#Wedding night

[tasknine]

Let's keep going,.. one more night?

[shar3dmom3nts]

F1nn5ter embracing life as a woman. Now for my gift 😙😀

[iiseult]

Oooh open requests! May I have King Baldwin with a wife reader who sweetly helps him treat his wounds regardless of how he tells her not to come into direct contact with his skin? Please, do it nice and fluffy, if it's not too much trouble! Thank you!

Wedding Night: Baldwin IV x reader

CWs → fluff, probable historical inaccuracies, she/her pronouns, leprosy, christianity and mentions of god, reader and baldwin just got married!

Note: This is the first request I've ever responded to! Thank you so much for sending it in, I really hope you enjoy! <3 Also this was supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away

Wordcount: 2k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin was laying on his stomach with his bandaged arms and legs stretched out across the large mattress, and his face nuzzled into a plush pillow. The day had been strenuous for him, requiring much more standing than he was accustomed to, and his body ached terribly. Though originally just on his hands and face, the disease had recently spread up past his wrist and onto a small patch of his back, causing an uncomfortable burning sensation every time his clothing brushed against it. He was waiting for his physician to arrive and apply his nightly soothing salve, which usually helped to relieve some of the discomfort that resulted from the intense dryness of his skin. But when the door opened, instead of his physician, it was you. 

Hastily, he sat up, looking around to find something to cover himself with. Besides the bandages wrapped around his ribcage, arms, and the middle of his face, the only thing he had on was a pair of white linen shorts. You covered your mouth and giggled as he scrambled to grab his robe from the nearby chair it was draped over.

“My lord, that really won’t be necessary. I’m only going to take it right back off once you put it on,” you said playfully, closing the door behind you and sauntering towards him. You were carrying a small basket in your left hand. He furrowed his brow and instinctually clutched the fabric to his chest, hoping it covered most of his exposed skin. A wave of heat rushed to his head, and he suddenly felt a bit dizzy.  

“Lady Y/N– I mean, Your Highness, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice betraying his mild panic as his eyes followed you across the bedroom. You had changed out of your wedding gown in favor of a tightly fitting dress of a deep emerald green and a low neckline– typical attire for a bride on her wedding night. Heat rose to his cheeks as he admired his new queen’s attractive figure, on display just for him. He really hadn’t been expecting this. You had to know that, given his condition, consummating the marriage would be more trouble than it was worth, and attempting to sire an heir with him would be a completely fruitless endeavor. Why, then, were you standing before him, looking like the very picture of grace and beauty? You smiled gently at him, setting down the basket and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Let me help you. Please, lie back down so I can take those bandages off,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. You waited a moment, but he only gawked, eyes still shamelessly concentrating on your choice of wardrobe. You sighed and placed a hand over his bandaged one, looking deeply into his eyes. 

“I promise I’ll be gentle.” 

He hummed sadly, shaking his head no, knowing he could not give you what you wanted. 

“I believe that you would, but I cannot allow it. If you were to come into contact with my bare skin…” he trailed off. You bit your lip. You knew he wouldn’t agree to it. 

He noticed your disappointment, and his eyes softened a little. 

“Look at you, your skin is so pure…if anything were to happen to it on my account, I could never forgive myself. Not only because of the pain it would inflict upon you, but also for my own selfish reasons.” He spoke slowly, letting his words sink in. 

“My wife, you are so beautiful, and so smart. You have so much to give, and you are everything I am not. If you were to put yourself at risk of becoming like me, you would be condemning yourself to a short, bitter life of wasted potential. Though I may not be long for this world, I want to spend the remainder of my days admiring you and all that you bring. Please do not forsake the gifts God has given you for fleeting desires of the flesh,” he begged. His blue eyes were so wide, pleading, swimming with genuine emotion, but it wasn’t enough to break you. You knew what you wanted.

“Baldwin,” you said, addressing him directly for the first time, “Just this once, please. Let me do this for you.” 

You tugged lightly at the fabric bunched up in his grasp. He resigned, allowing you to pull it away and discard it at the foot of the bed, leaving his mostly bare chest exposed to your intimate gaze. No woman had ever seen this much of him before. He watched as your eyes traced his body, beginning at his delicate neck and protruding collar bones, then down to the smooth expanse of creamy skin covering his chest, and finally to his well-defined middle. Those parts of him had yet to be contaminated by his affliction. You had yet to ever come into contact with his bare skin, but the way you were studying him, he could almost feel the sweet sensation of your fingertips ghosting over his body. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry if you had hopes of…enjoying a true wedding night with me, but I must be honest with you, even if it does cause me great pain and regret-” 

You hushed him quietly, clasping his hand in yours a little tighter. 

“No, my love, you don’t have to explain to me. I understand. That is not what I came for. I simply wanted to take care of my husband.” You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you gazed down at him lovingly. He let out a breath and untensed his shoulders, relieved that he wasn’t letting you down after all. The sight of you smiling down at him with all the love in the world melted his heart, and his resolve broke. 

“Alright. But please promise me you will cleanse yourself thoroughly afterwards. We must do everything we can to prevent the spread,” he whispered, dropping his hand to allow you to have your way with him. 

Slowly, carefully, you reached for him, stretching your fingertips out and finally grazing them against the middle of his chest. He inhaled sharply, watching in awe. Your touch was feather-light, but it sent a spark of heat straight to his heart. His skin tingled. Gently, you applied a bit of pressure, encouraging him to lay back. He stared into your eyes and refused to look anywhere else as he readjusted his position, locks of blond hair shifting away from his brow as he reclined.

“That’s it, just like that. Perfect. Now, just relax, I brought some oils and salves for you. I’m going to take this bandage off now, okay?” You said, reaching for his wrapped hand. He nodded, and you slowly began unwinding the linens, peeling them away to reveal the most decayed part of his body; his right hand. Any skin left intact on it was shaded by a grayish hue, and the rest was just angry, red, open sores. You fought the urge to wince, not because it disgusted you, because it didn’t, but because you empathized with Baldwin, feeling the pain he must have felt in that moment. The bandages you removed were dotted with blood and other secretions from the angry wounds. 

You continued unraveling, all the way up his arm, and its condition gradually improved the further up you got. Then you moved to the other arm, repeating the same process. Soon, it was time to attend to the linens coiled around his torso, protecting the rash on his back. 

“Can you sit up for me, please?” 

He wordlessly obeyed, watching you work through his curtain of fine, golden hair. You scooted over until you were fully seated on the bed, face to face with him. He was suddenly glad for the bandage covering most of his cheeks and nose, so you didn’t detect the blush rapidly spreading across them. 

You reached around with your left arm and placed your cool palm against his shoulder blade to steady him as you pulled away the bandages. He sat as still as possible, not sure what to do with himself. His heart was about to beat out of his chest. Your hand was so soft, so slow…it was lulling him into a trance. He sighed deeply, letting the air roll all the way through his lungs. You deftly unweaved the bandage with your delicate fingers, working swiftly to avoid any discomfort that the pulling might cause him. Soon, all that remained was his face. 

