him into her core. His wife squirms against the intrusion and he leans down to press gentle kisses to the unblemished skin of her breasts. 

He feels Cecily shiver as he drags his tongue over her pert nipple. He pumps his finger slowly into her cunt, working his way up to fitting each knuckle into her. She’s desperately tight, all but untouched. The idea of having it wrapped around his cock is intoxicating– it's all he can do not to plunge his cock into her right now and spare them both the waiting.

He gently sucks a nipple into his mouth, groaning softly as he works his finger in to the base. Cecily is squirming and moaning at the feeling, her hands finding purchase in Aemond’s hair. Aemond begins to pump his finger into her, slowly working in another. 

“Seven hells,” she whispers, voice strangled and mewling as Aemond grazes his teeth over the delicate skin of her breasts. 

He pulls his mouth away, lifting his head to hover over her face. The desire to kiss her wrestles with the wish to see her face as he unravels her. When her eyes flutter open and her lip is pulled between her teeth, the need to watch her wins out. 

He eases the second finger into her, cunt acquiescing now to the stretch. Still, she’s tight. He wonders if it would hurt her too much to take her now.

No, he thinks. He won’t hurt her, not tonight, not again. Not ever.

When he can thrust two fingers into her with no resistance, he presses his thumb to her pearl and begins to ease a third in. Cecily winces and Aemond shushes her as sweetly as he can manage, pressing gentle kisses to her collarbone. 

“Just one more,” he murmurs, circling the sensitive bud to make it easier for her. She squirms still beneath him, but sweet whimpering moans spill from between her lips. “Is this what you wanted, sweetling? Mmm?”

Cecily nods rapidly, grasping for Aemond’s shoulder and gripping it tight. He’s suddenly determined to bring her to her end before he ever puts his cock in her, pressing his thumb harder against her pearl as he sucks a nipple into his mouth again, hunched over her smaller form as his aching cock drips onto the sheets beneath him. He pays it no mind, the noises of pleasure he’s pulling from his wife worth so much more than a simple touch on his stiff manhood would be. Cecily’s voice breaks off as his third finger squeezes into her, giving more resistance this time. He gazes up at her face, tongue flicking at her nipple as he feels her spasm around his fingers. 

“A-Aemond!” She cries, a hint of panic creeping into her voice at what must surely be a foreign sensation for her. So pious. Innocent. It makes Aemond’s cock twitch.

Aemond hushes her. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “Let go.”

He sees the hesitance on her face for a moment, before she seems to decide to trust in him  – Gods, why does that trust stir something in his chest so distinct from lust? – and relaxes, her back arching as a long, sweet mewl escapes her and she comes on his fingers. He feels her walls spasm around his fingers, greedily sucking the third finger in as Cecily writhes on the bed, helpless to her body’s baser whims. Aemond guides her through it, pressing kisses to the skin of her breasts.

“Good girl,” he murmurs when she stills, panting softly. He slowly pulls his fingers out of her, shifting onto his knees between her legs. He ruts his aching cock along her sensitive cunt, making her whine. He gently shushes her, placing his hand– still slick with her essences – onto her hip and rubbing slow circles into her soft skin. 

He takes his cock into his hand, stroking it a few times and exhaling shakily at the relief he hadn’t realised he needed. Lining himself up with her, he leans forward to watch her face as he presses the bulbous head of his cock into her. Less thick, perhaps, than three of his long fingers, but nothing to scoff at. Aemond knows he’s above average size, and knows Cecily has taken him before. But then he was careless, passionless. And she did not take him to his base. Now he takes it slow, wants to see her ache for him as he eases tortuously slow into her. Cecily’s face scrunches up, hands darting to his shoulders for purchase. Her mouth drops open as he splits her on his length, and Aemond lowers his gaze to watch her take him. Gods, she’s divine. He’s been inside plenty of women in his day, but none quite so perfect as Cecily. It’s like her warm, wet, tight walls were made to take him.

He meets resistance a few inches in, grunting softly. He moves his fingers back to her pearl, rubbing at it slowly as he thrusts shallowly into her. This way, he eases his cock the rest of the way into her, a low, shaking breath escaping him as he seats fully himself inside her. Cecily is trembling, squirming.

“Do you need a moment?”

“S-so much,” Cecily whispers. Aemond realises then that she must still be sensitive from her prior release. He continues to rub at her hip and at her pearl, gaze intense as she hiccups for breath beneath her. A dark part of Aemond wants to fuck her properly right now, make her take it and watch her unravel with sweet overstimulation. But he has no wish to hurt her. He stills his movements on her pearl, instead simply letting her adjust at her own pace. 

Cecily’s breathing quickens, then slows. There’s a few dreadfully slow moments before she speaks. “I can keep going,” she whispers.

A smile tugs at Aemond’s mouth. He anchors his hand on the mattress by her head, leaning over her as he pulls out almost tot the tip before rocking back into her. The drag of her slick walls against his cock has a trembling groan leaving him, matched by Cecily’s conflicted moan. Aemond supposes she’s still adjusting to the feeling of being fucked, deciding whether she likes it. Aemond, determined to convince her, drags his hand through her slick folds and plays once more with her sensitive pearl. 

He lowers his gaze to see the way her swollen cunt takes his length, watches himself carve a space in her almost-untouched sex. His. No one else will ever touch her, no one else ever has. The thought of it, of marking her as only his twists something strange and arousing inside him. He reaches suddenly for her hand, intertwining their fingers as he hunches over her. This way, he can see the ring on her finger. The ring he’d given her the day of their wedding. A golden rose inlaid with garnets and onyx, a screaming symbol that she’s his.

Only weeks ago, Aemond could not have imagined himself so aroused by the thought of Cecily being his. But now, he suspects it will be the thing that brings him to his end. Cecily is moaning in his ear now, any discomfort seeming to have given way to pleasure as she rolls her hips in time with Aemond’s languid thrusting. She has always been beautiful, he could not deny that even from the moment he first saw her, but now, in the candlelight with her hair loose and her eyes closed as her face twists in pleasure, Aemond doubts there’s a more beautiful woman in all the known world and beyond.

“Give me another one,” he demands, pinching gently at her pearl and making her gasp. He quickly soothes it, stroking his calloused fingers over the sensitive bud. “Please, Cecily.”

Cecily lets out a strangled sort of moan and Aemond feels it when she reaches a second climax, her cunt spasming around him, sucking him in, practically trying to milk him. Who is he to deny her? Aemond comes with a guttural sort of sound and a desperate forward thrust of his hips, spilling his seed as deep as he can get it. 

There’s a moment where the both of them are tangled together in their joint release, a blissful sort of thing that Aemond can only liken to being atop Vhagar in the air. Aemond tucks his face into Cecily’s neck, inhaling the scent. She does smell like roses. 

Their shared reverie is broken only by their quiet panting. Aemond lifts his head after a moment, pushing some hair back from her face. 

“Was I okay?” She asks, insecurity creeping into her tired tone. 

Aemond leans down and surprising himself by pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her petal soft lips. “You were perfect.”

part vi

[nellycanwrite]

His Timeless Love

K’uk’ulkan x Reincarnator!Filipino!Reader

Summary: A God such as K'uk'ulkan has lived life by the hundreds, yet you wonder why he has not found his true love during his time of immortality. It might just shock you to believe that he had already loved you since the summer of 1592.

Or, in which K’uk’ulkan tells you the story of the four times he fell in love with you and the three times he saw you die.  

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, mentions of violence, colonization, Namor absolutely loathing colonizers and their language, graphic depictions of the Philippine Revolution, possible historical inaccuracies, extreme Catholicism, the violence of the Spanish regime, body worship, oral (f receiving), penetration (p in v), deflowering, cockwarming, creampie

Word Count: 23.5K :))

Note: This work follows along the history of the Philippines and the influences of the colonizers throughout the years of subservience. I claim no historical accuracy to the plot but the timeline and the implications of each historical era was and is researched accordingly. As such, I am also of Filipino descent specifically from Bisaya, Ilonggo, and Ilokano backgrounds.

This work is a connecting piece to His Queen. Both can be read separately and in any order.

Capital City Talokan, 2025

"Why did you choose me as your queen? Did you not find anyone worthy of your love in your long decades of life?" You had asked him in your shared chambers one night, your fingers tracing the hills of his knuckles and peppering kisses to his exposed chest.

The feathered serpent god pulled you closer to him, your legs intertwining with the silken sheets, his hand painting murals upon your barren back.

"I will only love you and only you." He replied. He lingered a kiss to your hair and whispered sweet nothings in his mother tongue. You resisted the urge to swat his arm—like you always do as a sign of your playful affection; a Filipino thing, really—and brought his hand upon your cheek to tenderly kiss the palms decorated with callouses, a clear sign of his training. 

"You have avoided the question, my dear king."

"Does it matter?" 

"It matters to me," you heaved yourself up to your elbows and trapped your king within your arms; your noses barely touching, your bare chests grazing with every slow intake of breath, your hair falling like a curtain against the luminescent algae light. K'uk'ulkan stared up at you with nothing but pure adoration, yet you felt a deep sadness from within. 

You persisted, "you are hiding something from me."

As if the sea had sensed its rulers melancholy, it shifted and it hummed amongst the rocks of the royal chambers. It crashed into you like the waves of a full moon's midnight, pelting your eyes with the sting of tears. You know not of the reason for your own sadness, but you knew somewhere in your soul that it was connected to your husband's own sorrow.

He reaches up to caress your cheek, and like a subservient dog to its master, you lean in right away to the warmth of his loving hands. He traced your features, every curve, every freckle, every bump, and every line down to the very last detail. He was memorizing every inch of you. He was burning it to memory.

"It is not a tale that is to be taken lightly. It is a burden I alone must bear." 

You leaned down further until no space was left between your bodies. His breath hitched when you caressed his own cheeks, fingernails running through the planes of his chiseled face. He was a God in every way, and you worshiped every part of his divine countenance. 

"I am your wife. I am your queen. What you know, no matter how vicious of a tale, I must shoulder. It is also a burden I must bear with you."

"My queen—" you silenced him with your lips. He would have returned the gesture with fervor, but you pulled away just as quick.

"K'uk'ulkan, akong hinigugma, akoang hari," my love. My king. His body shook in response to your mother tongue. He wondered if it was your powers at play. He, the embodiment of the sea, so easily bent to the will of your prowess. It was hardly fair, he would muse. But he will do as his queen demands, "tell me. Tell me what plagues your heart."

He hesitated for a moment. Flashes of decades worth of memories invaded his sight. You sensed his plight—you always do—so you tore your eyes away from his own earthen gaze and rested your cheek against his chest where his heart thumped in speed. You tapped your fingers to the rhythm of his pulse, your breath matching his to give him a sense of comfort. That you were there to listen. 

And with a heavy sigh, he started;

"I've decided to make you queen the first time I saw you—during that fateful day you had fought off Spanish colonizers to reclaim your motherland."

"But I have not lived that long." The drumming of your fingers stopped. You felt his heart race faster. You did not look up, instead, you waited for him to continue. 

"Not the you of the present," he tangled his own hands to your hair, his fingers playing with the strands mindlessly. There was an edge to his voice now, but as soon as you found purchase to his free hand, he breathed in a centering inhale before he continued.

"...but the you of the past."

Mactan, Cebu, Philippines, 1592

Namor.

A name fit for a cursed man like him; coined from a language he found vile. Niño sin amor. A child without love. 

It was a few years since the passing of his mother, a few years of getting accustomed to the weight of the responsibilities as the ruler of Talokan. His heart was still tainted with the fresh vengeance of the colonizers that plagued the surface world that his mother so loved.

Yet he does not do anything for people with the same plight as he. He had to protect his people—his Talokan—even when it meant he would ignore the cries of help from the land-dwelling natives robbed of their ancestral lands. 

As revered as he is in the eyes of his people as king and as a god, he was still a man fresh from adolescence. He was still a young man full of rebellious curiosity.

He loves to practice his flight above the waters of the seas. He mimicked the swiftness of flying fish, maneuvered the skies as he had seen from the native birds of the unknown lands he passed by. He was in no means masterful with his winged ankles just yet, but he was agile enough to move across the oceans until he felt the cold Atlantic winds turn into the warm winds of the pacific. 

He always marveled at the new lands he happened to stumble upon—perhaps his mother’s love for the surface world had rubbed off on him in some way. He knew the sea was his home. Talokan was where his heart lay bare. 

But he cannot help but drink the sights of the orient south; pure white sand, lush forestry by the line that divided the beaches and the wildlife, birds of every color unknown to him chirping in greeting as he flew past the polka-dotted whale sharks just skimming through the water’s edge. 

The sea-life, as if sensing the presence of their sovereign ruler, acknowledged the winged serpent god when he dove down to admire the rainbowed corals of untouched treasures. There were creatures that were new to his eyes, unique to this area, Namor could only think, and were peculiar in nature. He did not dare disturb them and continued forth, now submerged in the warmth of tropical waters.

This new land was beautiful, Namor would not refute that fact. Although in his heart Talokan reigned supreme, the underwater civilization was still young—at least the same age as he is. They were still settling in down the depths and adjusting to the darkness of the deep.

 Someday, Namor thinks to himself while staring up to the sun just below the water’s edge, someday I will bring the sun to my people. 

He jolted in surprise when creatures that surrounded him suddenly dispersed at great speeds. His feathered ankles unfurled in alarm when the muffled boom of cannons reverberated from the ocean floor. Namor maneuvered his way through the dense coral just as a shower of debris and ammunition wrecked through the homes of the creatures he had just admired a few minutes prior. 

His heart cried out for the defenseless life that was caught in the crossfire, yet he resisted the urge to surface in whole—he cannot compromise himself without the company of his guards nor with the absence of his spear. His people still needed him.

So he took shelter behind the rocky shallows hidden by a cliff’s shadow and watched. 

Warriors clad in colorful striped garb emerged from the thickets carrying spears and precious swords adorned with crested jewels and metals. 

Despite the ruggedness of their appearance (although Namor suspects it was from the running they had to go through to escape their assailants otherwise no such noble tribe would look so tired and soiled), they carried themselves with the poise of native royalty; their necks and ears were covered in golden jewelry, the anklets upon their feet clinking with the same metal. Men, women, and those possessing the traits of both alike wielded a weapon worthy of a warrior that even the Talokanil will respect. 

These people streamed through the beach with expert ease, yet there were far too many wounded to traverse through the sand with the same swiftness as the others before them.

From the thickets came the spark of death, guns shattering the oriental hymns with powerful thrums of gunshots. Namor’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched in fury when he saw the same likeness of the conquistadors that plagued his own motherland like a disease, the men of the clergy following close behind with greased crosses and bellies bulging from the weight of their own gluttonous sin. 

They hid behind armed soldiers like the cowards that they are as they continued to assault the now cornered tribe. Their feet were against the raging currents of the rocky sea—lethal if they jumped in without guide nor repercussion. 

“Ríndanse,” surrender, one of the armor clad soldiers declared in the tongue so vile Namor had to control his seething rage, “o nos veremos obligasdos a disparar.” or else they will be forced to shoot, the Spanish man continued. 

Either these people learned not of the vile tongue of the invaders or their will as warriors were keeping their mouths shut, they did not respond.

Namor’s feathered ankles bristled with a deep hatred, and along with it the selfish desire to end the lives of blasphemous fiends. But before he could fly to their aid with no weapon nor army to his name, a member of the tribe yelled out with such ferocity that it startled the gunned men. A decorated spear flew across the beach and pierced through the heart of one of the friars at the backline. 

Chaos ensued afterwards, the tribe running for refuge in the forest they had long since protected upon the instruction of their general. There were casualties left at the beach—both tribesman and colonizer alike—until what was left standing was a warrior with a bloody spear and five men with empty guns and chipped swords.

That was the first time he had met you.

You were a spectacle. A sight to behold. He watched in awe as you twisted your spear with practiced ease with techniques that were unorthodox, yet there lie a hint of refined institutions from formal training. 

Namor could only assume that you were yelling obscenities to the colonizers in your mother tongue, a dirty kind of wretched curses falling from your lips. It was not something he would find common from the mouth of what seemed to be nobility—for your neck, ears, and feet held far more gold than those of your brothers and sisters, and the cloth from your striped garments were of brighter hues and were held with belts and fasteners of gold. 

The seams of your rattan woven cotton skirts shimmered under the setting sun from golden threads and silken hems, and he knew for sure that your clothes were fit for one of the higher crusts in your community.

One of the Spanish men had aimed for your neck, yet it only served to cut through the tinsel and jasmine wreath atop your head. The golden crown upon your forehead unraveled with your braids and fell at your feet in waves. It was tangled as it was heavy, yet you still moved as if no weight in the world could stop you. 

You were outnumbered yet they were unmatched, this much was true. But your gait was smaller than those from the farthest countries of the southwest and they towered over you like predators to meager prey. 

They had managed to give you cuts, bruises, and near fatal wounds, yet your stance never wavered, not even when you had struck three men down to their knees, their blood spilled on the fine white sand.

You were cornered, alone, and near death. But you never gave in.

“Mga yawa…! Dili gayud kami motugyan!” We will never give up, you bastards! Like a final wail to the gods of war, you swung your spear in blind rage. 

You expected to die by the blades of Spanish intruders, yet you found yourself in the mercy of a god.

He rose from the water like a raging tide. His dark eyes burning with a fury that you could not fathom a mere mortal could possess. He bore the strength of a hundred men and killed them with his bare hands. 

How foolish were you to have pointed your own spear at such a creature whose ears pointed to the heavens with his feet decorated with the feathers from the holy birds above? How would you dare question the majesty of his divine presence? You quivered and you shook, the wounds from your fight gushing with blood. 

“Who are you?” You asked in your mother tongue. He cocked his head to the side. “Have you come to kill me as they have killed my people?”

“I do not understand you,” The serpent god replied in kind, his arms raising to show no harm, “but I do not wish to kill you.”

You could not understand his tongue and neither did he understand yours. But you felt his neutrality. You lowered your spear until it touched the sand of the darkened beach, the only source of light coming from the full moon peeking from the low tides of the horizon. In that moment of surrender you found yourself falling forwards, your steps now failing you at the loss of a threat. 

 You felt your body being cradled by the arms of the winged god—how impertinent must you be to act so foolishly in his presence. 

 Through the haze of your thoughts you watched as he descended below the waves after he had left you in the comfort of the shade of a coconut tree. His back rippled with the water, the tides following his every whim. One last thought consumed you before you were drowned by the comfort of the sea’s lullabies and into the arms of dreamless slumber.

“Maklium sa Tubig…”

The God of the Sea.

Following the days of your healing, you sought out the beach of your ancestral lands to wait for the Maklium sa Tubig. You were not fit to lead the rebellion against the Spanish just yet, and the other tribes had created treaties to stop their momentary strifes to battle against the common enemy. You were not as needed as you are in the frontlines whilst you rested, but you knew it was a matter of time before you had to go.

Filthy colonizers, you thought in anger. They cut down ancestral trees and burned down villages in the name of their own god. They set up fortresses without regard for the spirits that dwell in the mounds of earth, sullied the waters of the divine with their disgusting wastes.

They cursed in a foul language while holding their symbols of prayer, and they kill the caretakers of your sacred lands in cold nonchalance. They were mere strangers to the home of your royal forefathers, but they act as if they own the lands that your people had cultivated. 

You needed to join the battle; lest the soil of your mother becomes more tainted with the blood of its children. 

You needed to see that man—your god—before you were to be whisked away in war against the men with monstrous weapons and diseases that wiped out your sister tribes.

“Please, I want to see you once more, Maklium sa Tubig.”

As if to answer your prayers, a figure came and rose from the depths of the sea, his winged feet aiding him to his ascent and towering over you as a god would to his children. The moon shone upon him with favor, coating his body with a glow of magnificence.

You bowed your head low and kowtowed before the god of the sea while ignoring the wounds from your fight. It has only been a few weeks since your battle, but that did not stop you from whispering your odes of worship in your mother tongue.

The squelch of wet sand startled you out of your prayers. You dare not look up at the god who has saved you from your doom. No words were uttered between you, but you felt a large hand resting itself on your wreathed head. 

“Raise your head.” He said in a language that you did not understand. As if rediscovering this plight, Namor pulled you up to your feet and stared down at you with those dark, calculating eyes. 

It held no such warmth for you—you do not think a creature as powerful as he would hold warmth to a mortal whose spear pointed at his neck after he had saved you—yet you felt safe in the presence of your savior. 

You tore your gaze away from your god and stepped back, your head hung low and your arms extended in a respectful offering. In your hands were the finest of golden jangle necklaces with intricate detail. It depicted the crops that lay in high noon, the mountains of your dearest homeland, the spears of your ancestral warriors, and the waves of the ocean that he, your god of the sea, ascended from. Beads of precious stones were in between the golden plates; the most expensive and the rarest that you could find.

“Ilahad ko kanimo mga bahandi, Maklium sa Tubig. Nagapasalamat ang imohang magtotoo sa imong pagluwas sa akong katawhan.”

I offer you riches, God of the Sea. This believer thanks you for saving their people, you had told him. 

Namor stared at your offering a while longer than he had expected. No surface dweller had ever given him something so ornate before. Yet as he watched the warrior who bested five men twice your size, bowing before him in obedience and utmost reverence, he could not help but accept the accessory from your hands. 

A shock passed the both of you as his fingers grazed your open palm, and before you could look up to say thank you once more to the god that had saved you, not even a trace of his footsteps on the wetted sand remained. 

On the nights that followed, what turned into a meeting of god and follower turned into that of a friend’s idle meet-ups. And from friends blossomed the springtime call of love that beckoned the young warriors into a dance of ardor. 

Every seven days, you meet once again and give each other jewels, pearls, and riches that no man could fathom to give. Yet these gifts turned into physical touch, and soon enough, a kiss was all you needed to satisfy each other’s needs.

He called himself K’uk’ulkan. Although he would have given you the name Namor for you to call him by, he did not want you to utter the loveless name given to him by the same colonizers who terrorized your ancestral lands.

You were hesitant to give your love to the Maklium sa Tubig. What mortal would dare step into the loving embrace of a being more divine than they? Yet he made sure to tell you, despite the language that seemed to create a line of misunderstanding between you, that he was no god; at least, not the god of your people. He made sure to be patient with you. 

You were like a shy hatchling who cowered at the mere sight of him whenever he emerged from the waters to visit you. But you eventually gave in to the feathered touches of his fingers, the tranquil affection he had showered with every lingering caress of your cheek, and soon enough, you had been caught in the spell that you could not free yourself from. 

And even if you did, you will not willingly submit to the freedom of knowing that you cannot be with your god. Your lover. You will willingly fall into the grasps of his ardent endearments even if it meant you were to fall for a divine being. 

With every touch, with every kiss, with every breath that you shared with the feathered serpent god, Namor, no, K'uk'ulkan, felt less and less like the cursed loveless child the fiendish colonizers had branded him to be. 

In your arms, he felt loved. Puno sa gugma, as you would have told him in your language. Full of love.

He never thought he would ever receive the love of another being, much less someone from the surface world. He bore nothing but hatred for them. 

But you, the warrior who loves their people as much as they love their land, a ruler whose clansmen followed your beck and call, a creature who dances amongst the winds of the high tide without the aid of drums nor stringed instruments out of pure adoration to nature's songs has claimed his heart, body and soul.

 You were his as he was yours.

 And the heart he had thought bore no love overflowed. It spilled like the roaring surge of the waterfalls of your tribal grounds. A sacred place of worship just behind the rocks of the curtains of clear water; to praise your body in its glorious state of highest exultation, to taste the holy nectar of your jeweled flower. 

A gift you had given to him, you had told the god, for the pleasures of the union of two souls was the greatest feeling of all. There he had reached the point of euphoric bliss. There he had reached the peak of the love that he had to give, engraved deeply into the deepest parts of your body and soul.

He was now a man blessed with love.

And now you lay in his arms, his lips worshiping every bit of skin he could land upon.

“I…not meet. With you,” you played with the golden bracelets you had given your lover one night, your speech stuttering in the language you know not the name of. You tried desperately to learn his tongue, and he had soaked up your own language with every fateful meeting as well. 

You buried your toes on the wet sand and leaned your head on his jeweled chest, his arms wrapping securely around you with your figure between his legs, “war coming. Cannot meet.”

K'uk'ulkan breathed in your scent—a mixture of hibiscus and jasmine that adorned the crown of your head as well as the faint whiffs of ripened mangoes and coconuts, something unique to you and only you—and buried his head on the dip of your shoulders. 

“Stay.” One word was all he needed to communicate what he wanted in his mother tongue. You understood immediately. Despite that, you shook your head.

“Cannot stay. My people need me…”

“In yakunaj,” my love, he whispered your name in a breathless whisper. He pressed his lips to your neck, the jade from his ears tickling your cheeks. 

Your golden dangles clinked with the melody of your homeland and with it intermingled the score of its rulers’ hymns, “stay with me. Come to my kingdom. I will make you my queen.”

“Intruders kill. Home needs to be free,” you turned your head to meet the eyes of your god, of your king, and spoke in broken phrases of his tongue, “cannot abandon them. We need to be free. Our mother cries, our land weeps. Tribe ready for war. I cannot go.”

“Then let me help you,” he raises your hand to his lips, your palms burning with a pleasant tingle of his mouth on your calluses. 

He then trails himself to the jade ring on your finger—a gift he had so graciously given you on your third moment of meeting—and lingers a kiss to it softly, "let me help you defeat your enemies. And after that, you will become my queen. Tugoti ako sa pagtabang kanimo sa pagsunog sa mga manunulong sa imong yuta."

Let me help you burn the intruders of your land.

It was unfair, you thought. How can he be so fluent with your language already? You could only make out broken phrases in his mother tongue, but he speaks your language as if it is his own. 

You pouted. 

That made your lover chuckle in amusement.

And so K'uk'ulkan, with the promise of aid to your people, brought forth a small group of his strongest warriors to the waters of the orient south. He himself was equipped with his own weapon decorated with jade, gold, and pearls from the gifts that you have offered him from your island.

He brandished it high and proud as he swam through the currents in time for his promised day of rendezvous; just seven days after you had met him last.

His people were initially against it. Providing aid to an unknown tribe of surface dwellers? It was hardly an option to be considered by the Talokanil. But as soon as he had explained your people's anguish, a suffering so similar to theirs that it brought forth tears to the eyes of the elderly who remembered the days they had to flee from their motherland, the young civilization (hardly even a nation) of the deep seas had given their blessings.

Seven days of preparation. Seven days of wait. Seven days is all he needed to come back to your arms and make you his queen. Their Chilam, the priest in charge of procuring remedies and healing salves, with the guidance and blessings of the Aj k’in, the head priest of their young nation of Talokan, had made him another tonic; a blue medicine to ensure that you would become his queen after the war. 

 Yet seven days proved far too late.

 He and his warriors arrived at dusk, the beach decorated with the most lavish of fauna. Torches burned with the carvings of the depictions of wheat and sea, the huts lavished with intricately woven rattan.

 A celebration, perhaps, that the lands were garnered as such. Yet there held no joy in the midst of the fire and of the warriors who lay lifeless on the ground, the sand drinking the blood spilled unto their grasps.

He could only describe it as a bloodbath. A one-sided battle that far outnumbered the rebellious efforts of your tribe. He and his people witnessed the Spanish conquistadors bare their guns at the children and the elderly, going as far as to drag the women by their woven hairs and into their boats that docked unceremoniously by the bay. 

K'uk'ulkan felt his people seethe. He could not blame them; it was as if they were replaying the scene their mothers and their fathers had witnessed when they themselves were driven away from their own homeland. 

K'uk'ulkan's blood boiled when he saw some of your sister tribes fighting alongside their own invaders. Instead of the noble swords and decorated spears in their hands, they held guns to shoot their own kin.

They had betrayed you.

K'uk'ulkan made sure to kill off the traitors that dared oppose your authority.

Yet he did not care for those who have died in war. His only purpose was you. 

And the you that he so loved, the warrior he promised the world of both sea and land, lay lifeless at the beach with a spear on your chest—the same weapon your people had meticulously created for their most noble of warriors—and proudly by the head of an altar was a man with the same clothes as you. Your kin, perhaps. But it did not matter. 

 Your own people had betrayed you for the intruders that poisoned your home.

 It was a haze, really. His own wrath had covered his vision in red. He remembered ordering his men to sink the ships that contained vile vermin whilst he flew at great speeds to kill every single man, woman, and colonizer that dared to cross his vision. It mattered not if they were foe or ally. 

His queen is dead.

You were so beautiful in his arms. Despite the blood that dripped down your wounds, despite the crimson droplets that splattered across your golden jewelry and your ceremonial clothes, you were still a spectacle in his eyes. 

Your beauty radiates with the fire that roared behind him, your voice echoing through his mind in the midst of dying gasps around you. The sea that sloshed beneath his hip had been dyed in an eerie scarlet, and by the time the tide had rescinded, your motherland fell into a grievous hush.

She did not sing the hymns of nature like it had done a thousand times before, yet she stays in silent mourning for her children's blood that spilled on her beaches.

He knew not of the mourning customs of your people, so he honored you in the ways of his.

K'uk'ulkan and his people placed you to rest at the edge of your ancestral lands by the soil that divided the forests and the sea, offered maize and jades to your mouth, and buried you deep into the heart of your motherland. The tonic he planned to give you was placed firmly on your hands. Maybe, in another world where you have lived through the hardships of war, would you have drunk its contents and become the queen of his growing nation. 

He did not cry, at least, not in front of his people. 

And it was that night when K'uk'ulkan realized that he could never be loved. That the curses of the colonizers rang true to his very being. 

 Niño sin amor.

 Under the witness of the full moon did he cry out in anguish, his wails drowned by the roaring sea. And that night he had reclaimed his second name once again. 

 Namor. A cursed child without love. 

Baclayon, Bohol, Philippines, 1758

 It had been years since the death of Namor’s supposed-queen. By that time he had realized that he was unlike the others in Talokan. He had outlived the people who had raised him, outlived the advisers that had shown him both the hand of mercy and the fist of iron to rule, and he outlived the warriors who had grown with him through the throes of their blooming nation.

He had outlived those who have witnessed the sins of the colonizers—he was the only testament to the will of Talokan’s forefathers.

He was no ordinary man, that much was true since the day he had first claimed his birthright. It didn't surprise him that he would live past the dates of a hundred.

By this time he had studied the minerals that were rich in their nation's floors. It held a power so strong that it could brighten the depths of the deep sea. With that knowledge he had begun to formulate the plans he held dear—to bring forth the sun to his people deprived of the land they had once roamed. 

It felt incredibly bare by his side once his subjects cheered for the underwater sun that he had successfully curated. His heart felt full with praises from his people, yet there lay a void that would never be filled; for he had given half of his soul to a land-dwelling warrior of the orient south. 

 There lay no queen to the empty throne by his side.

 The strings of what was left of his heart tugged at the direction of the Pacific isles, just like any other day of the years that had gone by. Yet this tug turned into that of a forceful pull. A yearning, perhaps, that dug deep into his very core that it became as painful as the decorated spears from the warriors of the deep sea. 

And so the feathered serpent god surfaced once more and flew across the seas until his skin felt the kiss of the tropical sun. 

He still remembered the life that greeted him a century ago. It was full of grandeur and treasures unknown, yet should be left untouched by the hands of the non-dwellers of the sea.

 What he saw was nothing like the memories of the past.

 Boats and armored ships docked the bays of what was once your home, the home of the sea-life turning as dull as the rusted anchors that replaced the dying anemone. There were a slew of people all ranging from the colors of their skin to the tongue that they speak. 

The sand was now replaced with stones and bricks and concrete, the trees turned to infrastructures for trade. There is a clear hierarchy amongst the surface dwellers—the supreme men of education from the colonizers that plagues your lands, the natives with the same likeness as you, the one that he so held dear, and pale skinned workers with narrow eyes that spoke a language he has not recognized.

Those of low birth (Namor had to clench his teeth at the mere implication of the noble tribes of your people to be of common backgrounds) were chained and whipped and scorned like they were the plagues to this land. The colonizers bore crosses of prayer, offered the Word of their doctrines as a show of mercy, yet they treated your people as if they were the scum and the friars the messiah. 

He had to resist the urge to fly into another fit of rage. He cannot compromise himself nor his people.

The pull from his heart led him away from the busy port town of merchants and slaves, around a few more islands into the motherland, and into a secluded beach with a grand manor by the plot of land further inland. The dusk provided a hush so similar to the one he had heard centuries ago—the lullabies of your motherland almost lulling Namor to sleep. Yet he persisted in his search, flying in closer to the manor with very spare lamps to its sides.

By now the sun had almost kissed the sea its goodbyes, and his eyes strained to see the faint silhouettes from the balcony of the hacienda.

In the years that he has lived without you by his side, his broken heart suddenly skipped with the feeling that he claimed to have lost in his century-long mourning. 

You were as beautiful as the day that he had lost you; the same sparkle of your unwavering gaze that held nothing but the wit of a datu, the sheen of your golden skin flickering with the lamp by your side, the stature of a figurehead that leads with fervor into battle. 

The same face, the same mannerisms, the same scrunch of your brow when you had to plunge into a circle of deep thought. It was you.

Yet you were not dressed as the warrior Namor had known you to be. You were dainty. Fragile. Instead of a rose with jagged thorns, you were a jasmine in the high afternoon. Defenseless. Smaller than the world. You bear not the golden jewels upon your skin, nor the scars nor ink of your ancestral heritage. 

You were a woman of class, of poise. A princess whose hands have not held the spears of rebellion nor the blood of the enemy. You wore a dress that was far too regal; you could not as much as run into the battles you had once waged for your land. 

Despite this, Namor knew. He knows in his heart—his very soul—that it was you. 

And how that excited him so. 

He was too far to hear the musings of your lips as another woman—this time with far less poise, drab clothes, narrow eyes that shifted down in respect, and the palest of pallor—approached you in high regard. She spoke to you as if you were her master, yet you replied with a kindness that made the sangley at ease in your presence.

You moved with the grace of nobility, shied away from the breeze of the sea with the same sway of the tropical trees, and you uplifted the sangley, one of low birth in comparison to your standing, like she was one of your own; without fault nor the judgment of race, without the grimace nor stare of a boorish colonizer.

A queen. That was what you are. A leader fit to rule by his side and claim the empty throne on his right hand.

He wanted to go and fly up the balconies of your manor, claim the lips that he had once lost in war, and bring you back to his home and let you reclaim the right that had been yours since the beginning of his reign as king. Yet he waited for the perfect time to face you. He watched your newfound life, marveled at the way you had changed so much yet so little at the same time. 

Namor seethed when he saw men of Spanish class strolling across the beach, their arrogance seeping out in waves that even the god could feel from his distance from the shores. They called out to you in the tongue that he had hated, presenting you with a rose from below, and the other men accompanied such gestures with songs of courting. 

He would have killed those men who dared lay their eyes upon his beloved, but you simply scoffed at them from the balcony. You unfurled your fan with a snap, diverted your eyes away from your suitors, and slowly fanned the silken abanico by your chest. 

You fiddled with the golden tassel that hung low from the native wood, your whole countenance uninterested with the advances of the noble insulares—Philippine born Spaniards. The sangley at your side giggled in amusement and the men down below had dejectedly left you to your own devices with their head hung low and their pride crushed.

Whatever you had done with your fan had left them heartbroken. Namor found joy at the fact that there did not exist another man who could ever claim your soul as he had done in the past.

As the days passed, Namor had viewed you from afar. He watched as you mingled with more noble ladies your age, sewn beautiful articles of cloth as a gift to your father—a governor general, he assumed—and lived the life of a princess. You were not the warrior he came to know you to be, but his love still overflowed with a new passion. You wore the same smile, bore the same laugh, and you still possess the same air of dignity that led the charge in pursuit of your beliefs. 

You had snapped your fan open and fanned yourself slowly to the countless other men who tried to court you from down your balcony; you must be the most precious flower in this land. And rightfully so. 

He wondered how a woman as strong as you would be sheltered as much as you are now. You had the makings of a leader, but the men of higher titles bore those roles despite being ill-fitted. 

One particularly peaceful dusk, as he watched you talk with the sangley, you had finally gone out from your manor to bask in the freshness of your motherland’s air. You glided down the beach while gripping the ends of the sheer fabric of your pañuelo, dragged the wide train of your elaborate saya, and relished the salty breeze that came from the sea. Your hair, which was always tied in a complicated updo, has now unraveled. 

You were so beautiful in Namor’s eyes, even this version of you that was decorated with the most intricate of fragile cloth and the innocence of a maiden of class.

Namor could not take this silent wonder to himself any longer. He needed to see you. He needed to touch you. He needed to hear you.

 He needed you.

 His heartbeat pounded against his pointed ears, his hands shaking from excitement, or was it fear? Fear that you might not remember him, fear that you will not come back as the queen that he had hoped you to be. 

Yet as he watched you close your eyes in peace, he purged the thought of such fear. You were still the woman that he loved. The person who owns half of his soul. He needed to feel your body in his arms again and shower you with the two hundred year long affection that overflowed in his chest.

And with a final beat to his feathered wings, he emerged from the water in front of you. Just like the first time you met on that fateful beach long ago. 

Your eyes were still closed, your breath still at peace. He drew in closer, and closer until she could smell the jasmine that decorated your hair. You were so near, just an arm’s length away. He raised his hand, ready to caress the supple of your cheek that he had so longed to hold since the first time he saw you by the bay—

Then you snapped your eyes open in horror and fell to the ground with a panicked shriek.

Fear. It was painted in your eyes. The same fear that washed over the eyes of his enemies when he pointed a spear to their neck to meet their untimely demise. The same fear he had instilled to the people who had wronged him and cursed him as a deadly foe.

The same fear he never wished to see in your own eyes—the eyes that once held so much love for him.

“In reina—” my queen, he started. But you still shook with great fear and apprehension. 

 “¡Demonio!” 

 Namor’s blood froze as you uttered the tongue that he loathed so much. It coursed through with a hot rage like an inferno, the shock of disbelief, and with it came the despair that he felt through his veins. The warrior who had fought for their motherland was tainted by the same people that had ravished your culture, tore down your ancestral homes, and assaulted your own people in the guise of religious crusade.

His heart lurched again, but this time it was from the pain. To see his beloved hold so much fear for him, for you to clutch the cross that adorned your neck in the prayer he found so vile that made him want to lash out in his own disgust. 

What words have you uttered to curse him whilst you praised your Christian god, what such contempt do you hold for him, he wondered, for you to ask the holy mother to cast him out like the demon of the depths of hell that he was supposed to be? 

The mouth you had used to praise him, the one you used to kiss him and call your god of the sea, now spoke nothing but the language of filthy invaders that he hated the most.

You had forgotten him. It hurt to accept the fact that all of the love that he had given you in the century that he had mourned had been forgotten and replaced with disgust of his being. Yet he did not blame you, he only blamed the enemies that have tainted your soul with dark hatred.

 “¡No eres bienvenido en esta tierra, demonio! ¡Te expulso en el nombre de mi dios!” You are not welcome in this land, demon! I cast you out in the name of my god! You declared.

You dared not ask for help, but instead you fought him off with that foul tongue. 

You were still a fighter despite being treated as royalty, and it hurts so much to know that he cannot praise your spirit when you were tainted by the influence of the vile conquistadors.

This was too much. Namor could only bear so much.

And before the guardia civil could even see a glimpse of him after they had heard the cries of their young mistress, he had fled into the sea and never returned.

That night, the ocean sang the songs of cruel anguish; for its king mourned the loss of his queen to the hands of colonizers once again.

A loveless child. That was what he was. The cursed man whose half his soul died along with his beloved.

Niño sin amor.

A year after he had fled from your sight, he came back to watch you again. Despite the pain, he had to see you one last time.

Yet he was met with a line of mourners holding a cross to their lips as they prayed their ninth day of rosary in front of a coffin by the sea.

He did not stay to find out whose wake it was, but by the sobbing form of the sangley that you always loved to dote, the ladies that you had shared a pleasant time with embroidered kerchiefs, and the weeping governor general by the head of the procession and the lead to the rosary,

Namor knew he will never see the smile of his beloved ever again. 

Manila, Philippines, Summer of 1896

There were rumors of an entity that gifted their favorite followers golds and jaden necklaces, pearls and diamond rings, riches that no indio could ever imagine getting their hands on in the presence of the guardia civil and the watchful eye of the Catholic church. 

There spared no mercy to the rightful owners of the land once owned by the slaves that toiled the lands by the whips of their Spanish masters; each morsel of coin and bread carefully rationed three days worth of portions for a week worth of labor. 

But the rumors of the generous being were drowned by the whispers of revolution, hushed meetings of a triage at the wee hours of the night, and there lay plans—real strategies, not the old tale of riches from a benevolent god of luxury—of the fight for the land that was stolen from them by the Spanish. 

“Hermanos, hermanas, batid kayo hinggil sa nabigong stratehiya ng mga illustrados na naghahangad ng kapayapaan sa pamamaraan ng publikasyon at pluma. La liga filipina ha demostrado ser inútil.” Brothers, sisters, I’m sure you are all aware of the failed peace strategies of the illustrados. La Liga Filipina has proven to be useless. 

You listened attentively whilst dressing the wounds of a young katipunero, the gashes that came from the swords of the guardia civil seeping blood into the fresh bandages. 

You frowned as the young man hissed, but he kept it in well to let your leading general continue with his speech. It was a formality at this point—to start the secret meetings at midnight with a speech after the revolutionaries separated from La Liga Filipina—it was to ensure the new members of the triage were made aware of their roles in the armed revolution. 

La Liga Filipina was not completely useless, you had thought to yourself helplessly. You wanted to end this war with peace. You wanted the written articles of the educated men of class to be heard through the high societies of the Spanish regime. All you wanted was freedom without the cost of bloodshed of your fellow men. 

You would have stayed with the league if it weren’t for your lack of education. As a daughter of a fisherman, you did not have the time nor the resources to attend the catholic schools that were built for your purpose. 

And even if you did learn how to properly articulate your revolutionary propaganda, you knew higher society would frown upon the texts that were written by mere women, much more when you were of a low birth.

The general of the revolutionary movement called out on you, his wife perking up at the mention of your name. You straightened up and patted the poor injured boy by your side. He was still a whimpering mess despite the amount of medicine and rolls of gauze you had used on his injured arm. 

“Po?” What? You asked whilst you wiped your hands clean of blood. Your general merely quirked a brow and cleared his throat. 

“Muntikan nang mahuli ang ating bise noong nakaraang hatinggabi,” Our vice president was almost caught last midnight, he told you in brief. You shot a glance to the woman by his side—his wife, the vice president of the Revolutionary’s Women’s Chapter—and frowned.

The guardia civil have proven to be drawing closer and closer to your base of operations, and if anyone would have discovered the plans of the custodian, it would be the end of the freemasonry, “nangangailangan kami ng pagtustos mula sa ating kapwa rebolusyonaryo sa pagtago ng ating mga armas.” We need the assistance of our sister revolutionaries with hiding our weapons, he continued. 

“Oye, ano ang kinalaman nito sa akin? Isa lang akong manggagamot sa himagsikan.” What does this have to do with me? I am merely a medic in the revolution.

“At isa ka ring babae,” and you are a woman, he told you pointedly. You shot him a look of disdain, his wife shooting him a similar squinted stare. All the other women in attendance at the secret meeting frowned and held their chins up higher, the others who were tending to their weapons pausing in their tasks. There were few women who would willingly join the revolution, but they did not fall short on their responsibilities. They could do their job equal to, even better than, a man. Noticing his mistake, the general cleared his throat and raised his hand in surrender to show no ill-will.