Wordlessly, you slid a hand up the back of his neck and cradled his head in your palm, threading your fingers through his curls. He let his head fall back, confident that you would support him, and closed his eyes. A quiet rumble emanated from the back of his throat when he felt your fingertips brush his forehead. Then, you peeled off the last bandage, finally exposing the sensitive skin of his face to the cool evening air. 

Yes, his complexion was blemished and inflamed, as you expected. His nose was red and dry, some of the skin flaking off completely. His lips were in much the same condition. A smattering of pink blotches covered his handsome cheeks. But to you, nobody had ever looked closer to perfect. You grinned and cupped his face between your hands, gently circling your thumb over his cheek. His pretty blue eyes crinkled up at the corners as he smiled back, letting out a short laugh he never meant to let out. 

“You are such a beautiful boy, Baldwin. I love seeing your smile so much,” you said, tracing his bottom lip. That smile only grew as he closed his eyes in bliss. Your warmth was almost too much for him to handle. 

“I’m going to apply the salve now, okay?” you asked, gently laying his head down on his pillow and reaching for a bottle from your basket. 

“Mhmm,” he hummed contentedly. The smell of lavender and chamomile permeated the air as you scooped up a large blob of the salve and gently smeared it over his cheekbones. He sighed in relief as soon as it touched his parched skin, his pink lips parting. Soon, his face had absorbed most of the moisture, making him glisten in the candlelight like he was made of porcelain, and you moved onto his back, having him turn over. You ran your hands over the plains of his shoulder blades, massaging the tissue to help relieve any aches that may have built up. He groaned into the pillow in satisfaction. You smiled, continuing your ministrations. 

Needless to say, Baldwin had never experienced anything remotely similar to this before. The way you handled him and didn’t shy away from coming into direct contact with the most afflicted parts of his body made his stomach do flips. Maybe he could get used to this. 

‘I think I’m all done, my king. You can turn back over,” you said softly, putting the cork back in your bottle and stowing it away in the basket. Baldwin stretched leisurely and rolled over, hair partially obscuring his half-lidded eyes and crooked smile. He suddenly looked so young; only eighteen years old and he had already led an army. 

“Thank you, love,” he murmured, reaching out to grab your hand, bravely intertwining your fingers. He figured the damage had already been done, and there was no harm in a few more precious seconds of warmth. So he swiftly lifted your hand and pressed it to his delicate lips, almost burning your skin with the lingering passion in his touch. 

Now it was your turn to blush. 

[affableramen]

minors do not interact

Imagine a wedding night! with Alhaitham but he can’t fit it in. Like really. You knew about such possibility but seeing his full bare body you become both anxious and excited because, how the damn is it gonna fit?

“Sorry, I do not mean to insult you in any way. Your body is wonderful, it’s gorgeous and handsome. I just did not expect this part of you to be so… big.”

He is not less conflicted than you right now, but understanding that at least one of you have to stay calm, he gathers all his thoughts and speaks calmly: “Big, really?” He chuckles. “You just have to relax. It will feel very good once you’re not strained, I promise.”

He smooches your forehead softly, before going down your face, finding your sweet lips and slipping down to your collarbone. He is ready to try any option in order to make you feel comfortable and ready for him to finally have you. Both seducing and comforting you with his lips he gets a tiny whimper-like reaction from you and it brings a cunning yet so endearing smile to his lips.

His intricate fingers start gently moving at your core, tuning you into the night of intimacy which is by any means so important to the both of you. You expect it to be nothing but awkward and difficult, feeling how your body trembles at only mention of sexual intimacy. But seeing Alhaitham confident and calm in his abilities you allow yourself to trust him.

He settles in front of you, between your thighs, you see a slight, almost unnoticeable shake of his hands once he takes himself and positions it at your centre. The pain is only a few seconds, and after you start slowly feeling heat pooling somewhere below your stomach. The tingling sensation lasts before Alhaitham groans with frustration. “It’a stuck. I need you completely and utterly loosened up, and it will slide in smoothly. Do you trust me?”

“I do, Alhaitham. I just don’t want it to…” you feel heat rush down your cheeks because of how embarrassed you feel for a moment. “…to hurt.”

“It will only hurt for a moment, and then you will feel only true bliss. I told you I would be gentle, do you not believe me? Do you, perhaps, want to hold my hand?” He lets you intertwine your fingers with his and somehow this trick makes you soothed. You grip his hand tightly for the procedure to finally get a deserved conclusion. “Here, this way it will be easier for you.”

You close your eyes for a moment… and then you find yourself completely smitten when you feel his manhood seated firmly inside you. The pain is nothing compared to the joy of finally becoming intimate with someone you love dearly.

His strokes are slow and careful, once again making you realise that Alhaitham prioritises you feeling good about having to share a bed with him.

“I love you. I love you so much”, his whispers mixed with his low, throaty moanings. The sensations are quite increased and sensitive for the both of you. It’s no surprise that your love making doesn’t last too long, given the excitement and passion the both of you share in this moment. But deep inside your heart you realise that you want more, and perhaps this round was not the last for tonight. As Alhaitham pulls out, exhausted, falling next to you, you instead pull him to your side. “Lay your body on top of mine.”

“I’m quite heavy.”

“I want to feel you. Can you do that for me?”

And Alhaitham complies, his weight embraces you. You give his back a few scratches with your claws, in hopes that he will continue pleasing you after he’s gotten hard again.

[2-dsimp]

iam really wondering if I marry Uriel would he wear a cute lingerie set for our wedding night ???

1k followers Milestone EvEnt 🎉

Only should you mention it.

A/n: Now onto the next milestone event for 1.5k followers poll to be posted soon 👀

[miguelswifey04]

ive been wanting this hhhh wedding night sex with miguel fem reader pls 💞💞💞💞💞 & ty!

oh my god yes!!

wedding night sex—miguel o’hara x fem! reader

cw: nsfw 18+, smut; no plot, wedding night sex, oral sex, vaginal sex (p in v), praise kink, slightly aggressive sex

as the night falls and the celebration of your wedding comes to a close, you and miguel find yourselves alone, finally able to indulge in the intimacy of your new union. the anticipation and excitement hang thick in the air as you step into the room that holds the promise of passionate encounters. miguel takes your hand in his, his touch gentle yet filled with desire. he pulls you closer, his lips finding yours in a deep, longing kiss. the weight of the day's emotions melts away as you succumb to the embrace of his strong arms.

with each kiss and caress, your clothing begins to fall away, revealing the raw beauty of your bodies. miguel’s eyes rove over your exposed skin, a hunger evident in his gaze. his hands roam over the curves of your body, worshipping every inch of you with tender yet possessive touch. he lays you gently on the bed, his hands trailing along your thighs, teasing, and exploring. as he positions himself above you, a rush of anticipation floods through you, the realization that this is the beginning of a lifetime together.

miguel's lips journey across your body, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle bites in his wake. his hands explore, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your hardening nipples. he takes his time, relishing in the pleasure of every touch, every gasp and moan that escapes from your lips. as he reaches your most intimate area, his lips part, his tongue flicking gently over your sensitive folds. he brings his hands up, gently parting your legs, his tongue delving deeper into your warmth. the sensation is overwhelming, pleasure pulsating through every nerve in your body.

miguel's expert tongue works its magic, skillfully exploring every inch of your most intimate parts. the sensations are overwhelming, a whirlwind of pleasure emanating from your core. your hands grip onto the sheets, your body writhing in ecstasy as a sweet release builds. as your climax approaches, miguel’s pace quickens, his tongue moving with fervor. the sensations overloaded your senses, and with an eruption of pleasure, your body tenses as a powerful orgasm consumes you. wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, leaving you gasping for breath. “would you like me to continue, my princess? there’s so much more i want to explore with you tonight." his voice drips with desire, his eyes burning with lust as he looks at you, waiting for your response.