“Lo siento, binibini, mali ang aking pagkasabi,” I apologize, young lady. I phrased myself poorly, he pulled out a map from a hidden compartment from his desk and laid it out on the adjoined tables for everyone to see. 

He pointed to a spot near the ports of Manila, trailing his fingers across lands that did not bear any paths, and signaled his chin forward for you to see, “bilang isang babae, mas mababawasan ang paghihinala ng mga guardia sibil kapag sila’y nagsisiyasat ng iyong karwahe. Walang maghihinala na ang isang babae’y sumali sa mga rebolusyonaryo.” As a woman, The civil guards would not raise any suspicions whilst inspecting your carriage. They would hardly suspect a woman to be a member of the revolution.

“Ano ang nais mong gawin ko, heneral?” What do you wish me to do, general? 

He pursed his lips and gestured to the hidden doors of the basement where all the weapons lay hidden, “Isang kinsena. Kikilos ka sa loob ng isang kinsena upang ilipat ang ating mga armas. Inuutos din kitang magbigay ng tulong medikal sa ating kapwa katipunero sa baybaying dagat.” A fortnight. You must move out within a fortnight to relocate our weapons. I am instructing you to give medical aid to our fellow revolutionaries by the bay as well. 

You nodded at your new instructions, burning everything to memory as the general forged new plans to inconspicuously sneak you past the civil guards that manned and roamed the port bay. You were prepared for the responsibility that awaited you, but at the same time, there was a pull to your gut that something life-changing will happen during your journey. 

That feeling persisted until you sneaked past out of the backdoors of the meeting room and into your own quaint little home downtown.

 You chalked it up to nerves.

The plan was successful; the idea was to disguise yourself as a peninsulares’ fiancé and meet your lover at the bay (a plan carefully executed in cahoots with your fellow revolutionaries that were affiliated with the La Liga Filipina). 

No one will suspect a woman like yourself to carry guns and blades in the guise of gifts to your wealthy groom-to-be. And a little bit of a scene from your brothers of the revolution near the entrance of the port town, you passed by quickly from the inspection gates, bid the guards a blessed day, and made your way towards the hacienda that was lent to you by your wealthier brothers of the league. 

And by god was it beautiful.

It sat near the ports just a shy away from the main docking bays of trade. Yet it gave you a fair distance to be considered private that no man would dare see past the foliage of the trees that surrounded the courtyard facing the sea. You breathed in the scents of the ocean—a scent that you missed dearly—and helped your coachman (and fellow revolutionary) unload your ‘gifts’ for your ‘fiancé.’

After the luggage has been stored, and the weapons hidden under the floorboards and basements of your new casa, you take the time to stroll across the beaches of your new home. It was quiet, save for the port side bells that signaled the dusk from across the distant shores, and stood quietly by the edge of the water. 

You chose this time to relish the momentary peace that you were privileged enough to bask in. Your brothers and sisters were out to war, yet you remain here awaiting the orders of your general. You were an integral part of the revolution and you knew that very well. But you would rather ride into battle in armed cavalry against the colonizers that terrorized your people. 

By your side, you hear splashes of water and the quelch of wet sand. You snapped your eyes to the direction of the noise, your arms immediately grabbing the blade hidden under your saya on instinct. You were not afraid of any man nor friar who would prey on helpless women, yet you will not take any chances.

You blinked in confusion when you were met with nothing by the beach. Must it have been your imagination? Surely not—you were accustomed to the sound of silent footsteps when you had fought the battles of night, trained your ears to the slightest of shifts in preparation for a silent war. 

You must be out of practice after a fortnight of etiquette training for your new high-class persona. 

A glimmer caught your eye just buried beneath the wet sand. The waves unearthed a golden necklace of sorts with intricate designs depicting the sea. You blinked in confusion as you sheath your blade and picked up the jewelry in question. A jade fit snugly into the slot of the golden amulet, and there were small pearls lined with the golden threads. 

You have heard of rumors of a god that gave gold and jade riches to those that they had pleased. It was the legends passed by the tongue of your hometown in the south; when your ancestors worshiped the god of the sea and bore gifts in exchange. 

You wondered if this was mere coincidence—there was a possibility that such an accessory was dropped by one of the noble ships that carried riches and was swept by the tide and showed up at your feet.

Nevertheless, you used the cloth of your saya to wipe away the water and the sand from the beautiful piece, held it to the light to admire the masterful craftsmanship, and held it close to your heart. 

Somehow, despite your desire to send it to your family to provide monetary aid for your brothers and sisters, you wanted to keep it close to you and never let it go. 

And from just behind the rocks of the bay, it was enough for Namor to see you keep his gift with a smile; the smile he thought he would never see again. 

But you were right there. Right there. Fate had given him a chance to marvel at your magnificence once again. His heart fluttered with the desire to take you as his queen, and the love he thought that died a second time flourished and overflowed.

Only this time, he was going to admire you from afar. That much was enough for him. It was not your fault that the colonizers had influenced your people so much that you had casted him away more than a century ago. 

But he cannot bear his beloved utter the tongue of vile vermin. It was a reminder of his weakness; that he could not save you at your first cycle of life.

And so he watched you like he did in your second life, only this time he did not do anything to satiate the itch of his longing in fear of your rejection; 

 for the mighty god would lose his way if he were to lose the light that he held so dearly in the heart that cried out for your loving embrace.

You were sure you were going crazy. Believing myths and stories that were used to keep troublesome children in bed? Hardly a thing that you would even consider in your years of life.

Yet you had to wonder; what in the world have you done to appease the god of the sea to deliver so much wealth at your doorstep? It had been a month since your reinstatement to the port city. 

You worked as a spy of sorts, collecting whispers and hushed rumors of anything related to the revolution. The wind speaks of a rebellion just across the horizon. It was high time for war—your general had written to you in a passage of a poem about the red roses in the last drops of summer. A code, you gathered, of the real battle that is to begin in a month. 

You always worried what it meant for your people, and that worry would bloom into an unsettled anxiety. You always walked through the beaches for fresh air when you were deep in thought, and lo and behold, another gift would appear right at your feet, hidden by the wet sand of the sea. It has been a month of golds and jades and naturally intricate conch shells. 

It would have scared you to meddle with the affairs of such divine entities, but you found yourself comforted by whatever being or coincidence that would offer you such gifts.

The riches that were handed to you by a silver platter had been most helpful with the revolution. You had stocked the shelves high with medicine for war, bought books from the higher ends of the Spanish markets (even though it will take some time for you to decipher the written text with your lack of education), and supplied monetary aid to your general’s ranks to buy you more gunpowder for the oncoming war. 

You had also bought yourself crates upon crates of arms to be shipped off in the high time of trade; this will give your brethren of the rebellion more chances to fight for themselves. It will be needed the most, especially when the Spanish would outnumber you by a hundred thousand.

As you studied the new gift bestowed upon you—a sheer patterned cloth bundling a few golden coins—your heart swelled with an unknown warmth. The thoughts of war dissipated from your head, and what was left of the impending sorrow of the revolution was the love of fate that somehow swept itself on the tide of your beaches.

“Ano ba ang namalas ng iyong binditadong mga mata upang matamo ng isang Sugbuanong kagaya ko ang iyong pagunlak, Maklium sa Tubig?” What do your divine eyes see to have garnered such favor from a poor Cebuano such as I, God of the Sea?

 Everything, Namor replied to your question in his mind. He clutched the pouch of golds and jades to his heart as it yearned for your touch. Although he was still not accustomed to the new language that you had spoken, he still understood the implications of your question directed to him, even though you did not know your words were heard by the feathered serpent god. 

You did not even have to try to garner his favor. He will still love you all the same. He did not need divine judgment nor the aid of a heavenly council, he loved every single part of you just the same. He loved every single version of you; past, present, and future.

On the days that have passed you have gotten even busier. Reconnaissance, medical aid, even the task of a revolutionary herald had been passed on to you. You knocked on doors and brought news of war, spread rumors—both truth and hearsays—to confuse those who eavesdropped by the alleys.

No Spanish soldier would ever think a woman of all people would spread the mumbles of revolution. Yet here you were, hidden right under their noses as you had expanded the triage of the port bay. More and more young men and women joined the secret meetings every midnight, and there are more to come in the following weeks. 

This new responsibility weighed heavily on your shoulders. You were not the leader your general thought you would be, nor are you the dependable mother of revolution Ka Oriang had inspired you to be. 

You were just a woman of low birth whose voice was drowned by the men with pride and far more tactical brilliance than you. You were a medic, not a warrior. A woman who had no right to be at the head of the strategist table.

Namor watched from afar as you became the leader of such a great rebellion. It was an admirable feat, one that Namor would have done if it weren’t for his priorities to keep his people hidden. Yet he frowned at your desolate disposition from the rocks he had settled in. You were unsure. Scared. Fearful of the future of the duty you had taken initiative in. 

And just like any other day, when you lay on the sand just shy away from the water, he would send forth the sea to deliver his gifts. He would watch as you would pick it up from the sand and shine the last light of dusk towards the string of pearls and gold. 

You would smile ever so softly to yourself, the smile that had made his immortal heart lurch from his chest in great affection. How he longed to be the one to deliver his gifts to your own hands, kiss the lips that would praise his name, and caress the cheeks of your golden skin like it was the most precious treasure of all; one that his own riches paled in comparison to.

“Gracias, Maklium sa Tubig,” thank you, God of the Sea, you had addressed to the waters before you with a humorous chuckle. 

Namor’s heart shook once again, “tila’y nagsisimula na akong manilawa na ika’y isang totoong nilalang at hindi isang kathang-isip lamang.” I think I’m starting to believe that you are a real being and not just a figment of my imagination.

But I am real, Namor resisted the urge to fly out from his hiding and declare to the world his existence for you. He wasn’t a figment of your imagination. 

The love he bears for you is real and true. There lay no lie to his affections nor there lay no contempt. He wanted to tell you, make you believe that he was real, and that you meant so much to him in this timeline and the next. 

With a heavy heart and a soul who stretched out to the land in which you lay, he fingered the vial of the vibranium infused tonic and dove into the depths of the sea. 

Maybe someday he can give you the elixir that would give you life amongst his people, but for now, he had to lay his heart to rest from the pain that came from his yearning. 

He would never have expected what nightmare you had to face in his absence. 

You had called out to him, your God of the Sea, for the war you had thought you would have won was so close to its defeat. The Spanish had discovered you, uncovered your midnight gatherings, confiscated the arms that were left for the last day’s shipment. 

You were successful in delivering the weapons to another safehouse, closer to the base of the inner city. Yet you had foolishly bought too many with the riches that came from your newfound wealth from the benevolent god of your ancestors.

 No one would suspect a woman to be in the revolution. No woman was to fight in the place of a man. But you had garnered too much suspicion—a fake name of a noblewoman buying arms in the guise of hunting gear for their fiance—yet no woman would buy so much. No woman would buy arms that were made to shoot the lives of men, not pheasants nor game.

You called out to him during the night, when the Spanish had burned down your home with your procured medicines that were bought from the gifts of your god. You called out a name foreign to the friars present, and they had labeled you a woman of native witchcraft. 

They spat at you like you were a demon from the depths of hell, beat you with whips that were blessed with holy water. You did not give them the satisfaction of your cries, but you did receive more of their ire when you screamed out to your god of the sea in your mother tongue.

You called out to him on the dusk that had come, your arms and legs tied with your camisa stained with your own blood. It stung like the pinpricks of hot needles, and the holy water that was thrown at your back served to make it even more painful. 

You wondered if you were really a demon, as they had called you, when the blessed water burned your wounds. 

They had hauled more men down to the beach and let them kneel in front of the ocean; a witness to your inevitable death, perhaps, that they so shamelessly presented the sea with the blood of the natives of the land that they had stolen. You were glad that most of the younger men under your wing had escaped, and what was left of the battered revolutionaries were those who had fought gallantly at your side. 

You would assume that the message of your capture would have spread throughout the ranks, and you feared that the general would have to move the plans more quickly upon your discovery.

The guards tied blindfolds upon your eyes. The sea’s rage intensified in your ears, furious. You felt the wind pick up and the sound of multiple guns drawn a few meters behind you. You cursed yourself and this mess. You heard your brothers curse alongside you as well.

It was your fault, you had told yourself. Your fault that the rebellion had been discovered. Your fault that the war started when you were underprepared. Your fault that the general had to pay the price of your negligence. Your fault that the blood of your brothers would be shed in panic.

“¡Viva la revolucion!” Long live the revolution! You heard one of your brothers cry out. You held the urge to smile; for even in the face of the death penalty were they loyal to the cause. 

Bang! The sound of a rifle. The sound of a body that fell lifelessly to the ground.

And that was one brother down.

“¡Viva la revolucion!” The sound of guns being switched around, the metal of the trigger being drawn.

Bang!

“¡Viva la revolucion! Mabuhay Pilipinas! Kalayaan para sa bayan!” Long live the revolution! Long live the Philippines! Freedom for our nation!

Bang!

Prayers were chanted amongst the friars of the sinful church, their doctrines washed away with the tide that had now touched your knees. It stung your open wounds as you let out a hiss, but you bare mind to it. You felt more blessed water being thrown at your whipped back and the beads of the rosary wrapped firmly around your neck.

“¡Viva la revolucion!” You cried out, your throat raw from the intensity of your cries.

And mere seconds from your inevitable death, just as the final draw of guns could be heard from behind you and the collective click of the metal from the triggers, you prayed.

Prayed for the God of the Sea to come save you. 

Prayed for His salvation, for Him to deliver you to everlasting life as He had delivered your ancestors and gave them riches of gold and jade.

Prayed for the sea to curse the colonizers who had enslaved the people of your motherland.

And then your God of the Sea came. Your Maklium sa Tublig.

Namor had jumped in a blind rage, his cries for war now carrying all the hate of the world with a swing of his spear. He had just arrived to bear you new gifts, golden earrings that your past self had loved to wear, yet it lay forgotten in the sand as he tore down every single man who stood in attention to the suffering that they had caused. 

His blood boiled at the sight of your ruined dress, the stripes of punishment fresh on your back and marking the skin that he so loved so much. He had caught the glimpses of wicked perversion from the blasphemous men of faith, and as soon as he had slayed the enemies that dared point their arms at you, he turned to the Spanish friars with the coldness of a god that besmirched his enemy.

“¡¿Quién eres tú?!” Who are you, one of the three friars asked, his legs betraying him as he fell on the sand. The others followed suit, too weak in the presence of a being as divine as he.

 They shook at the sight of the ears that pointed to the heavens, cried out in shock at the feathered ankles that kept him afloat. He was a demon, they cried out in their tongue. But your digress. He was your savior; your god.

“My followers call me K’uk’ulkan,” he sneered at the tongue that had cursed him centuries ago, yet he continued to bear the weight of their vile language to deliver his message. His feathered ankles bristled as he hovered by your side; a clear indication of his protection. In the midst of his anger did he let his otherwise dutiful countenance slip from his control. 

He could not fathom the rage that he felt. He will make sure that every drop of blood that has dropped from your skin and has yet to be spilled will be paid a hundredfold.

Although you cannot see your god who had answered your prayers, you cried behind the cloth of your blindfold in reverence to his name. Namor pointed his spear at the trembling men, and with a loud voice he had proclaimed—

“...and your people, my enemies, call me Namor.”

The friars had held their crosses in their dying breaths, chanting the name of their Christian god in vain. They casted out the demon of the sea with their very being, yet their god had forsaken them for the sins that they have committed in the name of crusade.

There lay no mercy to the blasphemous fiends of the high courts of the church; for their names shall not be engraved in the book before the gates of their salvation.

And the you who had so diligently called out to your own god for mercy was granted deliverance against the trials that awaited you. The prize you had won for your faith was more than riches and gold. 

It was the love of your god—your God of the Sea.

Maklium sa Tubig. Your K’uk’ulkan.

“Stay awake for me, my love,” he spoke in your tongue with panicked breaths. 

You hissed and grunted at the stings from your whipped back, but you felt at peace when he cradled you in his arms. He tore your blindfold off of your eyes, and you nearly cried at the sight of him. He was beautiful. Divine. Worthy of such a title of god. “do not dare close your eyes in my presence.”

“You came.” You pathetically rasped. Your lips were dry and chapped. It was almost painful to move your mouth. 

“You called,” he carefully took your hand while being mindful of your wounds and kissed the calloused skin of your palms. 

You replied in kind, weakly brushing your shaking fingers over his pointed ears. You held no such disgust to his form; only wonder to his majesty.

He leaned into your touch like a man starved of affection, and you wondered how blessed you were to get such treatment from your god, “how dare I ever ignore your pleas when I have given half my heart and soul to you?”

“I am hardly worthy—” you coughed out from the dryness of your throat, the sudden action shooting more pain up your body. Namor held you closer to him gently. In the arms of your god, you felt free, “I c-cannot possibly be worth half your heart and soul.”

“But you are. You are worth more than any riches, more worth than the blessings of the sea could give,” he connected his forehead to yours and submitted into your presence. 

You were blinding, a sight for his immortal eyes, “you need to rest, my love. You are now safe.”

“It is too late for me.” You rasped. He shook his head in denial.

“You are not to die today. Your king forbids it.”

Your eyes fluttered shut despite the order of your god. You smiled in content at the feeling of the sea beneath your hips, the tide slowly bidding its final strokes of goodbye. 

Namor’s eyes widened and his heart lurched painfully from his chest. He needed to do something, anything!

Then he remembered the tonic that he had saved to make you a part of his people. Surely the tonic would help remedy your wounds in some way, he thought in clouded desperation. 

It had cured his ancestors from the diseases brought by the conquistadors, after all. He pulled out the tonic from the pouch of gold and jade he used to store his gifts for you, popped open the cork of the precious liquid, and directed the vial towards your lips.

His hands shook in great panic, the contents spilling from your mouth and down your chin, as if you were rejecting the life that he so desperately wanted you to consume. In his haste, he dropped the vial into the water. 

He was quick to save it, but half of its contents spilled and saltwater had mixed with the concoction. Yet he did not mind. Just a sip was enough. Anything to save you.

“Drink, I beg of you. Drink.”

Yet you held no response. 

And with a final desperate move to revive you, he put the vial to his own lips, gathered the medicine into his mouth, and kissed you. 

The kiss from a god is one that should be revered as the highest form of praise. Yet you could not think of anything but the surge of power that coursed through your body. 

It was as painful as it was comforting—it felt like your blood had flowed backwards, your lungs expanding and filling with water, yet there was a gentle wave that came with it, suspending you into a sensation of tranquility in the arms of the deep ocean.

You snapped your eyes wide open, your chest heaving with great gusto and inhaling as much of the air that sustained your lungs greedily. The sea, as if feeling the presence of its new ruler, shook and roared around you and your savior, ropes of seawater surrounding you in a show of your newfound authority. 

Namor gaped at the sight—it was a power as beautiful and as powerful as you. It was befitting your own character, for you are as gentle as the waves of the ocean yet as harsh and as tumultuous as the stormy seas. Your heart lay deeper into the depths of ardor and the care for your nation.

You have proven time and time again that you were fitting to be his queen.

The pain from your wounds have gone, yet you still feel a lingering numbness from the effects of the medicine. Your eyes shifted to meet the magnificent earthen oak of the eyes of your savior whose tears overflowed at the sight of your breaths of life.

You smiled albeit weakly and wiped the crystalline drops of his joys and sorrows with your trembling fingers.

“Why do you cry, Maklium sa Tubig?”

He did not speak nor did he dare attempt to. He released a humorless laugh, one of great relief, as he tried his best to hide his tears from your eyes. But you have seen all of him; the raw and pure version of him that you have come to love despite your lowly mortal self.

And then with a shaky whimper, he said,

“Call me by my real name. I implore you, my love, for I have waited centuries to hear my name on your lips once again.”

And with a tired smile you replied.

“As you wish, K’uk’ulkan.”

For the first time in centuries, K’uk’ulkan finally felt half of his heart and soul at peace. The queen he had failed to save is now alive in his arms, breathing and healing from their past wounds.

She was as beautiful as the stars that had guided him through the open seas, as graceful as the sway of the forest kelp in the deep ocean floor, and there lay no more danger in their midst—for she was safe in the arms of the god she had begged to come to their aid at their deathbed.

“What is in your mind, K’uk’ulkan?” You asked him ever so silently, your hands trailing across the planes of his face in such delicate strokes that it made his whole body jolt in great adoration. 

Three months ago you would have shrunk back and called yourself blasphemous; for there no existed such a mortal who would ever hold a god so comfortably. But now you surrendered to him so well and you have accepted his affections wholeheartedly. You were now free to roam your hands across the planes of his body and burn to memory his very existence.

“Nothing of importance,” he whispered gently, his breath fanning across the exposed skin of your neck.

You would have shied away if these were different circumstances; no woman should have a man even near their chambers when you only sported a sheer chemise and skirt. Yet you purged the thought in your mind. 

Your lover was of greater renown. He would do anything within his power to keep you close to him as much as possible, “your wounds have almost healed. It should be about time before you have to go back to the frontlines to fight.”

“I love my people and I love my nation. But I would like to cherish these moments with you, irog ko.” My beloved. Such a sweet endearment from the chimes of your mother tongue. 

You turned your body so you would face him, his eyes piercing through the morning sun. The rattan hut in which you’ve spent to hide from your foes was quaint, but it was close to the ocean and away from the nightmares of war. 

The people deemed you dead, you had gathered. But your general knew of your whereabouts from the letters that you had sent after the catastrophe by the port bay. You were to rest and provide aid as soon as you were ready, and with the help of newfound powers of controlling the sea and water, you were sure to bring your people to victory.

“Are you certain you do not wish for me to whisk you away?” He asked, his feathered legs tangling with yours under the light covers, “My kingdom waits for their queen to sit on the right hand of my throne.”