“yes please…” with a powerful surge of strength, miguel effortlessly flips you onto your stomach, your naked body exposed and vulnerable. the anticipation builds as you feel his warm breath against your ear, “you’ve been a such a good girl for me. don’t worry, it'll be pleasure mixed with a touch of pain." without warning, miguel’s strong hands grip your hips possessively, pulling you closer to him. his impressive length brushes against your wetness, teasing and tantalizing.

he enters you slowly, bit by bit, his sizable girth stretching you, filling you up completely. the sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and a twinge of pain that only heightens your desire. miguel’s pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more powerful and full of purpose. his hands roam your body, gripping your curves firmly as he takes his pleasure. with each thrust, he hits a spot deep within you that sends you spiraling towards bliss. the sounds of skin slapping against skin fill the room, blending with your moans of pleasure.

time seems to lose meaning as miguel takes you again and again, each thrust bringing you closer to the peak of your desire. the rhythm intensifies, his movements becoming more urgent, more primal. feeling the intensity building, your body tenses as a powerful orgasm approaches. with one final thrust, miguel pushes you over the edge, your body convulsing in ecstasy as waves of pleasure crash over you. miguel, not one to rest, continues his relentless assault, extending your pleasure, prolonging your release. his determination to savor every drop of pleasure pushes you to the edge once again, and with a cry of his name, you surrender to the ecstasy that consumes you.

both of you lay there, panting and sated, riding the waves of post-orgasmic bliss. miguel wraps his arms around you, pulling you close as you bask in the afterglow of your intimate encounter. “you’re incredible, sweetheart.”your hearts beat in sync as you lay there, bodies intertwined, ready to explore the depths of pleasure that await you throughout the night. there’s no doubt that you'll both leave this experience utterly satisfied and hungry for more.

tags 🏷️!! @kairiscorner @sabcandoit @emiemiemiii @meeom @astro1bloom @obi-mom-kenobi

[thebunnednun]

In the Arms of a Stranger Charlotte Katakuri x Bride! Reader (Part 1)

He's been popping up on my timeline for a while so I think that means he's getting a series. Pretend he's younger, or don't.

This is gonna be a long one folks.

Spolier: Reader ate the "Kage Kage no Mi" fruit.

Summary:

Kidnapped from the safety of your Straw Hat family and drugged into a forced marriage as a cruel act of revenge by Big Mom, you find yourself in a luxurious yet suffocating room with Charlotte Katakuri, the formidable son of your captor. Fear and desperation grip your heart, but amidst the terror, an unexpected truce begins to form.

As Katakuri reveals his own discomfort with the marriage and vows to protect you, a fragile bond develops. Together, you navigate the tension and uncertainty, finding solace in each other's presence.

In the midst of vulnerability and shared fears, even in the darkest times, unexpected comfort and trust can emerge.

Now, on with the show!!~

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The opulent grand hall reverberated with the lively chatter of guests and the melodious clinking of glasses, creating an atmosphere of celebration and merriment. However, amidst the splendor, [Name] couldn't shake off the overwhelming sense of displacement.

Her thoughts continuously gravitated back to her beloved Straw Hat family, from whom she had been abruptly separated due to this arranged marriage. All you could remember was being stolen in the night and being presented before a large pink woman.

The entire ceremony had unfolded like a hazy dream, and now, as the night descended, it marked the beginning of their wedding night.

Your knowledge of Charlotte Katakuri, your enigmatic new husband, was shrouded in intimidating rumors, leaving you feeling apprehensive.

'Fucking shit.'

The heavy oak door to their lavishly adorned chamber clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing ominously in the vast space. Silence descended like a suffocating blanket, pressing down on you with palpable weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stood in the center of opulence, surrounded by the extravagant display of wealth.

The room exuded grandeur at every turn—the king-sized bed, adorned with layers of sumptuous silk, beckoned invitingly, yet it felt more like a throne of isolation than a place of rest. Ornate furniture, carved with intricate designs, adorned the spacious chamber, each piece a testament to extravagance. The soft glow of the dimly lit chandeliers cast ethereal shadows across the room, adding to the surreal atmosphere.

But amidst the splendor, there was a profound sense of unease, a feeling of being ensnared in a gilded cage. Despite the luxurious trappings, the room felt suffocating, each embellishment serving as a reminder of the confinement you found yourself in. The air seemed heavy with unspoken tension, and the silence seemed to magnify your solitude.

Your gaze flitted around the room, seeking solace in its lavish décor, but finding none. Every corner seemed to echo with a sense of captivity, each ornamental detail serving as a stark contrast to the freedom you longed for. Your heart ached with longing, yearning for the warmth and familiarity of your Straw Hat family, where safety and love awaited.

In this ostentatious chamber, you felt like a trapped bird, yearning to spread your wings and soar back to where you belonged. The opulence that surrounded you only served to emphasize the stark reality of your confinement, amplifying your desire to break free from this golden prison and return to the embrace of those who cherished you most.

In a moment of sheer panic, you found yourself drawn to the large bed dominating the center of the room. Instinct took over as you dropped to your knees, your movements frantic and unthinking. With trembling hands, you crawled beneath the bed, seeking refuge in the shadowy space beneath its expanse. The rapid thudding of your heart reverberated in your ears, a deafening drumbeat of fear that seemed to echo through the room.

As you huddled beneath the bed, your breaths came in shallow gasps, each inhale feeling like a struggle against the weight of impending doom. The confined space offered little solace, but you clung to it desperately, your body curling into a tight ball as if seeking protection from the encroaching darkness.

In the dimness beneath the bed, the world outside seemed distant and unreal, as if you had retreated into a realm of your own making. The shadows enveloped you like a comforting cloak, shielding you from the harsh reality that lurked beyond the confines of your hiding place.

Your mind raced with thoughts of escape, the urgency of the situation pressing down on you like a heavyweight. You couldn't stay here, couldn't bear the thought of what awaited you on this dreaded night. Your only thought was to find your friends, to seek refuge in the familiar embrace of the Straw Hat crew.

But for now, beneath the bed, you allowed yourself a moment of respite, a brief reprieve from the chaos that surrounded you. The stale air hung heavy in your lungs, but you welcomed it, using the precious moments of solitude to gather your thoughts and steel yourself for the challenges that lay ahead.

In the suffocating stillness of the room, time seemed to lose all meaning, stretching out into an endless expanse of silence. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside, seemed magnified, as if the very air itself held its breath in anticipation. The weight of the mansion pressed down on you like a suffocating blanket, its oppressive atmosphere adding to the unbearable tension that hung in the air.

And then, like a harbinger of impending doom, you heard the door creak open, the sound slicing through the silence like a knife. Your entire body tensed, muscles coiling with apprehension as your breath caught in your throat, the air thick with trepidation.

With each heavy footstep, Katakuri drew closer, his presence a looming specter in the darkness. The sound of his boots on the plush carpet sent vibrations rippling through the floor, each thud reverberating through your bones and echoing the pounding of your heart. Every nerve in your body screamed for you to flee, to escape the approaching danger, but you remained frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.

Closing your eyes tightly, you prayed fervently that he wouldn't notice you, that you could remain hidden in the shadows beneath the bed. The darkness offered scant protection, but it was all you had, a thin veil of concealment against the looming threat that lurked just beyond your hiding place. As Katakuri's footsteps drew nearer, you clung to the desperate hope that somehow, against all odds, you would remain undetected.

'Please, just go away. Don’t look under the bed. Please.'

As Katakuri's heavy footsteps halted mere inches from the edge of the bed, a tangible sense of dread settled over you like a suffocating shroud. His presence loomed over you, a looming shadow of menace that seemed to envelop the room in a cloak of darkness. The air grew thick with tension, each breath you took feeling like a struggle against the oppressive weight of fear that pressed down upon you.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly as you held your breath, every second feeling like an eternity as you waited in agonizing anticipation. And then, mercifully, the footsteps receded, their retreat a faint echo in the silence that followed. The sound of water running in the adjacent bathroom filled the room, a stark contrast to the stillness that had preceded it. Relief washed over you in a shaky exhale, but beneath the surface, the gnawing fear persisted, a constant reminder of the danger that lurked just beyond your reach.

'This is my chance,' you thought, determination flickering in the depths of your eyes as you seized upon the opportunity before you. With a surge of adrenaline, you scrambled out from under the bed, your movements swift and urgent as you surveyed your surroundings for any sign of escape. Your heart sank as you realized the door was securely locked, a barrier that stood between you and freedom.

'No, no, no!' The panic threatened to overwhelm you, but amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a glimmer of hope emerged. You remembered your Devil Fruit powers, a latent ability that held the key to your salvation. With a fierce focus, you channeled your energy, merging with the shadows that danced along the edges of the room. The sensation was eerie, like slipping into a cold, dark void, but you clung to it desperately, knowing it was your only chance at escape.

Invisible to the naked eye, you slipped through the crack beneath the bedroom door, your movements silent and swift as you navigated the dimly lit hallway beyond. Your heart pounded in your chest as you caught sight of Charlotte Opera, his figure looming ominously in the distance, a dagger glinting menacingly under the harsh glow of the overhead lights.

'Perfect,' you thought grimly, steeling yourself for the perilous journey that lay ahead. With determination coursing through your veins, you set off into the unknown, every step a testament to your unwavering resolve to reclaim your freedom at any cost.

As you moved stealthily through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion, every step careful and calculated, your heart pounded in your ears like a thunderous drumbeat. The oppressive silence of the night was broken only by the faint sound of your own breathing, each inhale and exhale amplified by the tension that hung thick in the air. Every corner you turned seemed to hold the promise of danger, every shadow concealing a potential threat.

With practiced ease, you closed the distance between yourself and Opera, your movements fluid and silent as you closed in on your target. In a swift, decisive motion, you snatched the dagger from his grasp, the cold metal of the blade sending a shiver of anticipation coursing through your veins. It was a small victory, but in the face of the looming danger that surrounded you, it felt like a lifeline—a tangible symbol of your determination to fight back against the forces that sought to hold you captive.

Retreating back into the safety of the shadows, you clung to the dagger tightly, the weight of it comforting in your hand. It was a small but significant tool of defense, a reminder that you were not powerless in the face of adversity. With renewed resolve, you prepared yourself for the ordeal that lay ahead, steeling yourself for whatever challenges awaited you.

As the sound of the shower ceased and the lights in the bedroom dimmed, plunging the room into an even deeper darkness, your heart rate spiked once more. The tension in the air was palpable, each moment stretching out into an agonizing eternity as you resumed your hiding spot beneath the bed. Holding your breath, you braced yourself for whatever might come next, your mind racing with frantic thoughts as you prepared to confront the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

'Now I have the advantage but how do I get out of this?'

As you lay hidden beneath the bed, your mind raced with frantic thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last. The weight of the dagger in your hand offered little solace as you grappled with the overwhelming fear of the unknown. How would you escape this predicament? What awaited you beyond the confines of this ominous mansion? The uncertainty gnawed at your insides, leaving you feeling small and powerless in the face of the looming threat.

Before you could formulate a plan of action, the bathroom door swung open with a sinister creak, unleashing a wave of hot steam into the room. Through the swirling mist, you caught a glimpse of Katakuri's towering figure, his presence like a malevolent shadow in the darkness. The air seemed to thicken with dread as his cold, unyielding gaze pierced through the haze, fixating on you with chilling intensity.

And then, in an instant, the shadows were banished by a blinding light that seared through the fog, illuminating you in its merciless glare. The stark contrast between light and darkness rendered you vulnerable, exposed to the full force of Katakuri's unwavering scrutiny. Panic surged through you like a primal instinct as his eyes bore into yours, stripping away any semblance of safety or sanctuary.

Before you could react, his hand closed around your wrist with a bone-crushing grip, dragging you unceremoniously out from your hiding place beneath the bed. The sensation was like being ensnared by a predator, helpless against the inexorable force of his advance. With each heartbeat, the reality of your predicament sank in, filling you with a visceral terror so profound it threatened to consume you whole.

"No, no, no!" The words escaped your lips in a frantic whisper, a desperate plea for escape that fell on deaf ears. In the face of Katakuri's relentless advance, you were overwhelmed by a sense of dread so potent it bordered on madness. As he loomed over you, a silent harbinger of doom, you were plunged into the depths of a nightmare from which there seemed to be no waking.

As you struggled against Katakuri's iron grip, fear surged through your veins like a torrential wave, threatening to drown you in its icy embrace. With a surge of desperation, you plunged the dagger into his wrist, a desperate bid for freedom born of sheer instinct. He grunted in pain, his reaction more annoyance than true agony, but it was enough to momentarily loosen his hold on you.