“I cannot go with you. Not yet, at least,” you breathed in his scent—the smell of the sun and the oceans—and rested your forehead on his bare chest, the jewels that adorned his neck now lay idly by your bedside, “my people still have to be free from the grasps of their oppressors. My brothers and sisters are bearing arms whilst I lay in comfort. I will join them as soon as I have healed. For my nation. Para sa inang-bayan.” For the motherland.

Namor sighs, but it wasn’t from disappointment. For months he has asked you to return home with him, to hide away into the depths of the ocean and make you the queen of his great nation. But he knew that as much as you would like to learn the ways of his people, you still had to save yours from their own downfall.

It was a feeling Namor understood quite well. If he were to find the kingdom of Talokan in the hands of the enemy, he would also fight until the bitter end. He possessed the spirit of the warrior, and you possess a similar spark to save your motherland.

“I understand,” he feathered kisses over the crown of your head and basked in your presence. You still smelled like the roses and jasmine that adorned your headdress in your first life, “you were just like this in the past. Always thinking of your people, always fighting to protect the ones you hold dear.”

 “How are you so sure that the me of the present is the me you have met in the past?”

 “Because, in yakunaj,” he trailed his hands down to your back, his hands painting murals of his endearment. There still lie the lines of the whipped scars from the Spanish friars a few months ago, but K’uk’ulkan finds them beautiful. 

A sign of your strength, “your soul resonates with mine. It is like a bond that can never be broken. I would pick your soul amongst a million that may ever hinder us, and the love I have for you is as timeless as the sand that settles down the depths of the sea. I will find you no matter what era; no matter what reality. I will still choose you.”

Overwhelmed with the ardent dedication your lover has presented you, you couldn’t help but lean forth to kiss him. He returned with such fervor that it elicited the sweet sounds of your excitement. K’uk’ulkan’s heart soared, and if it were possible, the love he had to give overflowed yet again in a larger tide than he had ever experienced before. 

He was careful when he lay your back on the rattan bed, the covers now pooling beneath you and creating a halo so divine that he would mistake you as the goddess and he the devotee. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drew in closer to his swollen lips, and shivered at his very touch.

 “I am ready, K’uk’ulkan.”

 He stopped ever so reluctantly, his breath hitching whilst the heat that came from his heart doubled and spread to the tips of his feathered ankles. Suddenly, you were far too tempting beneath his arms, so ready for him to take you. You were tantalizing. Absolutely exquisite. 

“Are you sure?” His hands ghosted the hems of your chemise as you shook under his concupiscent gaze, “are you not a woman of faith? To bed a man you have not wed is an act of sin in the eyes of your faith.”

“You are my faith. You are my god,” 

You had spoken in hasty breaths, your hands now snaking itself up to his hair and tugging at the roots. 

K’uk’ulkan released a shaky sigh, lowering himself to close the distance between you. 

He could feel the suppleness of your attentive chest beneath his own, and the control he had over himself started to slip at the desire that coated your eyes, 

“I care not for the faith that had cursed me in my times of desperation. You have saved me when I have called you, you have nursed me until I was well. You are my god of the sea, my K’uk’ulkan, and I will give you everything that I have to give in full faith, devotion, and love.”

He kissed you like never before, the walls that the both of you erected falling into pieces with every touch of skin. You created such beautiful music in his ears, begging him to take the precious gems of your prized possession, gasping at the sensations that only his mouth could dare place at every place that was otherwise covered by your clothes.

Yet he took his time with you; so soft and gentle, trailing his lips across the soft skin of your neck and the valley of your chest still covered in the sheer fabric of your laced chemise. He had undressed you just as quickly, and he wasted no time in bringing attention to your attentive buds. 

You squirmed and gasped and moaned at his ministrations—this wasn’t what you imagined it to be. This was not the tales of the housewives of their husbands’ acts for they merely claimed their bejeweled flowers as soon as they had started. K’uk’ulkan was gentler, much more tender in the way that he kissed every surface of your skin. 

This was far better than the countless tales you have heard of a woman’s loss of chastity. This was far better than anything you have imagined from a man.

He worshiped you like you were the deity of his faith, exalted in praise at every scar, every freckle, every imperfection that came with your physical self. 

 He had reached the point of no return; drunk in your presence and your mercy. 

Drunk in your sounds of ecstacy. He trailed lower and lower, his lips finally finding purchase at the mound of your untouched womanhood. Yet he did not stop there, no. There were far more places to explore. Much more parts of you to worship.

K’uk’ulkan raised your legs over his shoulders with expert ease. You yelped in surprise, but those quickly turned into embarrassed moans of your pleasure as he kissed your ankles and your feet, going higher and higher until he nipped at the insides of your thighs. 

You could not help but quiver at the man who towered over you, the one who asserted his control yet left room for such soft affections, as he finally pressed his nose to the throbbing core of your body.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled in his mother tongue, something you could not quite translate just yet, “you are so beautiful for me, my queen. So needy.”

“Please—” you begged him, the ache now painfully presenting itself to you in its desire. You bucked your hips impossibly higher, and you had to cover your mouth to muffle the moans you released when he collected the sweet nectar of your core, “please, my king. Do something, anything.”

“Anything for my queen.”

Your yells of bliss were muffled by your hands pressed so firmly at your lips that it became almost painful. 

He paused in his ministrations to remove yourself from your mouth, held your crossed wrists together above your head, and stared at you with a gentle command;

“Do not silence yourself whilst I pleasure you, my love. Let me hear you scream my name.”

And you did just that.

“K’uk’ulkan!”

And the little patience K’uk’ulkan had left snapped in half, and by the time the sun had risen to the highest point of mid-noon, you were left undone in more ways than one. He did not stop until you were far too gone to think of anything but his name. 

He did not waver as you quivered beneath him with your eyes rolled back in total ecstasy.

He lapped at your juices like a man drinking the last drops of life from the desert sand, his tongue doing wonders to leave you in a whimpering mess. 

You let your voice ring through as he continued to ravish the sweet nectar of your sin; you were embarrassingly drenched, yet he paid no mind. In fact, it seemed to excite him more than it should have.

“You taste so sweet, my love,” he dragged his tongue on your slit, finally finding purchase at the soft pearl of your clit. 

You mewled pathetically at his control as he swirled his tongue and nipped at the erected bud, “you like that, don’t you? So good and needy for my tongue.”

“Please, please, please!” You did not know what you were begging for, but you knew he was the only one who could possibly satiate the itch at your core.

As if noticing your lack of sense—too drunk with his tongue to even comprehend—he gave you a teasing smirk. “Please what, my sweet? Tell your god what you wish for.”

“There, there!” You bucked your hips closer to his lips, his teeth now grazing at your sensitive clit, “please, K’uk’ulkan. Please make me feel good. Please do your bidding on this shameless thing.”

“Then come for me.” More like a command than a suggestion, the knot that was building at your core burst into strings of white euphoria. You felt faint, as if you were suspended. But you were in a high that you cannot rid yourself of. 

You were addicted to this sensation; of his tongue lapping at the juices that flowed out of you like a tide, of his mouth firmly planted to give attention to your swollen bud, and the throbbing ache of your pussy as he sucked firmly at your slit.

It was all too much, but you cannot find it in yourself to stop.

“We’re not done yet, my love.” he pressed you back into the rattan, the hard surface cold against your bare back. He pressed unto you until you couldn’t breathe, and that just excited you so. 

You felt him feel you up, squeeze the flesh of your body until it was painted in his color, and marked your neck with indications of his passion. You were far too dizzy in his spell that you did not care about decency any longer. You just wanted him in you.

You felt the twitch of his clothed bulge poking through the folds of your drenched core. It proved to make you even more eager, but there was a twinge of fear that came with it. 

As if sensing your distress, K’uk’ulkan removed himself from you ever so slightly and wound his fingers around your jaw gently, his eyes now staring deep into your soul.

“Are you sure you are ready?” He asked you, his other hand already discarding the fabric of his emerald shorts. You nodded eagerly. There was no time to hesitate when he had made you feel so good with his touch.

“I trust you,” you laid yourself completely bare to him, your arms now stretched by the sides of your head and your neck in full display for his eyes to see. 

There won’t be a moment that the fear in you will subside—after all, this was your first time. But you trusted your god to never hurt you. He will eventually chase your fears away, “please be gentle with me, my love.”

With a clang of metal, his jeweled belt and the cloth of his shorts now lay discarded on the floor. You were now both bare to each other, and you had to marvel at the length and girth of your magnificent god in awe as he sat up and stroked himself to attention. 

His pre-cum was already leaking and ready to bed you right then and there. You squirmed again when he lined himself up to you, the tip of his cock now stroking your sensitive clit.

“Look at you, so ready for me,” he practically growled as he humped himself with your slick folds. You moaned and called his name in pleasure at the new sensation, “there will be no more second chances, my queen. Are you sure?”

“Yes—” you helplessly breathed out. You moved in the rhythm of his teasing, roaming your hands on the soft flesh of his pecs. 

You noted how he twitched and grunted in delight when your nails ran through his nipples, and you made sure to take note of it once you wanted to serve him more in the future, “please take me as you will, K’uk’ulkan. I am yours to do as you wish.”

And with one final confirmation, he slowly pushed into you. You thought you could take his sheer size, but you were proven wrong when you hissed at the stinging pain of your broken hymen. Noticing your discomfort, K’uk’ulkan kissed you with so much passion that you have momentarily forgotten the feeling, and his strong hands that intertwined with your own served to ground you and ease your worries. 

He was slow and patient, the both of you panting at your successful union. He was now fully inside you, your walls clenching around him as you adjusted to his size. 

He laid still on top of you, his thumb rubbing comforting circles around the back of your hand. 

He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, words of praise and affirmation of taking him in so well. A few tears started to prick the corners of your eyes, but he kissed it away with so much love that he could possibly give.

“Have I hurt you?” He asked in your mother tongue. Your breath hitched and your sigh quivered, but you managed to smile at him and shake your head. 

“You would never hurt me,” you squeezed his hand tighter in yours. You relished the feeling of his body on top of you, the sparks and the shivers as he twitched inside of you, and this momentous adoration that you felt in your heart and soul just for him. 

You feathered loving kisses on his collarbones, left trails of your color upon his golden skin, and left more of your lips on his fine jaw, “you can move now, my love. You will never hurt me, I promise you that.”

K’uk’ulkan started slowly, his hips barely moving in fear that he might hurt you. But the sting that came from your initial deflowering morphed into that of pleasure, and you started to move in hopes that your lover would get the message.

The feathered serpent god could barely hold it in together. He wanted nothing more than to fuck you senseless until you were too cock-drunk to even say anything but his name. 

He wanted to make love to you, but centuries of depriving himself of your touch proved to awaken the primal urge to just take you, ravish you, in the most sinful way possible.

You must have noticed his focus, so you asked with a stutter, “Are you alright, my king?”

“Yes,” he grunted out, your walls clenching around his cock making him crazy. You were still so tight despite the amount of slickness that you provided him, “I will be fine. You’re just so tight for me. You’re doing so well, in yakunaj. So, so well.”

He kept thrusting into you at a slow and steady pace. He was making love to you, savoring his time and making sure that you felt safe and comfortable in your first time.

But your arms eventually flew around his neck, your chest now touching his, and you clawed at his back to steady yourself with the most lecherous words that came from your lips.

And that was his last stroke of control.

He gradually increased the intensity of his thrusts, his hands now gripping your jaw in a vice as he pushed his tongue into your mouth in a heated kiss. 

You were in no means opposed to this, in fact, the knot that seemed to form on your core turned hotter and hotter with each passing second. He snaked his other hand to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until your moans and pathetic little whimpers were muffled by his tongue.

His pace turned more animalistic, the slap of skin now echoing through your quaint little hut, and your prayers for his mercy were drowned by your own impending ecstasy. You shook and shuddered beneath him, your arms fisting his hair for dear life, and your nails painted stripes of red on his bare back.

“K’uk’ulkan!” You yelled out into the heavens as you felt your orgasm creeping near. You repeated his name upon your lips like a mantra and it only served to make him hasten his pace. He could not control his lust any longer. 

He just wanted to mark what was his; to make sure that your pussy will only remember the shape of his cock, that no man would ever hold a candle to the intense pleasure that he would bring you.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked against your lips. You yelled out in reverence to his being knowing full well whose name was engraved on your mind, body, and soul—whose cock it was that was ingrained into your walls and memorizing each thrust of his generous splendor.

 “Yours, K’uk’ulkan! I’m yours! Do as you will with me, my king!”

 And with a final cry of praise to your god, you released the dam of heaven in blinding light sparks, the height of your orgasm making your vision go black and your body spasm with wonder.

Your lover followed close behind with a grunt of his own, and thick ropes of his seed now coated your walls in white.

The both of you laid still in each other’s presence, both panting and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He slowly turned both of you to your sides, his cock still firmly pressed inside you, and wiped your brow dry as you breathed out in stuttering breaths. There was nothing but peaceful lull in this tiny piece of paradise. 

You smiled at yourself as he wrapped his arms protectively around you, burying himself deeper into you while caressing the bare skin of your stomach, just a breadth away from your womb. In a moment of solace, you found yourself surrendering everything in your name to be with K’uk’ulkan.

He had satisfied you, took your flower as his own, and cherished it with such tenderness that left nothing but adoration at its wake. K’uk’ulkan had received your gift in kind, and as such, he had made sure to pay you back with all the riches and love he could give you in this waking world.

 “Mahal kita, sinta. Sa kasalukuyan man o sa walang hanggan.”

 He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, cradled your frame against his, and gave you sanctuary in his arms.

 I love you, my darling. May it be the present or through eternity.

 For his love was limitless as time itself; and you did not doubt your divine counterpart to betray his own vows of long-lasting devotion.

A month has passed since K’uk’ulkan had bedded you, four months of your supposed death, and there was but a day left until you return to the frontlines of war. 

Your lover stood beside you as you prepared for the trip; your load was light and scarce, just enough for you to get through the week of travel through horseback.

“Are you sure you are well on your own?” He asked in your tongue. He was already becoming proficient with your language from the countless days he has spent with you, but you had no such success in learning his tongue with such efficiency as he did, “your journey is long and hard. You might require aid.”

“You know as well as I do that you cannot survive the valleys and the mountains without any bodies of water,” you told him again.

 You cupped his cheek into your hands and pecked his lips, “and your people need you, K’uk’ulkan, just as much as my people need me. Our motherland cries for its lost children, the land weeps for its stolen riches.”

“But my love—” you silenced him with another kiss, your body drawing closer to his. He replied in kind, now leaning in to capture your tongue with his own. A thin string of spit connected the both of you as you parted for air, and you had to burn into your mind the beautiful gaze of his umber eyes before you had to pull away. 

“This is our battle. We fight for our motherland with our dying breaths. You understand that, don’t you?”

The implications of your question laid heavily on K’uk’ulkan’s shoulders. There was no guarantee that you would return in his arms again; just like the first time you had told him you would go to war in your first cycle of life, only to return back to a corpse of his beloved near the shores. He could not protect you as he had promised, and he was going to lose you all over again whilst you were far, far away.

“You are worried,” you stood in attention and leaned your forehead into his, your breaths intermingling as you tried to calm the ragged breaths of your lover, “tell me. Tell me what plagues your heart.”

“I am afraid…” he trailed off, his voice low and weak. 

He pulled you impossibly closer, his hands finding purchase on the small of your back. You cupped his cheeks in your hands and he leaned in submissively to your touch. 

“Do not be afraid, my king,” water from your sides trickled up like a stream, the ropes of liquid intertwining you both together. You did not care if your clothes become damp in the journey; this moment is all you cared about. 

The moment where you comforted your god of the sea, “you are always with me. You have gifted me powers unimaginable to aid my brothers and sisters of the rebellion. A piece of you will always be with me, may it be through the gold of the necklaces that you gave me or through the heart of the sea that flows through my veins.”

He relaxed in your touch, his breath now evening out with yours. You wanted to freeze this moment, to stay in this slice of heaven that you had crafted for yourself and your god of the sea. 

Yet revolution beckons you in its vicious arms, justice now weighing its scales in favor of your people. You wanted to stay in the embrace of your love, but you had to pull away in haste—for even a second more that you stay with K’uk’ulkan, your resolve will waver and dissipate altogether whilst you take his hand and ask for him to spirit you away. 

 “I cannot stay for too long.” 

 You mounted your chestnut mare in haste and pulled on her reins. K’uk’ulkan holds his hand out for you to take with a crestfallen defeat decorating the face that you had adored so much. You took his hands without hesitation and laced his fingers with yours.

“Reconsider this, my queen,” his voice was laced with worry, his hands slightly trembling underneath your own, “a kingdom awaits you at the bottom of the sea. You will be revered as one of our own. Someone as special as you need not to fight a war that would endanger you.”

“Before I am a part of your nation, I must fight for my own,” you told him steadily. 

You squeezed his hand and gave him a look of determination, “I will not die in the hands of my enemy. What am I if I will not raise my voice against the oppressors that behave like children at the head of my country? We are more than just slaves; we are the people. The nation itself. I will not allow myself to die before I see this land free.”

“But you will die by the hands of your allies, just like the you of the past,” he finally revealed.

 His feathered ankles lifted him up so he was at your level and you steadied the reins of your startled mare. He did not break eye contact nor did he release your hand from his hold.

“I wish not that you abandon the duties of your land, but beware of those of whom you trust. I cannot lose you again in the hands of those you thought were your brothers and sisters.”

You leaned in to capture his lips in another kiss, his worries dissipating in one simple act. You stared into his eyes as soon as you parted and the anxiousness he felt in the pits of his stomach transferred into your own.

“I will be careful, K’uk’ulkan. I promise you. I will return into your arms in one piece and finally rule your nation by your side.”

Somehow, this did not convince the feathered serpent god. There was a tug at his soul that was, oh, so familiar. Yet he let you go when he saw your conviction. 

How could he ever say no to those eyes that lit up with such fire? You had the makings of a ruler whose hand stayed true and steady. He simply cannot wait for you to come back and stay by his side for the rest of his days of immortality.

You gave him one final kiss, a shy smile of endearment, and clicked your tongue and kicked the stirrups of your mare to be on your way. You waved him goodbye from the shore, his feathered ankles suspending him higher and higher until he could not see you. 

Before you could reach underneath the thick foliage of the forests, you called out.

“Meet me back here in five months, my king! I will return with the news of our nation’s victory!”

 For the days that passed, he returned to his kingdom to prepare the arrival of their new queen. He kept it as discreet as possible, but the Talokanil were abuzz with rumors of their ruler’s new partner. 

His heart swelled when he told his confidants the tales of your bravery and of your wit, your beauty and your grace, anything that he could have ever foretell to his children on the magnificence of their future queen. 

And so five months have passed.

 The promised date was fast approaching, and K’uk’ulkan’s heart was beating out of his chest in anticipation. He watched as midnight turned into dawn, the dawn to noon, and finally, he waited by the shores near your rattan hut by the fall of dusk. He was now filled with worry. What if you couldn’t make it? What if you perished in war? What if—

 “K’uk’ulkan!” 

 His heart soared at the mere mention of his name. How could one's voice be so calming to his heart? 

His feet carried him afloat to the approaching horse that galloped to the direction of the beach. He could not fight the smile that appeared on his face as soon as he saw you. Although you sported more scars and possessed the eyes that have seen countless deaths, your love remained the same. It was still infinite, boundless in the midst of eternity. How he missed you in his arms. 

He called out your name in joy, you leaping into his arms despite the speed of your mare. He caught you just in time and swung you around the air with glee. You were far too happy to think of anything else but your love, and there you lay in his arms after five months of separation. 

"How I've missed you, my queen." He whispered into your ear. He led you to the rattan hut that he had meticulously prepared for your arrival, your feet now touching the sand as he descended from his flight. Your mare was already stationed near the grassier areas of your home while resting its legs from the week of non-ending travel.

"Oh how I've missed you too, my king." you cupped his cheek and leaned into a kiss, and he was more than happy to reciprocate the action. He still smelled like the sun and the ocean, his skin hot under your touch. 

He wore nothing less than a smile for your arrival and that alone had sent you in a euphoric bliss.

But K'uk'ulkan had to upturn his smile into a frown as soon as you looked down at your feet in grief, the momentary joy you had felt now overcome with overwhelming regret. 

"What is wrong, my love?" He asked as the sting if tears finally gathered in the corner of your eyes. He drew himself in closer to your trembling body and wrapped you in a secure embrace. 

You immediately melted into him, the warmth of his strong arms most comforting in the midst of your sorrows. 

"You were right," you hiccuped. You buried your face into the jewels of his collarbones and wept, "our own brothers have betrayed us. We freed our people, claimed our independence, yet they sent our own to slay us in Cavite. There were tensions in the rebellion before, but I didn't think—I never thought that they'd turn against us. My general helped me flee, but he and his brother were slain. I couldn't even save them with my powers—they had deprived me of any form of water to control."

K'uk'ulkan's blood boiled at the revelation. 

How could they defy his queen? How could they have turned their backs against her when she had given them their freedom? Have they not fought alongside each other like siblings? Have they not watched their own spill their blood in the name of freedom? How could they, he wondered, abandon such a talented leader and leave them executed when they had done nothing but care for the land that was yours and had reclaimed back?

"What is important is that you are safe," he began, his hands tangling with your matted hair. You must not have made any stops in your journey, scared and helpless you must have been to have your own betray you at the height of your independence,

 "you are back in my arms, safe and sound. That is all that matters."

"We cannot stay here for long, K'uk'ulkan," you told him, "I fear I might have been followed. I made sure to cover my tracks, but they outnumbered me ten to one."

"Then return home with me, my queen." He cupped your cheek into his palms and you surrendered yourself to the touch of his affections. 

"Then what of my country? Of my people?"

"Have you not delivered their independence? Have you not fought for their freedom? You are free now, yet they dare bear their teeth at the warriors who have fought for them. What then does that say about your people?" He leaned his forehead against yours and drew circles against your cheek. 