With a gasp of relief, you tumbled onto the bed, your heart pounding in your chest like a frantic drumbeat. Scrambling away, you fought to put as much distance between yourself and your assailant as possible, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. But your escape was short-lived, and you soon found yourself falling off the other side of the bed, landing with a jarring thud on the cold, unforgiving floor below.

As you lay there, your mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion, a thousand thoughts raced through your head in rapid succession. "I hurt him. What now? Will he kill me?" The questions echoed in your mind like a relentless refrain, each one more terrifying than the last. The cold floor pressed against your back, grounding you in the harsh reality of your situation as you struggled to catch your breath, your chest heaving with the effort.

Amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a fierce determination took hold, driving you forward in spite of the overwhelming fear that threatened to consume you. "I can't let him catch me. I have to survive this. I have to get back to my family." The words rang out in your mind with a clarity that cut through the suffocating haze of terror, fueling your resolve with a newfound strength.

Though the fear was almost paralyzing, the thought of your Straw Hat family served as a beacon of hope in the darkness, a reminder of the bonds that tethered you to the world beyond this nightmare. With each breath, you drew upon that strength, channeling it into a desperate bid for survival as you faced the terrifying unknown that lay ahead.

As you lay on the floor, your body trembling with adrenaline, the sound of Katakuri's approach sent shivers down your spine, his silent footsteps amplifying your terror. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, your senses heightened to a fever pitch as you struggled to control your racing heart.

'He's coming. What do I do? Think, [Name], think!'

The suspense was suffocating, the air thick with tension, as you fought to steady your breathing against the overwhelming fear that threatened to consume you.

With each step he took, the weight of his presence bore down on you like a suffocating blanket, leaving you gasping for air as if the very atmosphere had turned against you.

'I can't stay here. I can't let him catch me again.'

The thought echoed in your mind with a sense of urgency, driving you to action even as panic threatened to overwhelm your senses.

As Katakuri's shadow fell over you, his form looming ominously in the dim light of the chandelier, you felt a primal instinct kick in, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. His eyes, cold and unreadable, seemed to pierce through the darkness, fixing you in place with their unyielding gaze. Your heart hammered in your chest, thoughts whirling in a frantic blur as you braced yourself for whatever came next.

'This is it. This is my only chance.'

With fear coursing through your veins, you struggled against Katakuri, desperation lending strength to your movements. In a desperate move, you slashed at him again with the dagger, hoping to fend off the looming threat that hung over you like a shadow. But Katakuri's response was swift and merciless; with a single, precise motion, he knocked the dagger out of your hands, sending it clattering to the floor, far out of reach.

Desperation filled your eyes as you whispered into the cold night air,

"Please, don't touch me!"

The world seemed to stop at this notion. Your words hung in the air, fragile and trembling, a desperate request for mercy in the face of overwhelming fear. The room fell silent, the weight of your plea echoing in the stillness as you awaited his response.

For a fleeting moment, Katakuri's intense gaze softened, his resolve faltering in the face of your vulnerability. Slowly, he pulled himself back, giving you the space you so desperately craved. You lay there, still clad in your wedding dress, a poignant reminder of the night's cruel irony. Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over as you squeezed them shut, your body wracked with silent sobs.

In that moment of vulnerability, you were acutely aware of the fragility of your existence, a pawn in a game far beyond your control. The weight of the night's events bore down on you like a crushing weight, threatening to engulf you in darkness. Amidst the despair, a flicker of hope remained, a small ember of resilience burning brightly within you. You would endure this trial, you would survive, and you would emerge stronger on the other side.

But right now you really just needed to have a healthy cry.

Katakuri's massive form crouched down before you with surprising gentleness, his imposing stature momentarily softened by the tenderness in his movements. Despite the weight of his presence, there was a certain grace in the way he watched you, as if he were keenly attuned to the fragile state of your emotions. His usually stern expression bore a subtle shift, hints of compassion and understanding flickering across his features like shadows dancing in the dim light of the room.

As he spoke, his voice was a soothing murmur, low and gentle, cutting through the tense silence like a soft breeze on a stormy night. "I promise I won’t hurt you. I have no intention of consummating this marriage given the situation." His words hung in the air, a lifeline extended to you in the depths of your despair. For a moment, the weight of your fear seemed to lift ever so slightly, replaced by a cautious glimmer of hope.

Slowly, you opened your tear-blurred eyes, your gaze meeting his with a mixture of apprehension and longing. You searched the depths of his gaze, seeking any sign of deception or malice, but all you found was sincerity shining back at you like a beacon in the darkness. At that moment, with a trembling breath, you allowed yourself to believe, if only for a fleeting second, that perhaps there was still goodness to be found in this world, even in the most unexpected of places.

As you looked up at Katakuri, his presence no longer looming over you like a specter of fear, you found yourself daring to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for him to be a decent man despite the circumstances.

In the tranquil hush of the room, every breath seemed to echo, a delicate symphony of tension and resignation. Katakuri's presence, once a looming specter of dread, now exuded a sense of quiet patience, a silent invitation for you to find solace amidst the chaos of your emotions. The opulence that had once felt stifling now appeared almost ethereal, the soft glow of the chandeliers casting gentle pools of light that danced upon the walls like fleeting whispers.

"I promise,"

His voice resonated like a soothing melody, a gentle reassurance that hung in the air like a fragile thread.

"You are safe here. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to."

The sincerity in his words was a beacon in the darkness, a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows of fear that lingered in your heart. Tentatively, hesitantly, you allowed yourself to believe him, to entertain the possibility of a sanctuary within the confines of this ornate prison.

Your trembling began to ebb, a gradual release of tension that mirrored the softening of your surroundings. With each passing moment, the weight of your fear lessened, replaced by a cautious sense of calm that settled over you like a comforting embrace.

Though the scars of your ordeal remained, there was a flicker of resilience in your gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the strength that lay dormant within you.

In the stillness of the room, you took a trembling breath, your pulse slowing as you dared to let go of the grip of fear that had held you captive for so long. And as you met Katakuri's unwavering gaze, you found yourself taking the first tentative steps towards reclaiming your sense of agency, your spirit unbroken.

Tears of anguish continued to stream down your cheeks, silent witnesses to the pain that still weighed heavy on your heart. But intertwined with the sorrow was a sense of gratitude, a profound acknowledgment of the small mercy that had been extended to you in this moment of vulnerability. And as you met Katakuri's gaze, you found solace in the silent understanding that passed between you forged by the circumstance you found each other in.

As Katakuri stood before you, his imposing frame now softened by the absence of his wedding attire, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in his demeanor.

His broad shoulders, previously concealed beneath layers of formal clothing, now stood bare and unadorned, accentuating the raw strength that lay beneath his stoic exterior. Black sweatpants hugged his frame, emphasizing the powerful muscles that rippled beneath his skin with each movement.

And then, there was his face. Without the intimidating mask that had become synonymous with his identity, Katakuri seemed almost vulnerable, his features exposed to the harsh light of the room. His expression was unreadable, a mask of neutrality that belied the turmoil that lay beneath the surface.

But it was the intricate tattoo that adorned his left shoulder that drew your attention. A complex design of swirling patterns and symbols, it seemed to tell a story of its own, each line and curve a testament to Katakuri's strength and resilience. The tattoo, a mark of his heritage and lineage, spoke of a past shrouded in mystery and tradition.

As your gaze lingered on him, you realized that he had caught you staring. A flicker of self-consciousness crossed his features before he rose gracefully to his feet, moving with a fluidity that belied his size. Without a word, he retrieved a box of tissues from a nearby dresser, placing them gently in front of you with a silent understanding.

"I... I'm nervous too,"

He admitted, his voice a low rumble that filled the room.

"This marriage... it wasn't fair of my mother to impose it upon us like this."

There was a hint of frustration in his tone, a rare display of vulnerability that caught you off guard.

"But for now, we must act as a normal couple. It's the only way to avoid suspicion."

You nodded, taking the tissues with trembling hands as you tried to wipe away the tears that stained your cheeks. The gesture was small but significant, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile truce that existed between you. As you dabbed at your cheeks, you couldn't help but notice the smudged makeup that marred your reflection in the tissue.

Seeing your distress, Katakuri's expression softened, a rare display of empathy in the midst of chaos. "You should shower and change out of your wedding dress," he suggested gently, his voice a soothing balm against the turmoil of your emotions. "I'll... I'll wait outside."

"I thought we couldn't leave until... you know," you murmur, glancing towards the bed where memories of the night's events lingered like ghosts.

Katakuri groans, his frustration evident as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I forgot," he admits, before letting out a resigned sigh. His gaze returns to you, softer now, tinged with a hint of apology.

"I will wait inside the closet then. Knock three times when you are finished."

But as he starts to rise, you find yourself unable to let him leave just yet. "Wait!" you call out, your voice trembling slightly.

He pauses, turning back to you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. As you rise to your feet, legs shaking with the weight of the evening's events, you move closer to him, heart pounding in your chest.

"P-please help me with the buttons in the back," you request, your voice barely above a whisper. His gaze meets yours, and for a moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken tension.

He holds your gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. With a nod, he steps forward, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your wedding dress. The fabric falls away with a soft rustle, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in its wake.

You shiver at the sudden rush of cool air against your skin, his strength evident in the ease with which he undoes each button. When he's finished, you look up at him, meeting his gaze once more.

"I promise I will not touch you," he reassures you, his voice gentle yet firm. With that, he steps back, putting distance between you once more, before retreating into the walk-in closet.

Alone once more, you take a deep breath, the weight of the evening pressing down on you like a heavy cloak. But in the quiet of the room, you find a moment of solace, a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos.

With the now slumping dress held against your form, you rush into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a shaky hand. Locking the door provides a momentary sense of security, and you slide down onto the cool tiles, back pressed against the door.

As you sit there, the events of the evening replay in your mind like a broken record. The way Katakuri had grabbed your wrist, the fear that had gripped you, and the unexpected restraint he had shown when you stabbed him... it all whirls around in your head, leaving you feeling dizzy and confused.

You consider asking him about it, about why he didn't retaliate or even mention the wound. But the thought dies on your lips as you glance down at your now discarded dress, realizing that it's probably not the best time to bring it up.

Instead, you focus on the task at hand, turning on the shower and letting the warm water cascade over your body. It's a welcome respite from the chaos of the evening, and you take your time, letting the steam wash away the physical and emotional residue of the night.

As the water cascades down, you can't help but think about how to contact Luffy or the rest of the crew. Pudding seems like the safest option, given her past interactions with your friends. But the logistics of reaching out to her are daunting, especially with Katakuri lurking just outside the door.

Eventually, you finish your shower, wrapping yourself in a large fluffy towel. Glancing at your reflection in the fogged-up mirror, you're struck by how tired and sad you look. With a sigh, you reach for a face towel, intending to run it under cold water to reduce the puffiness around your eyes.

But as you do, you realize just how large the towel is, a stark reminder of the size and strength of your new husband. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but you push it aside, focusing instead on getting dry and applying lotion to your body.

Once you're sufficiently covered, you peek out from under the bathroom door, listening for any signs of life in the room beyond. When you hear nothing, you slip back into the room's shadows, quietly making your way to the dresser drawers in search of clothing.

You avoid the underwear set Big Mom had insisted you wear beneath the wedding dress, opting instead to dig through the drawers until you found something. Among the array of garments, you manage to find a black bra and underwear set that fits you perfectly.

A note from Pudding accompanies the lingerie, explaining that it's the best she could do under the circumstances. You hug the note to your chest, grateful for Pudding's help, before slipping into the undergarments.

Next, you find a slip that Pudding had also left for you. Pulling it over your head, you revel in the softness of the fabric against your skin. It's a simple yet elegant piece, with delicate lace adorning the edges. As you adjust the straps, you notice how the slip drapes over your figure, accentuating your curves in a flattering way.

'Would he even like something like this? Oh my God no, I can't believe I just thought of that!'  

You feel your ears begin to heat up again until you turn away from the mirror. Looking down, you're struck by the contrast between the darkness of the lingerie and the sexiness of the red slip. It's a visual representation of the conflicting emotions swirling inside you.

'This won't do.'

Still feeling vulnerable, you return to the dresser drawers, your fingers trailing over the various fabrics as you search for something to provide additional comfort. Finally, you come across a large white shirt tucked away in the back of the drawer. Pulling it on over the slip, you're enveloped in its soft embrace, the oversized fit offering a sense of security you desperately need. With each button fastened, you feel a little more grounded, a little more ready to get through the night.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as you catch a small whiff of something. The scent of donuts and fire lingers on the fabric, a faint reminder of Katakuri's presence in the room. You pause, the shirt draped over your shoulders, and bring the collar up to your nose, inhaling deeply. The familiar aroma envelops you, warm and comforting, like a gentle embrace in the midst of chaos. It's a reminder that despite the circumstances, you're not entirely alone.

Closing your eyes, you allow yourself a moment of quiet reflection, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathe in the calming scent. For a fleeting instant, the weight of the world lifts from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of peace and tranquility. It's a small respite from the turmoil of the night, but one you cling to nonetheless.

With a steadying breath, you lower the collar of the shirt and let your hand fall to your side. The fabric drapes loosely around your frame, offering both physical comfort and a semblance of emotional refuge. You're still trembling, still uncertain of what lies ahead, but at this moment, wrapped in the scent of cologne and the soft embrace of the oversized shirt, you find yourself before the closet door.

"Hey, you can come out now."

There's no movement from the door. You feel confused before remembering what he had said and raising your hand to gently knock three times. Your knuckles rap lightly against the closet door, the sound echoing in the silent room. For a moment, there's no response, only the hushed murmur of your own breathing. Then, from within the closet, you hear a soft shuffle of movement, followed by the creak of hinges as the door swings open.