Your breath hitched at the new option presented to you—something you would not have considered in the past. But now, in the presence of a new enemy that was your own countrymen, you were given the choice to flee from your own death sentence and become the queen of a powerful nation beside the man you love.

But your motherland calls you, her land cries out in your possible absence.

"But I have only ever lived in my motherland my whole life. I cannot possibly part with it."

"You are not abandoning your homeland, I assure you that. Another home awaits you in the depths of the sea, my queen; where your citizens will not betray you, where they will serve you with dedication and remember the debts that they have owed. You need not to forget your practices and your culture. You can practice both in any land or water that your feet could lay upon; for you are now both a daughter of the Pacific islands and the ruler of the great nation of Talokan."

It was everything you could have ever imagined and more.

You nodded your head in eagerness to his proposition. His face lit up with great elation and joy. He spun you around with the help of his winged ankles and laughed at the greatest joy that could have ever felt in his life. He finally felt complete in your arms. 

 A queen. He was finally going to bring his people the queen that they deserve. 

 He kissed you mid-air, your own laughter silenced with the touch of lips upon your own. You felt the sparks of his unbridled happiness as he descended into the sand yet again, your lips never parting from each other until you were drunk with the taste of his lips on yours. 

"You are perfect, in yakunaj," he said in his tongue. This time around, you had understood him, "I finally have you. I can finally make you queen to my kingdom. There will be months long celebration on your arrival, and we shall feast at this new blessing. How wonderful of a gift this truly is!"

This celebration was short-lived, however, when a trigger was pulled from the foliage of the trees and cut through the air with a deafening bang.

 Time stilled for the both of you, but not in the way that it was magical as the hands that would grip your waists nor the way his lips would fit perfectly into yours. It was one of horror; of sudden doom.

And by that moment, when blood had dripped from the corners of your mouth in spurts and the wound had stained the fabric of your stomach, did time start winding again. 

K'uk'ulkan called out your name in vain, his arms catching you as you fell. The bullet was lodged firmly into your mid-back, you noted. Just a hair away from your spine. Blood had gushed in rapid succession whilst your god could only watch you fade from his arms.

"Stay awake, in yakunaj. Do not dare close your eyes!"

In the haze of it all did you feel K'uk'ulkan leave your side for a brief while, the wings from his ankles flapping in aggressive strokes. You heard the cries of sorrow, the yells of pain, the dying gasps of almost ten uniformed men at the point of a spear from the mighty serpent god. 

You would have called out to him at that moment, trying to appease the tears that were flowing from his eyes as he subdued his enemy—for they were merely your brothers who were led astray, and you cannot find it in your heart to resent them.

"My king…" you tried to call out, but your voice was weak. Yet you underestimated the attentiveness of your god when he landed by your side once again, his knees painfully dropping to the sands of the beach, and cradled you in his arms whilst your life slipped away from his fingers.

"No, no, no. Not again. Please, not again." He cried out desperately in his own tongue, panic and despair now clouding his otherwise clear judgment. 

He spoke nothing but mumbles of desperate begging; begging for you to stay. Begging for you to remain by his side. The tears from his eyes landed on your skin as he cradled you and rubbed his cheeks against yours. 

 But you knew it was inevitable. You knew it was your time.

"Mahal ko…" my love, you trailed off, your bloody hands reaching for his cheek. He had dropped the conch shell that he had used to call forth his subjects and hastily grabbed your wrist and buried his nose into your palm, not minding every bit of blood that smeared in his face.

"Save your strength. I have called for aid from Talokan. Do not dare close your eyes, my love."

You must have been out of your mind, and K'uk'ulkan must've thought so too, for your grunts of pain were replaced with that of reminiscent laughter. There was joy to beget in your final moments; the most pleasant memory to have ever graced your mind. 

"T-this was how we met, wasn't it? In my first and current life?" You stuttered. Your mouth was still upturned in a pleasant smile, "you came in to save me whilst I was injured, then—then you killed off those who hurt me."

"I told you to save your strength!" He cried out helplessly. You could only shake your head. 

"It is my time to go, K'uk'ulkan."

"Silence. I will not permit you to say such things."

"I wish to meet you again in my next life…"

"There will be no such thing! I did not meet you in this life and the life before this to lose you again!"

"You are wrong, my king," you inhaled a sharp breath as the stabbing pain at your backside turned numb. You knew it was about time before you passed, so you continued, "you met me in the lives before this and the life after to love me—the different versions of me—and love me again as soon as I pass. The time we have spent together has been nothing but special. Do not let my death hinder such joy from your memories."

"Do not say that. You are not going to die." he pleaded.

"If I were to return in your arms again…I promise to find you first. I promise to be the first one to lay my eyes on you and fall in love at first sight; for my soul knows the weight of your love for me. And I shall—I s-shall call you by your real name. The name your followers proclaim, for I will not dare utter the loveless name bestowed upon you by our enemies."

"I have told you to save your strength," he gripped your hand tighter, as if you were to fly away if he ever so lightened his hold on her physical body. You could feel him trembling in grief and rage. 

Oh, your poor love. 

You did not wish to hurt him so, "I do not wish to meet you in another life; I want you by my side now. I want you to become the mother of our children, the mother of our nation. I told you I did not meet you just for you to die in my arms over and over again!"

You smiled weakly, the final spark of love you would ever give to the man who had taken your soul by storm.

 You took this time to take in his presence, his face, his gorgeous eyes that seemed to speak so much wonders to you as he told you stories of the past; told you stories of his people, the future you would have built together, and the endless possibilities of your reign as his new queen.

 You prayed that your soul would remember him, to pull you into the direction of the man who loved you in your past lives when you would be reborn. 

"Hindi ko man hawak ang bukas, nais kong tanganan mo ang aking pangako na ilang ulit kong pipiliing mabuhay at pumanaw upang patunayan sa iyong mali ka. 

Hindi ako bumati sa simula upang sa huli ay magpaalam. 

Sa ating susunod na pagkikita, aking sinta." 

And with that final farewell, your body lay limp. The hand that caressed your god's cheek had finally fallen into the sand. K'uk'ulkan desperately chased your dying breaths, rocking you back and forth in hopes to wake you. 

I may not hold the future in my hands, but I wish you will remember this promise; that I will live and die again and again just to prove you wrong.

I have not greeted you at the beginning just so I could bid you goodbye.

Until we meet again, my beloved.

But it has proven to be futile—your motherland has claimed your life for itself like it had before in your past lives. Your blood colored the seafoam that fateful day.

Namor's heart and soul were torn in half once more; for he was reminded of the curse of his own name. 

Niño sin amor. A child without love.

Zama Tulum, Northern Yucatán Peninsula, 2024

It had been a century since then, perhaps longer. But Namor still remembers you. He always has. His people mourned for your loss, and the seas had gone quiet for at least a decade to honor the loss of its queen. Despite not meeting you, Namor’s people had felt the sorrows of the oceans and its king. They have lost the ruler that they have yet to meet, and their heart also cries out for their missing queen. 

He had waited patiently for you to arrive. You had promised him so; that you would be the one to find him in your fourth rebirth and say his name on your lips once again. That you would fall in love at first sight as soon as you see him for your soul would guide you to the arms of your god once again.

 And he waited. 

 He had waited for you even as the surface world grew in its technologies, waited for you even when the threats of a celestial god had emerged from the earth's core and turned to stone. He had waited for you in fervor, protected his people against the threats of his enemies, and shared stories of your wonders through the tales of the tongue and of the murals of his underwater chamber. 

He always left your throne pristine. You will be reborn to take the crown of your majesty and become the supreme leader of his nation as you should have been. It has always been your birthright. It has always been yours to begin with.

He created an alliance for you—the alliance of Wakanda and Talokan—so you would inherit the legacy of this new pact of civility. Despite his initial plans to thwart those who had opposed his kingdom, he decided in his best interest and yours that this will benefit the you of the future that will stay by his side. 

 Yes, everything he did was for you. It was for you to assume in your reign.

 He painted murals of your likeness in his study, ones that he had presented to Princess Shuri of Wakanda, and concentrated on the strokes of his brush to capture your brilliance. It was never enough, of course, since you were a masterpiece that could not be replicated by the hands of a five century year old painter. You were far too precious, far too complex, to even comprehend. 

 But he still tried in fear of forgetting the smile that adorned your lips. He wishes to immortalize it in the walls of his kingdom.

 “In ajawo,” my king, Namora emerged from the waters , the sway of his brush never ceasing in its meticulous strokes. Namora, one of the best warriors of his kingdom who loved to hear the stories of your past selves, continued with her words, “a surface dweller lurks at the entrance of the caves. Our warriors feel a strange power from them. How shall we proceed?”

“Strange?” Namor’s hands did not stop painting the depictions of waves that were obediently at your command, “strange how?”

“The sea favors them, my king. It guides them here.”

The hand that held the brush stopped. Namora cocked her head to the side as her king froze in place. It would look as if he were contemplating, but Namora could see the trouble that lingered from his stance.

“In ajawo?” She asked again. Namor turned to her after a few moments of reverie. 

“I will deal with them. Send the warriors to guard the entrance. Do not surface until I give the command.”

There was a moment of resistance from the decorated warrior, yet she did not question her king’s decision. She bowed her head in obedience and joined her hands to mimic that of a serpent’s mouth—a gesture of respect to K’uk’ulkan—and descended down the depths of the underwater cavern to convey the message to her ranks.

“Líik’ik Talokan.”

He removed the ceremonial garbs on his shoulders and hung it on his chair. He quickly took his spear, one adorned with the gold and pearls that your first self had given him, and submerged himself in the deep waters. He still feels the phantom sting from his fight with Princess Shuri on his winged ankles, but it was nothing a few more weeks of flight could heal naturally. 

The claw marks from the Black Panther have gone and healed with his people’s technology and he was grateful that your future self would not have to witness the scars of his near defeat. 

There was a little voice in his head that was praying for a miracle; that the stranger that the sea favors was the promised meeting that you had so foretold. 

He passed by his loyal warriors and regarded them with Talokan’s gesture of respect, his people replying in kind. Attuma and Namora, his strongest and most trusted combatants, were at the head of the company and regarded him as well with the highest respect. 

With a pleased nod, he passed through the underwater tunnels of the caverns and slowly ascended into the surface.

It was just like this when he had first met you in your past lives; the gentle coat of the corals of dusk, the gentle breeze of the ocean’s hymns, and the pleasant scent of the sea and land tickling his decorated nose oh so amiably. 

It was nothing compared to the Pacific islands five hundred years ago, but perhaps this was one of the fewer slices of paradise left in this otherwise tainted world.

He slowly rose from the waters, his spear held firmly at his side. His wings beat ever so silently whilst he stalked the upper waters of the cove, but he saw nothing as he approached land. Nature was abundant in this sacred place of Yucatán, but there was a lack of songs from the native birds and wildlife.

Something was there with him.

 He brought his spear to his side, cautious yet unafraid. Whoever dared enter the premises of his kingdom without his permission, may it be a child favored by the sea or the evil-doers of surface dwelling nations, will know his wrath.

“I know you are there,” he spoke in the tongue that most surface-dwellers would understand, “reveal yourself at once.”

Just behind the thick fauna, you steadied your breath and clenched your hands tightly around your dagger. You were sent here to investigate the odd readings from the ocean a few months ago by your organization; the source leading you here to the northern parts of Yucatán. You were sure you were breaking more than a dozen laws and treaties just by breathing in this sacred place, but you had to obey the orders of your higher ups.

You had been scouring for clues for the past few hours, diving into the clean waters and looking for any sort of clue to what you’re searching for. The sea was much calmer here, as if it greeted you like an old friend. And although you loved to swim freely through the oceans of your own homeland, the waters of this place enchanted you. 

As you were about to give up your search—sending the pointless recordings of your exploration to your organization—a voice had emerged from the coves behind you. You were met with a man with feathered ankles and ears that pointed to the sky, decorated with the treasures that the sea would give him in obedience. 

Your breath hitched, your heart lurched, and somehow, in the pits of your soul, you felt the weight of an unknown feeling pulling you towards this man. He was armed and had an air of regality, yet you did not care if you were to be stabbed by his spear in that instant. 

Or more clearly, you had a keen feeling he would do no such thing to hurt you.

He will not harm you, your soul whispered into your being. And your heart lurched again at the strange message.

His words rang clear through the coves, the baritone of his voice bouncing through the damp rocks and being carried into the wind at his command. You could not dare speak at such authority, but instead of being alarmed at the eyes that threatened to kill the likeness of a man in his territory, you found yourself dropping your dagger unto the grass with a faint thud.

 With such speed unmatched even with the fastest rockets, a spear had directed itself on your throat. You fell on your back in surprise, but this magnificent man did not yield. Instead, he pressed the tip of his spear even closer. It was enough to puncture a small wound that trickled a small dribble of blood across your neck.

And then you locked eyes for the first time.

At last.

Namor’s heart soared, his soul finally recognizing yours and turning whole again. 

The revelation of your sudden presence had hit him with finality that it was almost painful for his heart as the surge of emotion swept him up like a vicious tide. He gaped at your brilliance—just like the times he had before in the past—and found himself motionless at the mercy of your stare.

Seizing this opportunity while ignoring the painful lurches of your heart, you gathered what was left of your senses and flipped you both around. Namor was powerless beneath you as you straddled his waist, the beads of crimson now dripping down to his cheeks. 

You gestured for the water from the sea to come forth, and strings of water formed into sharpened spears right above his neck. He laid in awe at your prowess. 

He did not fear that you would kill him; your eyes lay neither malice nor intent to harm him in any way; his soul whispers to him as well.

“Who are you?” You asked him with gritted teeth, the beating of your heart almost deafening against your ears.

“Is it not a custom of your world to present your name before you ask others to give theirs?” He replied with a smirk. You felt heat from your neck go up your cheeks as you stuttered, the water spears under your control wavering ever so slightly.

“If you haven’t realized, I have the upper hand here,” you proved your point by drawing your weapons closer to his neck with a gentle flick of your wrist, “so talk. Who are you and why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same.” He mused. You found his nonchalance absolutely irking.

“Don’t play with me.”

“I should be the one to ask you those questions. Are you not the one who had trespassed this sacred place of worship?” 

That shut you up for good. You said nothing as your stance wavered ever so slightly. He was right—you trespassed into the ancestral home of a culture you did not know without permission, and that in itself was something to be ashamed of. His garb, his jewelry, and his accent were indications that he must be a native, but you still had to be cautious around him—especially when he is a peculiar man who could use his winged ankles to fly. 

“Why I am here is none of your concern.” You sensed no more hostility from this man, and he even bore an amused smirk at your thoughts. Your heart had told you to trust him so you slowly lowered your hands and dispersed the weapons from your control.

Maybe you were foolish to believe in your heart, but as soon as you had lost your grip, he flipped you again until you lay on the ground. There were no signs of danger, but the surprise you felt had elicited a sharp yelp from you. 

The man with the pointed ears chuckled in amusement, his hands caging you in as he spoke again.

“But it is a matter of my concern. You have stepped into my lands and scurried around in secret. But I will forgive this transgression. You interest me.”

“By what authority are you to tell me what to do?” Namor chuckled. You still had that spirit of a warrior that he adored so much. Only you could question his authority like this without fault nor opinion.

“I am the king of this land that you step on and the seas that go deep down below the unimaginable depths.”

He saw your breath hitch, your eyes widening a fraction in realization. The regality, the grace, the jewels, his power—everything were signs of his majesty at work. You would have been filled with fear when you realized you had raised weapons against the ruler of the land you had trespassed, but somehow you did not feel as such.

Caged in the arms of this man, this odd entity that had drawn blood from your skin and raised his spear to your neck, wrapped you in the feeling of safety; as if nothing in this world could ever touch you with malicious intent.

“What is your name?” You breathed it out without thinking.

Your eyes held the stare of majestic earthen oak in a spell of unknown sentiments. Your very soul tugged on the strings of your fate, drawing you into the allure of this stranger that held you hostage. But your soul convinced you that he was no stranger. You had known him in the past, somewhere in the crevices of your memory that was forgotten long, long ago.

“If you insist,” he smiles and draws in closer, the scent of the sun and the sea upon his barren skin. 

In any normal circumstances you would have kicked him off of you and battled him to the death to return home to your country, but you did no such thing. You wondered why it was so, but the only explanation you could conjure was the one that tugged painfully from your heart.

 “My people call me K’uk’ulkan, but my enemies call me Namor. You are free to choose which name you would prefer.”

 Namor waited in anticipation for your response, his heart and soul throbbing with a longing that has plagued him for a century. 

He wondered with a deep sadness if your response would be the same as the one in your second life; to thrash in his presence in fear and curse him out as the demon of the sea. Memories that opened wounds in his heart. 

Yet such aching fears were purged from his mind as you stared at him quizzically, as if the name that rang through the dusk was a name that you should have known from the start. 

A recognition, perhaps, that should have sparked the memory of your three lives.

“I am not your enemy,” you started, your voice held nothing but such tender welcome, “and somehow, I wish to be your friend.”

“Then say my name, I implore you, for the name you will choose will set your fate into stone.” 

You blinked at the hidden implications of his statement, but you chose to pay no mind.

“K’uk’ulkan.”

And for the first time since the end of your third life did his heart and soul thrive and overflow with all the love that he had to offer you in great reverence to your existence. 

K’uk’ulkan helped you up to your feet and held your hands gently, tracing the lines and calluses that adorned your palms in great happiness. 

You let him do as he bid in great confusion. Why were you so at ease in his presence? He, a mere stranger and possible threat, puts your mind in so much ease.

The questions that lingered in your mind had gone and replaced with the urge to know him better; to know his secrets, his interests, his dreams, the numerous things that would make him the man that he is today.

You reminded yourself that this was a king—that you should not even dare be in the same presence as he. But he looked at you with so much compassion, so much love. 

It was impossible to pull away from the gravity of his own magnificence. 

An unknown force had beckoned you to cup his cheek, swipe the tear that had unknowingly escaped his eye, and asked him his strife in your mother tongue.

“Why do you cry, K’uk’ulkan?”

K’uk’ulkan released a humorless laugh. It was filled with relief. With joy.

“It is nothing of importance.”

“You understand me?” You asked in surprise. He chuckled and leaned into your touch, his own mother tongue slipping from his lips and into your confused ears.

“I know more than just one, in yakunaj.”

“I don’t understand.” He removed himself from you and took his spear from the ground. You did not move to keep you guard; for his intentions did not read any malice. 

He offered his hand for you to take, his feathered feet now stepping back into the pool of water from behind him.

“It is nothing for you to worry about. Now come, were you not in search of something in the depths? I might have what you seek.”

You looked down on the contraptions from your pack, all ready to take samples and readings as instructed from your organization. 

But a little voice in your head said to leave it; to take the hand of this feathered man and swim with him into the depths of the ocean without regard to your mission. What you seek was not something ordered by your group. 

It was something much deeper, something that has been clawing at your soul beyond what you could have ever known.

And with a final decision, you stripped off every bit of equipment from your person and took the hand of the man you so oddly trusted with your whole life.

K’uk’ulkan could not possibly contain this joy. 

The promises of your third life came to fruition at last.

 His love could not be described by mere poets nor painted by the hand of any god. 

It was as endless as the waters of the deep sea and the stars that stretched across the night sky. 

Blessed is he to have received the shower of your trust and have gained the prize his soul had set to win from the centuries long of wait.

“Are you ready?” 

He gripped your hand tight, the heat from your skin burning him pleasantly like the fire from the sun.

Maybe you were right along. He did not meet you just so he could say goodbye. You have given him the love of three centuries and a century more. 

His grief could not possibly overshadow the exuberance of his never ending affection for you.

“Yes, K’uk’ulkan.”

He will love you for a millennium more and wait for you to be reborn; 

for his love was as timeless as the sands of the deep sea.

End notes:  I would like to thank my darling partner, the love of my life, for helping me edit this monster of a fic. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you sweetiee <33

Taglist: @rokuhoku​​ @l0ner-girl @zeeader​ @urielliii​​ @namorswifey @themology 

[unknownstarrl]

Bio:

Name: Rosalind Eiric(ロザリンド•エイリック)

Romaji: Rozarindo Eirikku

V/A: Sakamoto Maaya

Age: 16(???)