Katakuri steps out, his presence filling the room once more. His shirtless form is a stark contrast to the imposing figure you've come to know, his black sweatpants hanging loosely on his frame. Without his mask, his face is revealed, and you can't help but notice deep scares that adorn his face, the sharp fangs that poke out of his lips.

He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable, before his eyes flicker down to the floor, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "Sorry," he murmurs, his voice low and hesitant. "I didn't mean to make you wait."

You shake your head, a small frown tugging at the corners of your lips. "It's okay," you reassure him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm ready now."

With a nod, Katakuri steps aside, allowing you to pass him and make your way back into the bedroom. The scent of mochi lingers in the air, a comforting reminder of his presence beside you. As you settle back onto the bed, the oversized shirt enveloping you in its warmth, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unexpected kindness of your new husband.

"Thank you," you murmur softly, offering a grateful nod as you settle back onto the dresser, the oversized shirt providing a comforting shield against the lingering tension in the room. But as you find yourself propped on the wood surface, a lingering ache in your wrist prompts a question you can't ignore.

"Katakuri," you begin tentatively, your gaze meeting his with a mixture of curiosity and concern, "about your wrist... I'm sorry if I hurt you earlier."

His brows furrow slightly at your words, a hint of surprise crossing his features before he sighs, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's alright," he assures you gently, his tone carrying a sense of understanding. "I knew you'd be asking about that next. And I'm sorry for tugging you so harshly and for any other discomfort, I may have caused you. When I entered and didn't see you, I assumed they were going to send you in after me shortly."

You take in his apology, feeling a sense of relief wash over you at his understanding. It's a response you hadn't expected, one that speaks volumes about his character. In the dim light of the room, you can see the sincerity in his eyes, a quiet reassurance in his presence.

"Thank you," you reply softly, offering him a small nod. "I appreciate your understanding."

He meets your gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you before he nods, a small gesture of reassurance. But before the silence settles between you, another question tugs at your thoughts, one that you can't ignore any longer.

"Katakuri," you begin, your voice hesitant as you broach the topic, "about your stab wound... How did you...?"

His expression softens as he meets your gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. "I figured you'd asking about that next," he admits with a faint chuckle, his tone laced with amusement. "My Devil Fruit powers allow me to manipulate mochi, shaping it into various forms and even extending my limbs. When you stabbed my wrist, it was made of mochi, so it didn't hurt as much as you might think."

You listen intently as he explains, feeling a sense of awe at the revelation of his abilities. It's a reminder of the world you've been thrust into, one filled with wonders and dangers alike. But in that moment, as you sit together in the quiet of the room, you find a sense of comfort in the genuine conversation between you.

As the conversation unfolds, your curiosity drifts to the scars that adorn Katakuri's mouth, the faint lines drawing your attention.

"Katakuri," you inquire softly, your voice filled with genuine interest, "what happened to your mouth? Those scars... they look like they've seen their fair share of battles."

His expression shifts slightly at your question, a hint of hesitation crossing his features before he offers a faint smile. "Ah, these scars," he begins, his voice tinged with a mixture of nostalgia and vulnerability. "They're... a remainder of a childhood mishap, you could say."

You sense his reluctance to delve deeper into the topic, a subtle tension underlying his words. "I got them when I was young," he continues, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

"An accident involving... donuts."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, a hint of amusement creeping into your expression despite the seriousness of the moment. "Donuts?" you repeat, unable to suppress a small chuckle.

Katakuri nods, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he looks . "Yes, donuts," he confirms, his tone slightly sheepish. "I... stretched my mouth open too wide while eating them, and... well, the rest is history."

You can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, realizing the vulnerability he must feel about the scars. "I'm sorry," you offer softly, your voice filled with genuine empathy. "It must have been difficult for you."

He meets your gaze with a grateful nod, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. "Thank you," he murmurs, his tone sincere.

"It's... not something I talk about often."

You nod in understanding, sensing the weight of his words as you sit together in the quiet of the room. At that moment, you find yourself grateful for the opportunity to learn more about the man behind the mask, scars, and all.

As the conversation winds down, Katakuri glances at the clock on the wall, noting the lateness of the hour. "It's getting late," he remarks, his voice gentle but firm. "You should get some sleep."

At his words, a wave of panic washes over you, the prospect of sleeping in the same bed with him filling you with dread. Katakuri notices the sudden change in your demeanor, his brows furrowing in concern. "Is something wrong?" he asks softly, his eyes searching yours.

You hesitate, unsure of how to voice your fear. But before you can respond, he speaks again, his tone reassuring. "I could sleep in the closet," he offers, his voice calm but resolute. "You can have the bed to yourself."

Relief floods through you at his words, gratitude mingling with the lingering fear in your heart. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a nod, Katakuri moves to the bed, but you find yourself unable to follow. The fear still grips you, holding you back from taking that step. Sensing your hesitation, Katakuri pauses, his gaze softening as he turns back to you.

"What's wrong?" he inquires gently, his eyes filled with understanding.

You take a deep breath, summoning the courage to voice your feelings. "I'm... afraid," you admit, your voice trembling with emotion.

"I don't think I can..."

Katakuri considers your words for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then, with a decisive nod, he moves to the bed, swiftly stripping it of all its coverings. "We'll make a makeshift bed on the floor," he decides, his voice calm but determined.

You watch in silence as he gathers extra pillows and blankets from the closet, his movements efficient yet gentle. When he returns, he offers you a choice of designs for the blanket, a small gesture of kindness that touches your heart.

With a grateful nod, you select a donut design, your fingers trembling slightly as you take the blanket from him. Together, you create a makeshift bed on the floor, arranging the pillows and blankets until they form a comfortable nest.

Katakuri finishes arranging the makeshift bed with a satisfied smile, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. "Alright, this should do it. I used to do the same for my siblings when they were younger," he remarks, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Turning to you, he waits for your response.

As he mentions returning to the closet, you remember his earlier promise not to touch you, a gesture of respect and consideration that doesn't go unnoticed. You meet his gaze, silently contemplating his offer.

After a moment of thought, you shake your head slightly. "I wouldn't mind if you slept on the opposite end of the pillow fort," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile graces Katakuri's lips at your suggestion. "Alright," he replies, his tone warm and accepting. With a nod, he settles down on the opposite end of the makeshift bed, giving you a comfortable distance.

The room falls into a hushed darkness as Katakuri dims the lights, casting soft shadows across the walls. You watch him settle onto his side of the makeshift bed, his movements deliberate and controlled. With a quiet sigh, you follow suit, curling up on your side, facing away from him.

As you lie there in the stillness of the room, you try to quiet your mind, to let the events of the day fade into the background. But try as you might, sleep eludes you. Your thoughts drift back to the chaotic events that led you here, to this unfamiliar room in a mansion far from home.

You remember the fear and desperation, the overwhelming sense of helplessness as you found yourself trapped in a nightmare not of your making. The tears come unbidden, silently slipping down your cheeks as you relive the terror of facing a future filled with uncertainty.