Race: Homunculus

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Birthday: 29/9 (the day she was adopted)

Star sign: Libra

Family: Unnamed adoptive father

Unnamed adoptive mother

Grim [old companion]

Unnamed lover †

Height: 162 cm

Dominant hand: Right

Favorite food: Soused Herring

Least favorite food: Chili

Hobbies: Learning magic, reading books, singing, cooking

Talents: Control magic, good knowledge acquisition, singing

Other names: Rose, Rosa (Short name)

The Abyssal Sorcceress (Shin'en no Majo) [Former]

Henchwoman (Grim)

Dreamy girl (Ace, Ruggie)

Rosie (Cater)

Dumb bunny (Leona)

Siren (Azul)

Hagi-chan <Royal blue tang> (Floyd)

Fleur de Silence (Flower of silence), Mademoiselle Flamme Azur (Miss Azure Flame) (Rook)

Rosalind-shi (Idia)

Human (Sebek)

Beautiful girl (Najma)

Kind sister/Yasashii ane-chan (Cheka)

Alice (Chenya)

Princess (Royal sword academy's students)

_________________________________

Student profile:

School: Night Raven College

Class: 1-A - No.31

Year: Freshman

Dorm: Ramshackle

Club: Science

Occupation: Guardian [Former]

Rosalind & Grim - One Student

Beast tamer

Prefect of Ramshackle

Singer of Monstro Lounge

Best subject: Alchemy

Favorite subject: None

Least favorite subject: Flying

_______________________________

Appearance:

Rosalind is described as a 16-year-old girl with sleek black hair that has bright blue tips resembling flickering blue flames, making it hard for others to look away. Rosalind has fair skin and a slender body, as if a light touch could make her fall. Her blue eyes are reminiscent of the ocean, always appear to be in a daze, as if she is sleep-deprived and the dark circles hidden beneath her blue eyes told tales of sleepless nights and unspoken burdens, casting a faint shadow over her otherwise vivid gaze

She often wears a dreamy expression on her face, as if she is in a dream, even though she claims to be extremely alert

Rosalind has a modest height and is often the subject of jokes by the students of Night Raven College, but she rarely pays attention to or feels bothered by this

_________________________________

Personality:

Although Rosalind may appear to be a silly and easy-to-bully girl on the outside, she is actually an intelligent and strong person. Whenever her friends are in danger, she doesn’t hesitate to rush out to protect them. Rosalind is also cautious and usually does not take kindly to people with suspicious appearances

Additionally, Rosalind is an animal lover and often brings many animals home, from stray dogs, cats to even rats and cockroaches, which drives her parents crazy. While this tendency has lessened as she has grown up, she still cannot control her desire to pet soft-furred animals

Rosalind also has a cold and ruthless side. If given the chance, she wouldn’t hesitate to use her magic to deal with those who pose a threat to her and her friends

_________________________________

Backstory:

In an unnamed kingdom within Twisted Wonderland, Rosalind or formerly known as Seraphis - a Homunculus created by alchemists and sorcerers to protect the nation from external threats. Emotionless and programmed to follow orders, she was not seen as a hero, but merely a cold-blooded killing machine. Despite this, she had Grim, her only companion, and later met a knight who gave her a human heart and helped her experience true emotions

Together with Grim and her beloved knight, they planned to escape the kingdom and live freely. However, the ruling powers discovered their plan and captured them. To maintain control, they forced Seraphis to kill the person she loved most. Because she was created to follow orders, she couldn't resist. This event shattered her emotionally, and her suppressed magic spiraled out of control. Overcome with grief and fury, Seraphis lost control of both her powers and her emotions, unleashing a devastating magical force that burned the entire kingdom to the ground. Until the flames were fully extinguished, all that remained was a heap of ashes and scattered ruins. The kingdom Seraphis had spent decades protecting was buried beneath the ashes, lost forever, never to rise again

After the kingdom's destruction, both Seraphis and Grim vanished without a trace, and no one heard of them again.

After this event, Seraphis was somehow brought to Earth, transformed into an infant, losing all memories and having her powers sealed. She was adopted by a couple on Earth and named Rosalind Eiric. She grew up living a normal life, unaware of her true past. However, during an unexpected incident, Rosalind accidentally returned to Twisted Wonderland, the place where the unnamed kingdom once stood, beginning her journey to rediscover her past and confront her true identity

_________________________________

Unique magic:

"Once the final magic seal is unlocked, Rosalind will gain her Unique Magic"

From the ashes of despair, I rise. In the flames of my fury, I summon forth the guardians of the lost. Let the eternal fire burn bright!

"Ember of the fallen"

Summon entities from the ashes of those who have fallen, transforming them into fiery warriors to aid her in battle

_________________________________

Trivia:

Rosalind is inspired by Chernabog (The Fantasia) and Morgan le Fay (Arthurian legend)

Rosalind, or rather her past self, has been immortalized in the history of Twisted Wonderland and is referred to as "The Abyssal Sorceress" , her status is considered on par with The Great Seven

No one knows that Rosalind is "The Abyssal Sorceress'', not even herself, except for The Dark Mirror

After both of them disappeared, Grim also lost his original memories and form, and somehow appeared at Night Raven College

Almost all the students at Night Raven College initially believed that Rosalind was just a student without magic, getting into the school through "relationships" , only few people knew that Rosalind actually possessed magic

Since childhood, Rosalind had a habit of eating strange things she came across. While this tendency diminished as she grew older, it still occasionally happened. A prime example is when she asked Grim for a stone after each Overblot to eat, but Grim, annoyed, would refuse

Back in middle school, Rosalind was often bullied by her classmates because of her quirky personality and unusual hair. Her adoptive parents knew about it and talked to the principal and teachers several times, but nothing really changed. Rosalind rarely fought back, so the bullies kept pushing their limits. Eventually, when things got too much, Rosalind defended herself, and one of the bullies ended up getting hurt. After that incident, the bully's parents demanded action, and soon after, Rosalind's family decided to move away. They've been living in a different place ever since

Unable to rely on Crowley any longer, Rosalind planned to work as a waitress at Monstro Lounge. However, after discovering her singing talent, Rosalind was invited by Azul to become a performer at Mostro Lounge (of course, her salary was increased as well)

Although she may seem foolish and dreamy, Rosalind is actually very intelligent, she consistently ranks among the top 100 students with outstanding achievements without resorting to cheating or signing contracts with Azul

Crowley and Grim once tried to convince Rosalind to participate in the VDC, but she refused

After conducting research, Crewel stated that Rosalind is currently carrying eight seals. Each time one of these seals is unlocked, both her magic and memories will return

However, the return of her magic is not a good sign but rather an ill omen. In Chapter 3, after unlocking her magic, the overuse of it caused Rosalind to cough up blood and fall unconscious for several days. This could potentially lead to Rosalind experiencing an Overblot, so she has been strictly prohibited from overusing magic, and is only allowed to use basic spells

It seems that after unlocking the higher-level sealing floors, hypnosis magic has almost no effect on Rosalind. For example, in Chapter 4, Jamil and Jade's unique magic only influences her for a short time before it ends. Additionally, during the 'Stage in Playful Land' event, she was not affected by Fellow Honest's unique magic and even told him to stop his antics

Rosalind once had a boyfriend, as revealed in the card "Ace Trappola SSR - Ghost Marriage." She dated a good-looking guy back in middle school, and after a month of dating, she found out that the whole relationship was just a bet between him and his friends. He even insulted Rosalind, saying that no one would like someone as weird as her. However, after learning the truth, Rosalind didn’t feel sad—or rather, she didn’t feel anything at all, because she never really liked him, she had only agreed to date him out of curiosity about love and relationships

After each Overblot, the housewardens gradually recover fragmented memories where Rosalind was once part of their past. She appeared as a distant figure from their childhood, though those memories have faded over time. However, for Rosalind, these events seem like nothing more than a vague dream, something that never truly existed. Despite this, her presence in their past seems to be a crucial piece of their forgotten history

[eldrith]

Would you be willing to tell us anything about your WIPs?

sure! i have so many - like a sick amount lol. so here are just some in no particular order... with songs that have lyrics that fit the plot <3 ive been heavily discouraged as of late and can’t guarantee anything in terms of posting these

about you ; jacaerys x aunt/targ!reader [jace is betrothed to baela], request. ➺ vibes: escaping your family just to tame an untamable beast. saving your cousin's life, almost losing your own. feels like unrequited childhood longing, slow burning; like finding the cherished toy that was lost in your youth. like laughing in the face of death. sounds like 'about you' by the 1975, like the roar of an ancient beast, the buzzing of a fly in the corner of a peaceful room. tastes like herbal tinctures, root of thistle, and milk of the poppy. smells like ancient dragonsmoke and rolls of gauze.

dead men don't sing ; jacaerys x stark!reader, request. ➺ vibes: sweet, but foreboding - like the destiny woven into your bloodline long before your mother’s mother ever had a name. feels like playful love, poorly contained desire; like when the burden placed upon your back is lifted by the one you love. sounds like 'would that i' by hozier, like the northern wind snapping in your ears. tastes like snow on your tongue, remnants of wine upon lips. smells like the woods in winter; like a well-burned hearth.

a golden cage [part iv] ; jacaerys x aunt/targ!reader ➺ vibes: awkward dinner parties, the embarrassment of sprouting affection. feels like an apology in the back of your throat, like the guilt and subsequent relief of looking at someone and feeling like you're looking into a mirror. sounds like 'south' by hippo campus & ‘shake it out’ by florence & the machine; like dramatic declarations and whispered vows. tastes like wine in your cup and the salt of ocean upon lips. smells like incense burnt low and muddled sourleaf tea.

honeyed [part ii] ; jacaerys x queen's advisor!reader. ➺ vibes: flirty, sweet, - resisting something you know is inevitable. feels like the giddiness of camping with an old friend; or the first time riding a dragon; like looking up during a storm just to feel rain hit your smile. sounds like 'pools' by glass animals, like quiet whispers within canvas tents; like the chorus of full tables at Raventree Hall, celebrating royal guests. tastes like wild berries and fresh river water. smells like the leather of dragonsaddles, like wild rosemary.

miscellaneous; these may never see the light of day

untitled ; jacaerys x lady!reader, request. ➺ vibes: yearning for your best friend & knowing them better than the back of your hand. betrothal proposals, envy. feels like lounging in the hot sun, like worrying over looks sent to you across the ballroom; gossiping with your crush’s brother. like the brush of fingers upon your neck, like a gut bubbling in unspoken jealousy. sounds like ‘daydream / wetdream / nightmare’ by saint motel, like butchering the pronunciation of an ancient tongue. tastes like cucumber sandwiches, like hot tea under the summer sun. smells like old library scrolls and cologne oils upon a warm neck.

half-fleshed fic of modern jace x best friend reader ➺ vibes: almost-friends-with-benefits with your best friend - poor drunken choices, insecurities, yearning. feels like not knowing what you are, like washing off the remnants of lipstick upon your neck in the shower. sounds like 'an ode to a conversation stuck in your throat' by del water gap & ‘affection’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS; like the faint whispering when someone sleeps. tastes like guinness on tap, like cookies made at 2am. smells like empty streets after rain, like the warmth of your best friend’s hoodie.

untitled ; jacaerys x wife/betrothed!reader [undecided, v incomplete] ➺ vibes: teasing someone to see them squirm, smiling politely to hide a smirk. feels like the excitement of a chase, the warmth of desire; like tugging on curly tresses. sounds like the scraping of silver cutlery against plates, like breathless pleads against sweaty skin - like 'silvertongue' by young the giant. tastes like an eager tongue pressing against your own, sweet like blueberry pie. smells like blown out candles, scented oils on pillows.

untitled ; jacaerys x wife!reader ➺ vibes: giddiness & good news. happiness, the blossoming flower that sprouts from the seed of sorrow. feels like sand under your feet, like arms around your waist. sounds like the shaking of pride in a voice, like ‘jackie and wilson’ by hozier. tastes like salt of tears, like rosemary cakes. smells like home.

& maybe a nsfw version of the 5 love languages with jacaerys but who knows

[tinietaehyun]

Forsaken [V]

[Sorcerer!Taehyun x Royal!Reader]

[Series] [Chapter Five]

Pairing: Sorcerer!Taehyun x Royal!Reader [Feat. Soobin]

Genres: Royal!au, romance, angst, fantasy, supernatural, action.

Contains: Profanity, angst, implications of poison and death, mentions of adoption, family dysfunction, dialogue-heavy.

Links: Forsaken Masterlist || Masterlist

Summary: With hope crumbling before your eyes, you feel ever so defeated. You knew you wouldn’t give up, but it was indeed harder than expected to motivate yourself to continue.

To your surprise, you find solace in the person you’d least expect: Kang Taehyun. Pesky sorcerer. Instinctually you pour your heart out to him, and he listens. For some odd reason, you find yourself having a fluttering heart, and a swirling stomach. Why did his sharp tongue and soft gaze ease you?

To life the burden off his back, you decide to send him on his merry way, after all, this wasn’t his problem. Though, it seems Taehyun had a very different idea of you wanting him to leave.

That being, he wouldn’t.

The patter of footsteps resound against the sleek marble floor as Taehyun walks along the grandiose hallways of the Palace of Luna. His chest feels heavy, forlorn as your crying face sticks in his mind.

They had plans to strip you of your title. How could they do such a thing? Someone who you had lived with for so long, a so-called brother, be so utterly cruel? It revolted him. He felt terrible. Someone like you, someone so driven and pure, shouldn’t have to face these atrocities. To face misfortune upon misfortune.

You reminded him of his younger self; as much as he hated to admit it. That determined, bright soul he once had. When he had faith in the people around him, believing that no one would ever betray him; that he could live in the palace, that his sorcery could fix anything. How naive of him back then.

Here you were, shattered. He doubted whether you even had the resolve to continue forward. You probably did; your character showed that to him. Taehyun muses to himself; he knew you’d never give up. You’d keep going until you couldn’t whilst getting hurt over and over again, in a painful cycle.

He hated things like that; but at the end of the day, he wanted to be the same way; he had tried to do the same thing once before. Yet, his sliver of resilience didn’t pay off. It didn’t work. So he succumbed and got used to his life in the woods, in exile, with his father.

Taehyun truly despised living there at first, but oddly as he grew up, he found solace in living there. Being away from the kingdom of Fortuna. Being away from the shackles of the palace, the disgustingly stuck up nobles and traitors that the palace walls encased.

All the memories of his time at the palace working beside his father as an apprentice with Y- no-Traitor. He was a traitor through and through.

No. No. He couldn’t recall that despicable time. He couldn’t return to that place of anger; where he thought he was so infuriated he could kill someone. It was long over. That period of his life was but a memory. A painful memory, a betrayal that forever changed him.

Seeing you so utterly defeated; both irritated and saddened him. It was reminiscent of himself. Both of you were victims of the corruption of the palace, both fallen and dragged to shreds for your positions.

He didn’t want to see you lose yourself like he did. He did nothing to stop it, but merely accepted the consequences for his father’s sake.

For some odd reason inside him, he would despise you if you gave up. You couldn’t. He gave up revenge or any semblance of retaliation long ago, but you, you still had potential. You weren’t like the other stuck-up and selfish nobles, he’d met before. Yes, were you annoying, a brat at times, but he still found himself being stupidly fond of you.

He wanted you to win your throne back. Show those in power that it won’t always go their way. He didn’t want you to be like him. A coward who never fought for justice, just accepted the punishment he was given and left it behind.

Taehyun wanted you to pursue your crown. Not that he cared about you deeply, of course. He was just always one to see the royal court get destroyed; he’d cackle if he could. He’d love to hear such news of the royal court getting dismantled. If it meant that you were the trigger for that, so be it.

His lips form a frown as his heart aches. What was wrong with him? Why was he feeling so passionately angry all of a sudden? This wasn’t his problem. He should be leaving, no? Taehyun mutters to himself running his fingers through his pale locks, “What am I thinking?”

Why was he so invested in you? So what if you failed? You were probably going to and this entire pursuit was most likely pointless, but still. Why did he save you earlier? Was it truly to just to satiate his conscience? Why did it hurt him to see you upset and not barking back insults? Surely, he was not attached. No, no.

Merely a little bit fond. Keep it that way. Yes, Taehyun, keep it that way, he reminds himself. He isn’t a monster, he’s not cruel, he’d help if necessary. He’d have done the same for anyone.

Even if you weren’t a royal. Even if you didn’t have such pretty big eyes that always glared at him, expressively. Or how your lashes would flutter whenever you were slightly flustered or embarrassed. Even if your lips didn’t form the most subtle pout when he made sarcastic remarks where they would form the most mischievous smirk when he-

“The fuck is wrong with me?” Taehyun stops walking with widened eyes. His heart felt weird. He had just been so alone for so long. It was only natural he’d be so attentive of your mannerisms. Yes, that’s it.

Shaking his head, he continues onwards aimlessly wandering the halls. He wonders whether you’d left your room. Taehyun scoffs; he hopes your plan is not to sob all day. It would be weird to not hear your irking remarks and insults for once. It was already too quiet.

His breath catches in his throat as he stumbles upon an ethereal sight. There you were sat on an ornate bench swing amongst a small indoor garden within the palace with a large domed skylight above filtering the golden sunlight that kisses your features delicately providing you with a shimmering outline.

Vines grow along the sculpted columns and various white rose bushes align themselves along the neatly trimmed grass. Truly it looked as if a portion of heaven had been taken and placed here. To top it all off, you were sat there solemnly in the swing, moving gently back and forth still dressed in a pale blue, loose nightgown. Perhaps made of silk; it was elegant and suited you perfectly. It certainly better than the plain attire he had made.

He finds his feet anchored to the spot he stands as he observes you. You looked unreal, a solemn crying angel. As much as he loathed to admit it, there was no doubt about it, you were beautiful. From the moment he laid eyes on you back at the Woods of Mors, from your dirty, torn gown and glittering tears, he found you oddly pretty. Who wouldn’t?

Taehyun debates whether to approach you but he finds himself walking towards you regardless. You turn your head over your shoulder with an exhausted expression, “Taehyun?” Oh, how softly you said his name.

“Are you…okay?” He tentatively questions. You weakly smile, “Mhm.” Taehyun murmurs, “May I sit beside you?” You nod wordlessly as he does so. The swing rocks as you both sway back and forth ever so slowly. You peer at Taehyun, at the way the sunlight coats his stunning features. How his eyes held a mixture of emotions. His intense gaze meets yours as you look away startled.

You ask, “Do you still have my ring?” Taehyun hums, “Why? You surely don’t think I’m that careless to lose it already? It’s in my satchel, princess.” You roll your eyes, “Just asking.”

“Do…do you want it back?” He asks seriously and you shake your head chuckling, “No, no. I meant it, when I gave it to you. Keep it.” He nods slowly.

“You’re overthinking aren’t you?” Taehyun inquires. You peer down at the grass, “Maybe.” “You are, otherwise you’d have insulted me by now,” he muses. You snort; perhaps he was right.

“You’re actually keeping etiquette now. It’s worrying,” he comments and you scoff, “Is that so hard to believe, sorcerer.” Taehyun shrugs, “A little. You’re always keep biting back at me.” A chuckle escapes your lips.

“I…I just don’t feel good,” you say, “I was thinking about my mother, well, my father too.” Taehyun frowns at you, “I understand.”

You continue, “She was always so supportive of me, from the day she met me at the orphanage. I could tell she had such a pure, kind heart. Nothing like the other nobles I’ve ever encountered. My father too, they complemented each other. He was strict, but had a soft spot the moment he saw tears in my eyes. He always hesitated to tell me off.”

Memories of your parents flash in front of your eyes as you speak; your heart yearns to see them again. They were the only two to ever give you a chance at life. To choose you. To see you as worthy, something your real parents didn’t seem to realise.

You hum pained, “You were right, I bet the other orphans; they must have felt awful. I’m living luxuriously, whilst…I don’t even know their fate.” Taehyun flinches; remembering his remark from when they first met in the forest. Guilt hits his chest. Your eyes glaze over and lips tremble, “You know, I really wanted to make Sehun like me. I tried so… hard. I shared all my toys, I followed after him like some stupid lost puppy everywhere. I begged at his feet all the time. You couldn’t imagine how happy I was to learn I could have a big older brother. Someone who could protect me, someone who I could rely on? The only person who I had was my beloved knight, Kai. But that…that also fell to pieces.”

Taehyun watches you in silence unsure of what to say; but merely listens as you pour your heart to him.

Your voice cracks, “I don’t understand. We were family, you know? No; he doesn’t consider me family. But our mother and father? Why did he have to do something as cruel as poisoning them? If he wanted the throne that badly, why didn’t he just- take me out- poison me, instead?” A tear slips down your cheek.

Taehyun’s gaze darkens, “Don’t say that. You wished for him to kill you instead?” You stay silent; all of this could have been avoided. Your parents could have still been alive, he could have gotten the throne, right? Taehyun snaps, “Don’t be fucking naïve. It’s not that simple. There’s a reason why your parents chose you over their biological son. They must have known how…horrid he was. That Sehun was not fit to rule.” You peer at him pitifully.

Taehyun regards you fiercely, “From what I’ve seen, so far. From…what I know of Queen Iseul and King Dae-Seong, they wouldn’t falter on their choices.” He frowns painfully, “…they’re wise.”They’d have to have thought about the future of Fortuna, if they were determined to hand it to you.” You sit there as tears drip down your face at his words. Your parents deemed you worthy to have the throne.

“You can’t just sit here and sulk, your parents would want you to rightfully earn your throne. Put Sehun in his place. Because I damn well know that insolent brat, is going to run Fortuna into the ground with such idiocy and tyranny,” Taehyun snaps sharply. He sees you staring at him wide eyed and he huffs crossing his arms, “Not that…that I care of course. I live in the woods, anyway. Just…saying for you, I mean.”

A silence rests on the both of your shoulders as you sit beside each other. Taehyun mutters, “Do you not think yourself worthy to rule?” You mumble, “I don’t know.”

He scoffs, “With zero confidence like that, how can you?” You flinch at his bluntness. Taehyun murmurs, “Are you thinking of giving up? I know you won’t.”

You sigh, “I..I’ll try my best. I won’t give up so easily. I just…feel defeated.” He hums, “Going in with the attitude of not giving up for the sake of not giving up isn’t going to get you anywhere, sweetheart. You need confidence; you need the resolve that you don’t care what happens. That you’re going to grab your throne and sit on it rightfully.”

His voice croaks, “…I know. I know what it’s like to be betrayed. Thrown aside as if you meant nothing to that person. For the person you considered so dear to you, someone you were so fond of, to watch them smile as your life falls apart. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get over.” Your eyes soften; what…what had Taehyun been through? His words are heavy with angst, solemness and pain.

“I-I made the mistake of accepting my fate. Don’t do what I did. You’re more driven than I am, I can see that. You have more potential, and I believe…you can bring some good to Fortuna. Don’t sit back and let Sehun’s actions deter you,” he murmurs, peering up at the skylight. Your heart races at his words.

Taehyun murmurs, “If you were anything like Queen Iseul, Fortuna would have nothing to worry about. Fight for your people, sweetheart. Fight for yourself.” Your heart palpitates, an odd sensation enraptures your chest; finding yourself breathless. What was making you feel airy; you couldn’t look anywhere but him.

Taehyun peers back at you with a glare, “Don’t mistake this is as me caring about the royal court though. I just…don’t want to be an accomplice to the fall of an entire nation, that’s all.” You release a chuckle at his words, “Right.”

He mutters, “Anyway, not like my words matter. You’d have marched head first to your brother anyway without any of my useless encouragement. I’m merely an escort anyway.”

Your weak smile flickers at his words. Right, he was. God, what were you doing venting to him? You hope he didn’t take it the wrong way. You had already dragged him here. But why didn’t he stop you? Why did he listen to you so intently? He already had enough on his plate.

“You’ve been through a lot huh,” you observe quietly. Taehyun releases a bitter laugh, “Don’t worry your pretty head about that, okay? Focus on yourself.” It was clear he wasn’t going to open up further; you’d respect his boundaries.

“Okay, but-just know. After all this…you can come to me for help, any time.” A smirk lines his lips, “Bold of you to assume I’d ever need your help, princess. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” You mutter, “How cocky. I was being nice.” Taehyun hums, “Don’t forget I was exiled for this long; I can handle myself.” You scoff, vain pest.

You nod, “I…I’m sorry for unloading all of that onto you by the way. You don’t need that,” you chuckle weakly, “You probably want to go home, right? You’ve made it quite clear.” Taehyun’s expression cracks and his eyes dim. He hadn’t expected you to take his words from earlier to heart.

You release a fatigued laugh, “I wanted to thank you for saving me by the way. You didn’t have to but you did. I owe you a genuine thank you.” Taehyun says nothing; why did this feel like you were going to send him off? That you’d never see each other again. The atmosphere becomes heavy.

“I’m sorry for being so pushy most of the time. I apologise for dragging you all the way to Luna. What I’m trying to say is, now that I can work with Beomgyu…I can handle it now. I know you don’t like getting involved in royal affairs or politics,” you utter as you feel your heart ripping into two. This was the best; to not bother him anymore, be a burden.

“So you’re free to go,” you smile at him, “For real this time. I’ll talk to Beomgyu about the issue. He’s reasonable, you know? I’ll…make it work. Somehow. Just you wait.” Taehyun looks at you with an almost blank expression making your chest hurt. Wasn’t he happy?

“You can go back home, you don’t need to force yourself to stay.” You murmur. Taehyun’s gaze darkens and he sharply cuts In, “You’re awfully insistent. Have you considered the possibility of whether I actually want to leave or not?”

“But you said-“

“Don’t take my angry little remarks at face value, you pretty fool,” he huffs, “Yes I may have complained quite a bit, but you did too, you know. But you didn’t see me shoving you out of my house, back then.”

“That-but-“ you mumble flabbergasted.

Taehyun’s lips form a sly smirk as he leans forward, “Surely, princess, you don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily do you?”

“What?” You’re shocked. You were confused; did he not want to leave you? Why was he acting like this?

Taehyun stares at you; his smirk widening. Your head must be working hard; all the gears churning in your head trying to make sense of him. Trying to put together why someone like him would want to stay. In all honesty, even he couldn’t give you a straight answer.

His heart ached, you reminded him of himself. He didn’t know why it angered him so incredibly much when you suggested for him to leave. That’s what he wanted, no? To enjoy his peace and quiet at home? Then why, why did it brutally sting when you were so, so ready to send him home? Did you not need him anymore, now that Beomgyu was in the picture?

No, no what was he thinking. No, his mother wouldn’t be proud if he just left you hanging at your most vulnerable, your lowest. Taehyun couldn’t do that. No matter how much he despised the royal court; as much as he wanted to see it fall to pieces; he looks at you gazing at him deeply. Not when you were at the center of it all.

He scoffs to himself, maybe the monarchy could fall, after, you had ruled. Yes, afterwards. Anyway, he had come this far, and he’s not had this much excitement in years, what’s so wrong with some change? Taehyun continues to look at you; your gazes lock onto each other strongly.

Clearing his throat, he peers away, “Anyway, why do you look so surprised? I think it’ll be fun. You could sure use all the help you get right?”

You stare stiffly back you mouth agape and closing, “I-…”

“Yes, you could. Don’t forget, I’d be happy to turn the entire court into a bunch of toads, into a pile ash, burn-“ he begins, “What I mean is, having magic on your side surely is a benefit, no?”

You peer at him silently. You couldn’t believe it. He was…offering to stay; regardless of any personal motives, he was willing to stay beside you. Taehyun muses, “Also, I don’t think you’ll get this far with some snobby prince’s help alone dealing with a tyrant like that. Sehun plays dirty, so I’ll play dirtier. So why not let me continue to join you for the ride?”

You splutter, “You know- you don’t have to force yourself really- you don’t have to care so mu-“ “I do,” he snaps frustrated. Your eyes widen. He sharply murmurs, “I- I mean. Don’t worry about it. If I truly wanted to leave, I’d have left after we met the prince. Scratch that, I would left you at Luna’s entrance arch and never looked back once.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as he determinedly looks at you. “…I suppose so,” you sulk, “I…are you expecting payment or compensation for your help?”

Taehyun’s lips form a coy smirk, “You think that lowly of me? What have I said, money has no value to me.” You splutter, “Yes but-“ Your eyes widen as he takes your hand into his, “Believe me. I need nothing. Consider it my indirect way of getting back at the royal court.” You snort. Taehyun murmurs peering down at your hand on his before he squeezes it, “Don’t make assumptions, princess. I’m not as cruel as you may think I am.”

You muse, “So you’re just annoying then. And vain.” He corrects you, “Blunt, and self confident you mean.” You release a breathy laugh as does he. You go quiet into thought; you didn’t know what was going through his head, but you were happy. You had gotten used to his presence these days. Not that you’d admit it; you enjoyed his company. He finally removes his hand with some reluctance.

Taehyun murmurs deep in thought, “Hm, do your palace sorcerers still use my father’s spell book? They must do, right?” This was rather sudden?You mumble, “I- I never did go to the sorcerer’s tower that often, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know. Why?”

He hums solemnly, “I just thought, if I ever have a chance to set foot into the palace again, I’d…I’d like to see it again. He was forced to leave it there before exile, is all. I don’t have much to remember my parents by except that photo and a few other trinkets.” You frown.

Your mind goes into overdrive; who was his father? Was he a royal sorcerer before the current one? You know Sorcerer Choi, has recently retired to give way to his son, Yeonjun, Sehun’s friend. You wonder, does Taehyun know Yeonjun? They had to have been apprentices, no?

“Mm, don’t think too hard now. Might burn your little brain out, sweetheart,” Taehyun smirks.

“Little! Little? I’ll have you know I got no less than 95% during my tutoring!” You exclaim. He rolls his eyes, “I mean you have to. Not much competition is there when you’re the only student.” You glare, “Rude.”

“I’d have beat you, if I were there, perhaps a 98%. I always did well on my exams,” he smugly counters. “Oh shut up, sorcerer,” you order, making him chuckle.

“Surely, you’re not going to sit here and sulk all day, are you?” He asks stretching as he stands. Taehyun outstretches his hand toward you. You smirk, “If I was? What are you going to do?”

Taehyun mirrors your smirk, “Be my guest. Cry your precious tears whilst you waste precious time. Not like I care. I have better things to do than babysit you. Anyway, have you had breakfast?”

You shake your head; you had initially dismissed the maids who called you for breakfast earlier. Taehyun scoffs, “How idiotic, you need sustenance for energy. Come, let’s get breakfast.”“You’ve not eaten?” You ask. He mutters, “I was on my way to the dining hall until I saw you. Come on, let’s go then.”

“I thought you had better things to do,” you muse with a snarky smile. Taehyun scoffs, “Get over yourself.”

“It’s fine, I’m not-“ he glares, “Not hungry?” A pout forms on your lips as he scolds you. “Then, come with me. At least join me instead of sulking here for the entire morning alone.”

“To watch you eat?” You deadpan.

“To watch me eat, yes,” he grins. Taehyun knows that you’ll end up eating as soon as the breakfast is piled on his plate in front of you. Your stomach will start rumbling and your mouth salivating. The temptation of food is like no other.

Just as he predicted, when you both sit at the table, your eyes were glued to the various assortment of breakfast items laid out on the table. Biting your lip, you mumble, “Okay, so…maybe, maybe you were right.” Taehyun’s lips morph into a smirk, “Go on call the maids, get your own breakfast. I’m tucking in.” He munches deliciously on his breakfast in front of you, deliberately emphasizing the taste. Thus, you order breakfast putting aside your wounded pride.

You find yourself becoming more comfortable around him, embracing his abrasive personality. You catch Taehyun watching you eat occasionally; a satisfied expression on his face. He mutters, “Eat well, there’s no saving your throne if you can’t even lift a finger.”

You smirk, “You’d almost sound caring if it weren’t for your tone.” Taehyun hums, “That’s the point. I’m just pointing out the obvious. I’d have happily eaten without you.” Why do you have a feeling that was truly not the case? You smile at him and his eyes flicker for a moment, averting his gaze.

As you finish up your meals; your eyes widen upon seeing Prince Beomgyu and…someone new? A incredibly tall man with soft noir locks and sharp features; his plump cupid lips and sharp draconic eyes. He is rather intimidating in his sleek black suit coat and trousers with a thick leather belt cinching his waist and black boots.

“Glad to see you two having breakfast. Good to see my dining table in one piece, through your bickering.” Beomgyu muses. Taehyun scoffs, rolling his eyes. You hum mischievously, “If it were anyone breaking tables, it would be him. Not me. He’s the one with the wand, I am a mere damsel.”

“Just because I have magic doesn’t mean I don’t have class,” he utters. “That’s the thing, you don’t,” you give him a saccharine smile making him grunt.

Beomgyu and the other man laugh together at your banter. “Well, anyway, good to see you in better spirits, y/n.” Beomgyu peers at the man beside him, “As I explained earlier, this is Y/n. She has a few issues in Fortuna, as I’ve mentioned to you last night.” The handsome stranger nods slowly giving you a curt smile.

“Oh yes, I forgot to mention, yesterday. This here is her travelling companion and sorcerer, Taehyun. Taehyun…last name Kang, yes?” Taehyun nods. The man’s eyes enlarge and his jaw becomes agape.

“Wait, Kang Taehyun?” The man exclaims. Taehyun peers up unamused, “Yes?”

Beomgyu introduces, “This is Soobin, one of Luna’s best apprentice sorcerers. He should take over his master in a good few years. I mean, sorcery is relatively new in Luna, we’ll see. He’s from Fortuna too, you know.”

Do you not remember me?” Soobin yelps walking forward. Taehyun stiffens, “Wait, Soobin?” His eyes flicker in recognition. “You moved to Luna?”

Soobin nods, “My father said the sorcerer’s tower in Fortuna was far too much of a negative space for me. Furthermore, he got a better job here.”

Taehyun muses dryly, “I guess you didn’t make it further than Luna. The reputation of sorcery is appalling here.” Soobin glares, “Hey, I’m the apprentice to the royal sorcerer here. I’m doing pretty good, better than being stuck there. It was suffocating.”

You peer back and forth blankly between the two as they continue their reunion. Beomgyu seems to share your confused sentiment. They must have been apprentices together.

Taehyun hums, “Good thing you left. Staying there was worthless in the end.” Soobin’s brows furrow, “I haven’t heard from you in years, no more than a decade. I barely recognised you.” Taehyun snarks, “Oh you have no idea, do you?”

Soobin questions, “How’s your father? The last thing I heard about your father was how he gave up his post, as royal sorcerer.” Taehyun’s eyes darken and it looks like he is going to strangle the poor man.

“Gave up, huh,” he grits out. He bitterly laughs, “You know what, I don’t blame you. You left before everything went to shit, anyway.” Everyone flinches at his profanity.

“Forget it,” Taehyun mutters abruptly standing up. Soobin frowns, “Wait, did I say something? Taehyun? Am I missing something?” You peer back and forth between them. Taehyun ignores his remark and walks out past all of you. You gawk at his retreating figure. Soobin questions you panicked, “Your highness, did I…say something wrong?” You murmur, “I…I don’t know. Do…do you not know that he was exiled?”

A look of horror crosses Soobin’s face, “He- what?” Your eyes widen; he truly didn’t know about his friend. “Him and his father…they…” Soobin stands there pale, awkward even, “Oh.”

“I don’t understand, how could they? How could they exile them? His father was the pioneer of introducing sorcery to Fortuna! Cementing Fortuna as the hub of sorcery!” Soobin exclaims, “I even have some of his teachings and notes still, he was a fantastic sorcerer.”

You stand there stifling overloaded with the onslaught of information. “What could they have done that badly to be exiled? They were utmost loyal to the throne?” A dull ache enters your heart. Beomgyu murmurs, “Y/n? Do you not know?”

You barely knew anything about Taehyun. You couldn’t break down those utterly high strong walls of his. “I don’t…I didn’t even know of his legacy.”

Soobin stares at you, “Did���did he not tell you? Taehyun is a sorcerer with an extremely high affinity for magic, from a young age. His father was a prime example as a pioneer of sorcery. He's extraordinarily powerful. I thought by now he’d be the royal sorcerer. His lineage is impeccable!”

You stand there lifelessly. You were missing a piece of the puzzle. You need to get to know Taehyun more. Soobin stands there frazzled; trying to connect the dots but failing.

“How…how do you not know of the Kang Legacy? The Spellbook? His father created numerous spells from scratch,” Soobin says, “How could…they exile their best assets?”

How could they? That was the question. You weren’t around, you had gotten adopted perhaps a year later, you guess. Either way, you’d eventually find out.

“Exiled to the Woods of Mors?” Soobin asks. You nod solemnly and he brokenly sighs, “He…so much potential and yet…”

“Who’s the royal sorcerer now?” Soobin questions. “Choi Yeonjun,” you answer.

Soobin goes quiet, “Yeonjun must be just as, if not more devastated. Goodness, how rough. At least Fortuna’s sorcery is in good hands though. I’m glad.”

“What do you mean?” You ask more and more confused. “They were best friends, your highness, academic rivals at the sorcerer’s tower. It must have hit Yeonjun hard when Taehyun and his father were exiled,” Soobin mumbles.

“I need to talk to him,” Soobin marches out in the direction Taehyun had left. You and Beomgyu are left behind and he peers at you. “Seems your travelling companion has a grand past, doesn’t he?” You murmur, “Indeed he does.”

Kang Taehyun; just what had you gone through?

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Kinktober Day 26 - Tentacles/Dacryphilia (Din Djarin)

ori'skraan

Kinktober Day 26 - Tentacles/Dacryphilia

dark/haunted!Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: The Mand'alor needs to feed to regain his strength, so you are called upon to fulfill the most sacred of your duties.

a haunted!Mand'alor!Din Djarin is granted strength beyond human limits by the Darksaber but at the cost of becoming a creature terrifying to behold who must feed like an incubus. Also, he has shadow tentacles. tbh; this is an elaborate setup for eldrich horror smut.

Warnings: dark, dub-con, tentacles, tentacle sex, rough sex, bondage, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), monsterfucking, author makes up stuff about Mandalorian culture in the name of monsterfucking, horror vibes, Mandalorian reader, Mando'a, satine kryze slander, Mand'alor Din Djarin, this may or may not become a series bcus I have a problem

Inspired by this prompt list from @absurdthirst.

also on ao3

In the days of the songs of old, before the civil war, before the pacifist uprising, and the slaughter of your people, being the Mand’alor meant something. It wasn’t symbolic; they weren’t a tool through which politicians passed their agendas; they were gods.

And when they died, their manda would join the others and become something stronger yet in the new Mand’alor. It was all ghost stories when you grew up. Something your brother would taunt you with, and when your buir found out, he was scolded, but the information was not denied.

An all-powerful ruler, granted extraordinary abilities by their dead predecessors. Terrifying, world-destroying power. And a beskar sword that could wield pure Force power.

They talked about the Mand’alor like a creature, this benevolent but merciless being who stalked in the shadows and called their mando’ade to arms only in times of true need. Who every Mandalorian worth their beskar would follow into death, whether by devotion or respect.

The real Mand’alor in your youth was much less impressive. Actually, she was fairly disappointing. She barely wore any beskar’gam, and you knew you could not serve her. Would not answer her call, for she was no real Mandalorian.

Never mind that you were ten.

After the Clone Wars, after the empire, after the purge, after… everything, you never thought you’d see Manda’yaim again.

But news travels fast through the galaxy, and when whispers began to turn to headlines, when every pub in town was brimming with the same news, when Mandalore was back in the hands of her people—

You waited. A twice-bitten striil burying her head in the sand. But you did reach out, and sent a ping through your connections until something echoed back.

It was true. And the call had been rung—return, it beckoned, for there is a Mand’alor on the throne at Keldabe.

So you went home.

Running Mandalore and protecting her from danger was a truly staggering feat. One supported by hundreds of other Mando’ade. Your brother pledged to serve on the royal guard, and you—well, before the Duchess, there was only one role you wanted.

You had been in training to be an attendant to the Mand’alor for years. Your time away from home had taught you that such a position was looked down upon by aruetti, the minding of a household diminished. But how could it be so when your services were dedicated to the Ka'ra? To protect and aid their vessel? To share the burden of living so that the Mand'alor can fulfill their oath to the people?

The Duchess had refused attendants, of course. And as she did not wield the saber, did not appreciate the grace of the Ka'ra, and so your job was over before it had begun. Though, as much as you disapproved of Kryze, you would have rather died to protect her than let that darjetii sit upon the throne.

The Darksaber granted him no power, and none after him. But when you arrive in the remains of Keldabe, where little stands now but stacks of cleared glass and hope, there are whispers of a man who had entered the Living Waters seeking redemption and returned as a monster to the surface with the blessing of the Stars themselves.

His advisors have explained as much as they know over and over again. It’s not much. Your regular duties are simple, something you had long mastered. Your other duties are less clear.

And so, you attend to him at all times. He fights you on it at first, gruff and stubborn. He doesn’t want you to draw his bath; he doesn’t want you to deliver his meals to his desk. But you do, and as the days tick by, he stops protesting you.

He even starts to anticipate your presence, greeting you with a soft kindness and accepting your service with quiet respect.

But the day was to come eventually. When he comes calling, you’re putting away Grogu’s clothes in the nursery.

There’s a knock at the door, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer. Fair, you suppose, since this is his son’s room.

“Mand’alor,” you say, inclining your head. You move to stand, and he sighs.

“Please, let’s not stand on decorum in these chambers.”

“It’s my job to, ah, 'stand on decorum,'” you say, smiling. But you resume folding the linens and small tunics.

“I wanted to let you know myself that you will be needed for your other duties tomorrow.”

Oh. The only indication of your reaction is a twitch of your fingers where they lay on the sleeve of a robe. “Yes, Mand’alor.”

“They explained to you what may happen?”

“Yes, Mand’alor, I understand.”

He comes and sits on the floor in front of you. Your helmet conceals your surprise, steady hands still working through the small pile of laundry.

“I’m sure they told you I did not want an attendant.”

“Something along those lines, yes.”

“Did they tell you why I changed my mind? Did they tell you what happened last month?”

You shudder a little involuntarily but hold firm enough to look at him and nod. “They also told me she’s okay.”

“Regardless,” he says, self-disgust oozing through the modulator. “I don’t wish for that to happen to you.”

“It may or may not,” you say. “We won’t know until then.”

“But you were trained for this. Do you know a way to ease it?”

“I did not complete my training, and I was too young to know the details. But…” you aren’t sure if you want to bring up your idea. It is, after all, without evidence.

“But what?”

“It’s nothing, Mand’alor. A theory and nothing more, but it isn’t worth the price.”

“What theory?”

“Just mine. Not even a fully formed hypothesis. Just a passing thought.”

“Tell me anyway.” His voice is soft. Nothing like you expect to face tomorrow.

“I just wondered if you were more familiar with me, if it might help.” You know he follows the Resol'nare in the way of the old songs. You have adapted to honor his Creed, as is The Way, and so he has never seen your face.

He's silent and you hope you haven't offended him. But he seems to genuinely considers your words.

And then he reaches up and removes his helmet.

“Kriff, warn me first,” you snap, squeezing your eyes shut and covering your visor with one hand.

“Your theory is sound. And we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

“Yes, but in the Chamber, we aren’t meant to outside it. And I only meant that perhaps I should—”

“What does it matter?”

You almost scoff before you remember your place. “I suppose it does not.” These were his rules, after all. He has a greater understanding of his own Creed than you ever will.

“I accepted an attendant because they assured me it would help you survive. That I would understand your purpose, in the moment. If this has even a chance of ensuring your safety, then it must be done.”

You reach up, but he stops you before your fingers brush the bottom of your helmet.

“May I?”

You still haven’t opened your eyes, but the rough sound of his unmodulated voice asking to remove your helmet sounds downright salacious.

“Of course, ner Mand’alor,” you murmur and tilt your head back.

You startle when he touches you, not because you're surprised but because he's removed his gloves. His thumbs skim against your neck to break the seal, and his smooth fingers burn. He lifts it off as if the beskar were as fragile as an egg and sets it beside his own.

You finally open your eyes and gasp. He’s beautiful. There’s no other word for it, or if there are, they are lost to you. His stare is intense and enthralling, his eyes the shade and softness of damp earth.

Then you remember your station and quickly avert your eyes to the ground.

“If it’s any comfort,” he says, “I’ll look much different tomorrow.”

“I’m sure your other form is just as beautiful.”

“Thank you, but you don’t need to flatter me.”

The silence that follows isn’t quite awkward. It’s not the pause of uncertain hands and mouths, of stilted negotiations, but the way the air hangs thick before dropping into battle. It’s the feeling of sitting side by side with your vod, knowing you are safe but still may not make it home.

He sits for a moment longer before taking his leave. “You should rest,” he says before he leaves the room.

You assure him you will. But you won’t. If you’re going to be off duty for two days, all the more reason to finish your tasks, you reason. The crawling pressure against your breastbone calls you a liar.

You know, have known, that to fulfill your duty means walking into a trap unarmed and unprepared. Whatever you find in there, you will have to face with no weapon, no beskar, no allies.

It doesn’t stop you from shaking a little as you remove your beskar’gam in the antechamber. You’re alone. No assistants, no handmaidens, no witnesses.

You take a deep breath that carries you across the threshold. The antechamber locks behind you. There will be no leaving until he is satisfied.

You expected the ritual halls of your ancestors. This is a bedroom.

Yes, it’s a bedroom in a hall carved of beskar-veined stone, but it’s soft. There are pale, thick rugs on the floor and tufted seats in shades of gray. The enormous round bed is indulgent, covered in silks and soft furs. You sit, bare, afraid to hide yourself lest it angers him when he enters.

Will he be the man or the beast when he enters? You’re not sure which you’d prefer. To watch him transform or to be forced to accept his second form upon his entrance.

You’re saved from dwelling on it when the door slides open. You breathe only enough to feel it slip away.

The Mand'alor's shadow cuts the light from the entry. Silhouetted in the frame, he towers higher, wider than he had in the baby’s room. The edges of his form are hard to look at. ike your eyes can’t focus, can’t accept what they see. When he moves and the door locks, you realize it wasn’t his shadow. He is the shadow. It ripples from him, spreading across his torso and arms.

He reaches you in far too few steps. His broad hand cups your chin, and the shadows that blur the edge between his skin and the air cup you also, spilling from his fingers up your cheeks like a wisp of fog.

The Mand’alor does not speak. But when he looks at you, more eyes peel open. Four extra on each side of his forehead, black and slit like a serpent's, though his two original eyes are still brown.

He leans down, the tendrils that swallow him threatening to swallow you, too. When his lips meet yours, your mouth opens to draw a sharp breath. It does not receive it, as he licks into your mouth. It feels like you’re choking, the darkness sliding down your throat.

His hands find your arms, and the shadows crawl down them, never breaking contact with him but stretching, growing. They curl around you, lingering just on the precipice of incorporeal.

You break the kiss to gasp for air, and a wide smirk spreads across his face. “Such a pretty girl,” he purrs. You wish it was hyperbole, but the words come in a rumble from deep within his chest.

And you flush, heat bursting across your skin and pooling in your cunt. He takes a deep breath and his eyes, all ten, dart down to your thighs.

“Offering to feed me already, alor’ika?”

You shudder, but your legs part for him. You hardly notice, enraptured as you are by the way blinks ripple across his hungry eyes.

“That’s it, what a good little pet,” he purrs.

A shudder slips through, your nipples pebbling. He takes one in his mouth immediately. His tongue is rough, but his teeth are surprisingly flat. Human.

Though, you suppose, he’s not a carnivore. Doesn’t need the sharp fangs of nightmares to rend your flesh. Especially not when your flesh seems particularly eager to give him whatever he needs.

He licks the valley between your breasts and sets his teeth against the tendon of your neck. You tip your head to the side, and he rewards you with a famished growl and the sharp pinch of his bite.

You can’t quite breathe right, still. Your skin prickles and burns where his mouth travels down an extensive trail, tasting and biting and marking you. The restraint snaps when he reaches the crest between your thighs, the hunger overtaking him.

He’ll have plenty of time to savor you, anyway.

But for now, he dives straight in. You cry out and jerk your hips at the sudden sensation. Licking deep within you—unnaturally so, you suspect—the shadowy edges of him unfurl, more corporeal than before. Just the small taste has strengthened him so much already.

It splits into thick tendrils, blurry with no discernable edges, just a place where they meet your skin and where they pulse from his body.

They encircle your wrists and hold them just above your head, another pair wrenching your legs apart and opening you for him. He snarls, gripping your thighs in his hands and flicking the sandpaper of his tongue against your clit. You cry out, and a tendril slides into your mouth.

It’s nearly real, now, smooth and dense. Your eyes roll back into your head as it makes itself at home in your throat, fucking in and out.

He looks up at you and laughs into your pussy, the hot breath of air over your clit making you twitch.

There’s nothing to tether you, the slick silk slipping when you squirm, the tendrils connecting you to him, only him, and not the world around you. They lift up your hips, letting him drink from your well with fervor, and you jerk helplessly in their grasp as one slides up and caresses your ass, slithering over the hole and wriggling in.

There isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t feel raw. His shadowy limbs creep over your breasts, roll your nipples, smooth over your stomach, brush against your cheek.

When you cum, he snarls again, slipping two fingers into your cunt and curving them against you, pressing and rubbing, and it brings you over the edge again. He doesn’t let up, not until he builds you up and breaks you on his tongue and hand. Like cracking open a fruit and letting the juices pour over your hand.

He savors every drop.

The danger sneaks in unnoticed. You’re dazed, limp, and chest heaving, coated in sweat and his saliva. But his strength is growing, the tendrils no longer shadow but rendered into flesh, and his grip on you is bruising.

Neither of you notice. You’re exhausted, barely clinging to consciousness, and he’s ravenous.

“More, alor’ika,” he hisses. He forces himself to pull away, to crawl atop you and take.

When you had seen his cock, a brief glance when he entered, it was large but humanly so. It is certainly not, now.

He pushes in slowly, but for all the pleasure he wrung from you, it’s not enough. Could never be enough. You scream, but no sound comes out, thoroughly stoppered as you are by the shadow-limb.

You look up at him, pupils blown not from lust but from pain. Tears leak, and he leans down and licks them from you.

“So pretty when you cry,” he croons, extracting the tendril from your mouth so he can press his tongue inside.

“Mand’alor, please,” you beg through sobs.

The bones in your wrist grind as the tentacles pulsate around them. As he nears his peak, the force of his hips is cruel. You think of the girl from last month. The girl whose shattered pelvis will probably never heal right, even with the bacta bath.

“Ner Mand’alor,” you try again. “It’s too much. If you break me, you can’t have me again.”

He sinks his teeth into your neck. “I can have whatever I need from you.”

“Yes,” you say, trying to nudge his head away with your own. You bump his forehead in a weak attempt at a mirshmure’cya, jostling his damp curls and drawing his real eyes to yours. “Vor entye.”

He draws back a little, regarding you with ten unblinking eyes.

“I will hold you to that, ner ori'skraan,” he says and gives you his own Keldabe kiss. He fucks into you still, rough but not ravaging. The fevered kissing resumes as a tendril creeps down to rub your clit.

When he has drained every ounce of pleasure he can wring from you; he fills your raw, split cunt. It’s so much. It floods, and leaks from you, and all you can do is whimper until he begins to soften.

He reaches down between your legs and brings some of his cum to your lips. You accept the offering, the strange sweetness lingering in your mouth until your lips tingle. The feeling is slow to stretch through you, and by the time the analgesic takes effect, you’re already asleep.

[aspoonofsugar]

favourite rwby's allusions?

Hi,

thank you so much for this ask! I love RWBY's allusions and talking about them is always a pleasure! So, I have currently 4 allusions I would call faves. I love many others too, but these 4 are kind of special for me:

Cinder Fall - Cinderella

Cinder's allusion is at the same time obvious and very layered. The key to understand it is Midnight (best written episode of the series imo). There, Cinder's fairy-tale gets inverted. She is a slave who finds her prince (Rhodes), but is ultimately failed and left in the darkness. At the same time, Cinder's background helps us read her allusion in the main storyline. As a matter of fact Cinder's story is about the cycle of abuse. She is stuck in it, so her fairy tale keeps repeating and won't have a happy ending until she interrupts the cycle. As a result we have:

Salem as a combination between the Evil Stepmother (Madame) and the Fairy Godmother (Rhodes)

Ruby as the Prince (a better version of Rhodes)

Emerald and Mercury as Cinder's slippers (the embodyment of the twin swords of her childhood)

Salem is the Evil Stepmom masked as a powerful Fairy Godmother, who gives Cinder a new pair of shiny slippers (the Maiden Powers). Still, they are only a tool to manipulate our Cinderella. Ruby is instead the Huntress who dances with Cinder and will save her with her personal silver slippers (her silver eyes). Finally, Emerald and Mercury are the two sides of Cinder, her two slippers who will lead the Prince (Ruby and RWBY) to her.

Key to understand the allusion- The episode Midnight (+ the Beacon Dance tbh)

Favourite motif- Emerald and Mercury as the slippers

Why it is a fave- It balances its relevance to the plot with strong imagery and metaphors. So, it is easy to notice, but it leaves much to discover once you start analyzing it

Weiss Schnee - Snowhite

Weiss's allusion plays with the idea of "royal test":

White is cold and always yearning, burdened by a royal test.

Which is nothing, but a trial to see if Weiss is fit to become Queen. In fairy-tale symbolism, a princess becomes queen when she grows up and self-actualizes. So, Weiss's story is one where she blooms into herself. Initially, she is given two opposite examples of "queens":

Jacques is the Evil Queen of Snowhite

Winter is the Snow Queen of Andersen's story

Weiss's arc is about realizing she is neither. She is instead her own queen:

She does so through integrating the different characters of her fairy tale within herself. She is Snowhite, as such she is made of all the characters that make her story:

She risks to become an Evil Queen

She is an unsure Huntress

She is the Prince who saves herself

She is Snowhite, who grows into a Queen

All these sides are expressed through her summons:

The Queen Lancer is the Evil Queen who gets dethroned by the Good Queen (Snowhite) in the end

The Boarbatusk is the Hunter who kills a boar to help Snowhite

The Knight is the Prince who saves Snowhite

The Nevermore is the crow turned into dove, which announces Snowhite's final resurrection

So, the summons are different characters of Snowhite. Moreover, each character fits a different Jungian Archetype:

The Queen is the Persona (the mask she wears)

The Hunter is the shadow (what she represses)

The Prince is the animus (the masculine inside the feminine)

Snowhite is the self (the sum of all other archetypes)

In short, Weiss plays all the characters of her story and her semblance is used to metaphorically comment her arc and tie her fairy-tale to the main plot in a symbolic way. It might seem Weiss's story isn't following Snowhite's. Still, if one focuses on Weiss's inner journey it turns out she has already gone through the majority of the Grimms' fairy tale. Only a finale is missing, which I think will crown Weiss's arc with an apple. (I need an apple)

Key to understand the allusion- Weiss's summons are Snowhite's characters

Favourite motif- Snowhite's characters fitting different Jungian Archetypes

Why it is a fave - It is very Jungian and psychological. Weiss's Snowhite loosely follows her journey in Remnant, but really shines when it is applied to Weiss's internal evolution

Yang XiaoLong - Goldilocks and the Three Bears

Yang's allusion is built on the idea of hot, cold and just right, which is declined in three different ways:

Red is hot, blue is cold and purple is just right. These colors comment Yang's arc and semblance. In particular, she is usually the just right (purple eyes), but when she uses her power she becomes too hot (red eyes)

Ruby is red, Weiss is blue and Blake is purple. This makes them Yang's hot, cold and just right. Together, they are the three bears of the fairy - tale, who welcome Yang in their found family

Yang is going through a process to find her just right. Still, before she succeeds she has to go through the too hot and too cold. In particular...

The Vale's arc is Yang's too hot:

Yang: Strawberry Sunrise. No ice. Oh, and one of those little umbrellas.

Yang goes to look for Raven and orders a hot beverage (no ice). She ends her search by finding Ruby (her hot bear). At the end of the arc she explodes in flames and loses an arm.

The Mistral's arc is Yang's too cold:

Yang: A water. It's hot out.

Yang goes to look for Raven and orders a cold beverage. She ends her search by finding Weiss (her cold bear). At the end of the arc she keeps it cool while fighting Adam and wins.

After this process, she has found her just right:

Still, I am sure Vacuo will explore this idea further and lead Yang's to her finale and truest "just right" as a character.

Key to understand the allusion - The Yellow Trailer sets up the metaphor with its different layers

Favourite motif - Red, blue and purple as hot, cold and just right

Why it is a fave - It uses dialogues and lines as motifs much more than other allusions and I find it neat. Especially because Yang is pun-girl and linked to knowledge, so I think this choice fits a lot.

Emerald Sustrai - Aladdin

Emerald's allusion is one that caught me off guard and now I love it! The key idea is that Emerald is both Aladdin and the Geenie. As a matter of fact Cinder tricks Emerald with the promise to fulfill her wish only to turn her into a slave. In general, the key characters and motif in Em's allusion are:

Cinder and Salem as the 2 geenies that promise to fulfill Emerald's wishes

Cinder and Salem as the 2 Evil Wizards that abuse Emerald

The Cave of Wonders as the cycle of abuse

The Lamp (the Relic of Knowledge) and the Ring (Em's own semblance) as magical tools that help our Aladdin out

In general, Emerald's design and basic idea tie with Disney-Aladdin's famous line:

"Only one may enter here, one whose worth lies far within... the Diamond in the Rough" (Aladdin, 1992)

Emerald is a precious gem covered in dirt, but with time she will find her inner value and discover what she truly wants. As a matter of fact her allusion thematically explores the differences between wants vs needs. Emerald starts by following an illusory wish (Cinder), but is slowly realizing her true wish and need (RWBYJNRO and Mercury). Differently from others' allusions, hers is just at the beginning and needs some kind of climatic conclusion. I am looking forward to ti! (Bonus if it ties with Mercury's headcanon allusion I came up with :P)

Key to understand the allusion - Cinder and Salem playing the parts of the geenies while referencing respectively a ring and a lamp

Favourite motif - Emerald is a gem in the rough

Why it is a fave - I love the potential of how the geenies and the wish imagert can be used in Emerald and Mercury's arcs. It can be very very powerful!

These are my 4 faves, but of course there are other allusions I love! It is just I have analyzed them less, so it is as if I am lacking a full picture. They are:

Ruby's LRRH- I love how it is intertwined with the Alice's one in volume 9. Still, I think there is much more to it.

Penny's Pinocchio- It is one of the most powerful allusions tbh and I would like to analyze it properly one day. Its ending being an inversion of the original fairy-tale is perfect. Here it is Penny (Pinocchio), who creates Winter (The Blue Fairy).

Jaune's Jeanne D'Arc - The Jaunidice's arc sets up this allusion brilliantly. The way it ties Pyrrha with Jaune's inspiration and personal God and how it manifests itself each arc with a miracle Jaune witnesses or performs is very powerful.

I also like Blake's Beauty and Beast's allusion, but I did not have to discover it slowly and it came to me as pretty obvious. So, I like it a little less.

I have yet to think about Ren and Nora's allusions, but I am interested in them.

Finally, I am super interested in Mercury's allusion and I am curious about it. I think its set-up is great and I wanna see how it plays out.

Thank you for the ask!

[vergeltvng]

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓𝖘 / 𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖘

system of a down ⛧ tool ⛧ the clash ⛧ metallica ⛧ bruce springsteen ⛧ billy talent ⛧ pixies ⛧ nine inch nails ⛧ disturbed ⛧ deftones ⛧ rage against the machine

𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖘

the grudge (tool) ⛧ here comes revenge (metallica) ⛧ i did what i did for maria (tony christie) ⛧ revenga (soad) ⛧ cigaro (soad) ⛧ running the world (jarvis cocker) ⛧ i'm a wanted man (royal deluxe) ⛧ oats in the water (ben howard) ⛧ hurt (nine inch nails) ⛧ karma police (radiohead) ⛧ freak on a leash (korn)

𝖖𝖚𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘 / 𝖑𝖞𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖘

wear the grudge like a crown ⛧ eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, a life for a life, it's my burden of proof ⛧ cunts are still running the world ⛧ my sweet revenge will be yours for the taking, it's in the making ⛧ well, that is a matter of opinion and I do not give a fuck about yours ⛧ blast off, it's party time, and where the fuck are you? ⛧ hello darkness, my old friend, i've come to talk to you again ⛧ there'll be things you never asked her, oh how they tear at you now ⛧ you’re an insane, degenerate piece of filth, and you deserve to die ⛧ pardon my french, fuck those fuckers ⛧ it's a day that i'll never miss, the most loneliest day of my life ⛧ this isn't a democracy anymore ⛧ you're all fucking welcome ⛧ worth dying for, worth killing for, worth going to hell for

𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖒𝖘 / 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖜𝖘

the boys ⛧ the punisher ⛧ kill bill ⛧ i saw the devil ⛧ oldboy ⛧ taxi driver ⛧ dredd ⛧ the crow (1994) ⛧ the hateful eight ⛧ django unchained ⛧ v for vendetta ⛧sin city ⛧ mad max (2015) ⛧ road to perdition ⛧ john wick ⛧ from dusk till dawn ⛧ pulp fiction

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘

the man himself - billy butcher (the boys) ⛧ frank castle (the punisher) ⛧ marv (sin city) ⛧ seth gecko (from dusk till dawn) ⛧ vincent vega (pulp fiction) ⛧ tyler durden (fight club) ⛧ walter white (breaking bad) ⛧ rick grimes (the walking dead) ⛧ wolverine (logan)

tagged by: @chaoticjoke (ty!) tagging: @h-a-unted (maeve and/or any muse of your choice!) @vikasgarden @heartofglass-mindofstone @thesmartassdetective @dear-diary-of-disaster @exsecrabar @arasanwar @gottesgrauen @ravishingnemesis @verflcht @vasted & whoever wants to

[officalroyalsofpierreland]

A Controversial Interview

The Late Show with Rory Grant | That Evening

Rory Grant: A Former Prince, A seeker of freedom, and a grandfather. His new book, Freedom, is a number one Bestseller on Le Nouvel Observateur’s Les Meilleures Ventes and is selling out across Scotland. Please welcome to the Late Show, Mr. Louis Simparte!

Grant: Louis, Welcome to the Late Show! Louis: Thank you Rory. Glad to be here.

Grant: Your book, Liberté or Freedom, is doing quite well both here and in Francesim. It is a bestseller in Francesim and climbing the lists here in Scotland, how are you feeling about the response to your book? Louis: I am deeply touched by the reception "Liberté" has received. My book has been met with great success by the public, and seeing that my ideas resonate after so many years of exile... it comforts me. The lives of royal families are a mystery that many try to unravel. In this sense, my book offers an explanation to the most curious readers who wish to share my vision of the French Imperial family.

Rory: The title is quite bold. Freedom. How did you land on such a powerful title? Louis: The title "Freedom" came to me naturally. It embodies not only my personal quest but also a philosophy I want to pass on. We must break free from the constraints imposed by our family while retaining the best it can offer if there is anything worth keeping. I have learned to love my Simparte heritage, in my own way. I want to show that I have always fought for my freedom, and that it is a daily struggle. Rory: You say that your fight for freedom is a daily struggle. And you've had quite the long life [Louis laughs] what was the hardest part to write about? Louis: Without a doubt, the most difficult part to write was the one where I talk about my break with family tradition. Reflecting on my choices and their consequences, particularly on my relationship with my father and my son Charles, was not easy. It's a wound that time strives to heal.

Rory: Given the strained relationship with your family, do you regret anything you put in the book? Louis: No. Every word reflects my life; I cannot regret it. That said, writing about my own family, knowing that it could hurt some of its members—or bring their wrath upon me—was a burden for a long time. But I believe that truth and freedom of expression are values that must surpass family values. Rory: You've never met your grandchildren, including Princess Hortense who is now the wife of our own Prince Oliver, what do you hope they can learn from you if they pick up the book? Louis: I hope they understand that the important thing is not to blindly follow the path laid out by their parents or ancestors but to find their own way. Being a Simparte also means freeing oneself from the weight of tradition to embrace one's convictions.

Rory: Would you like to meet them? After all, Princess Hortense now lives here. I'm wondering if they've invited you over to Highland House for tea or however you meet your estranged grandfather. Louis [chuckling]: I haven't received any invitation from them. I do understand that to them I am practically a stranger. But I do hope one day to meet them all. I love sports and sailing just like Napoleon V. Despite the family differences that separate us, they are my grandchildren, and I love them. I do not wish to enter "their way of life," but rather "into their lives." Like a relative with whom one shares nothing but love and respect for one another. I hope that family tensions can ease as soon as possible. Many think that my book is adding fuel to the fire, as they say. But it is precisely because I didn’t have the opportunity to speak within the Imperial family that I was compelled to express myself in a book. Rory: Given that this book is essentially a message in a bottle to your family, do you think you've told your side?

Louis Simparte: Yes, absolutely, that’s my stance. I embrace my subjectivity. It’s a story that doesn’t always align with the official version given by my family, but it’s mine—authentic and uncompromising. From childhood, I was raised as an heir to Napoleon, as a good Christian, being told that 'I was different from others.' The first break came when I decided to stop believing in God. The second came when I failed to obtain my baccalaureate. This was a great shame for my father, who wanted the Napoleons to be at the top of their class. I wasn’t interested in that. Given this, you can understand that our visions can only be opposed on many points. Rory: I can definitely relate. My father thought the best I'd do as a comic would be as a clown in the circus. Well look at me now Da! [cheers from the audience and some laughter as stereotypical clown music plays]

Rory: What’s next for you? Louis: I want to advocate for a different vision than that of "the emperor" Napoleon, and I will do this work within the French political and cultural spheres. Napoleon was not "programmed" by the aristocracy. Nothing could have predicted that he would rise. I like to present him differently, for example, Napoleon at Saint Helena. The Napoleon who plays with his witty remarks, a fickle Napoleon, or who cheats at cards. The mistake of my ancestor was that, in the end, he found no legitimacy in his power—other than dictatorship. This is far from the revolutionary or republican ideal. He could not find a synthesis between monarchist forces and republican forces because such a synthesis does not exist. He faced a contradiction that no one could resolve. Napoleon's true strength was his energy. He knew how to take risks, discard his prejudices, be realistic, and have a fresh perspective. That is Napoleon’s message! The foundation I wish to establish should contribute to this reflection. Rory: A message I think all leaders should take to heart these days. Louis's memoir, Freedom is available in French and English anywhere books are sold. When we come back, this man just won the boxing gold in the Warrior Games after giving his Pierreland opponent a hell of a knock out blow. Our interview with Staff Sargent Tyler Adams will be after these messages.

@empiredesimparte