Each sob threatens to unravel the fragile calm you've managed to hold onto, leaving you feeling raw and exposed. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, but they keep coming, a relentless torrent of emotion that refuses to be contained.

The weight of the day's events bears down on you, pressing against your chest like a heavy burden. Your breath becomes shallow and uneven, your heart pounding in your ears as you struggle to find a moment's respite from the turmoil raging within.

You turn onto your back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling utterly alone in the darkness. The quiet of the room is suffocating, the absence of noise amplifying the cacophony of thoughts swirling in your mind.

You try to focus on your breathing, to find some semblance of calm amidst the storm raging within you. But each inhale feels strained, each exhale a release of pent-up tension that only seems to fuel your restlessness.

You toss and turn, shifting from one position to another, but no matter how hard you try, sleep remains elusive. The hours drag on, stretching into eternity, and still, you lie there, trapped in the prison of your own thoughts.

And as the first light of dawn filters through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the room, you realize with a sinking heart that sleep will not come this night.

You feel a presence, and you turn over to find Katakuri looking at you with concern etched across his features. His eyes are soft, a stark contrast to the imposing figure you've come to know. In that moment, you realize he's not just a fearsome pirate, but also a man burdened with his own worries and doubts.

He sees the tears glistening on your cheeks and without a word, he rises from the makeshift bed and retrieves more tissues, sliding them over to you with a quiet understanding. You meet his gaze, studying the lines of tension in his brow, the slight furrow of his brow that speaks volumes of his concern.

It occurs to you then, that he's not unaffected by the events of the night. Beneath his stoic exterior lies a vulnerability you hadn't noticed before, a vulnerability mirrored in your own trembling hands and tear-streaked face.

"Katakuri," you whisper, his name a lifeline in the darkness. He stands at attention, his posture rigid with anticipation. You pause, unsure of what to say, but knowing that you need to say something, anything to bridge the gap between you.

You feel your heart reach out to him, a silent acknowledgment of the shared struggle you both face. He meets your gaze, his eyes searching yours for reassurance, for solace. And in that moment, you see him not as an enemy, but as someone who, like you, is grappling with the weight of their own emotions.

"I... I just want to thank you," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "For... for being here. For... for helping me."

His expression softens, a flicker of understanding passing between you.

"You are most welcome."

You glance once more at the bed, then decisively grab the donut blanket and climb on top of it. Katakuri watches you, a mixture of confusion and concern evident in his expression as you make your move.

Scooting back into the bed, you pat the space where you were just sitting, silently inviting him to join you. He stares at the spot for a long moment, his brow furrowed with contemplation, before finally taking a seat beside you.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you turn to him, your voice soft but determined. "If you would accept," you begin, meeting his gaze head-on, "I will give you permission to sleep next to me and touch me, but only for comfort and if you consent to do so. I do not wish to consummate our marriage."

There's a vulnerability in your words, a raw honesty that lays bare your fears and desires. Katakuri's expression softens as he processes your words, his eyes searching yours for a moment before a myriad of emotions flickers across his face.

Finally, he nods, a solemn acceptance of your terms. "I understand," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I accept your conditions."

Relief floods through you, mingling with the lingering apprehension. Tentatively, you reach out to him, your voice trembling slightly as you continue, "But I do need a hug and would like one from you."

His gaze softens further, and without a word, he pulls you into his arms, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. In that moment, as you rest against his chest, you feel a sense of connection and understanding.

As Katakuri's arms wrap around you, you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart beneath his chest. His warmth seeps into you, a soothing balm against the cold dread that's settled in your bones. His muscles are tense at first, a reflection of his own uncertainty, but as you gently pat his shoulder, he begins to relax, the rigidity in his frame easing with each tender touch.

"May I pet your hair?" he asks softly, his voice a gentle murmur in the quiet room.

You nod against his chest, your consent a whisper in the stillness. His fingers thread through your hair with a careful touch, the sensation both comforting and intimate.

The knots in your chest and the tangled web of thoughts in your mind start to melt away as his gentle ministrations continue. His scent—a unique blend of mochi, donuts, and a hint of campfire smoke—envelops you, grounding you in the present moment and gradually clearing the fog of your anxieties.

You nuzzle into him softly, feeling a newfound sense of safety in his embrace. An idea forms in your mind, a way to comfort him in return.

"May I touch your cheek?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

There's a moment of silence, a pause that stretches on until he finally answers quietly, "Yes."

Slowly, you raise your hand to his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly. As you let your fingers trace over his scar, you can feel the texture of the healed skin, and the vulnerability he rarely shows. His eyes close briefly, and you sense the tension in him easing further, your touch a silent offering of understanding and acceptance.

Katakuri leans into your touch, the warmth of your palm against his scarred cheek seeming to provide him with a sense of comfort and solace. His eyes flutter closed, and you can feel the last remnants of tension drain from his body. The rhythmic motion of his fingers in your hair slows, his breath becoming deeper and more even.

Before you know it, he's fallen asleep, his head resting gently against your hand. The sight of him, so vulnerable and at peace, tugs at your heartstrings. The steady rise and fall of his chest, and the softness of his expression, make you realize how exhausting this day has been for both of you.

You let your hand linger on his cheek for a moment longer, taking in the tranquility of the scene. His steady heartbeat beneath your touch, the warmth of his body, and the faint scent of mochi and campfire smoke create a cocoon of calm around you. For the first time since this ordeal began, you feel a glimmer of hope.

As you nuzzle into him, you close your eyes, letting the security of his presence lull you into a gentle sleep. Wrapped in the warmth of each other's embrace, the world outside fades away, leaving only the quiet promise of a new beginning in its wake.

You're both in this together, navigating the uncertainties of your situation as a team.

_____________________________________________________________

That was part 1 folks, lemme know how you liked it!

Make sure you check out the a03 account by the same name. Everything I have posted here is there in chronological order. I also have other hot One piece characters posted in the masterlist! Give them a read if you please!

Be sure to check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. Drop a follow as well if you please. Don’t be shy to leave me a little reblog if you want. I am also currently taking requests.

I promise I bite~

Seen you soon my loves!!~ <<33

[rabbitinthefog]

first wedding night with Halsin

[iiseult]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜: 𝒜𝓈 𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒥𝑒𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓂

CWs →  fluff, ANGST, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism, arranged marriage, descriptions of birth (not the reader), blood and mild gore (they don’t call it the dark ages for nothin!), one-sided pining

Wordcount: 5.1k

Note: Remember like three weeks ago when I lied to you all and said I’d have this out in a few days? I had to plan out a bit of the actual plot so that’s what took me so long. But I finally did it, so eat up! Also, I really do NOT know how medieval royal weddings worked but the shallow google searches I made weren’t good enough so let’s all hope this isn’t horribly inaccurate, though I’m sure it is. Do we care, chat?

Every day leading up to the wedding was a day that you saw red. Greeting your traitorous mother in the mornings made you see red, sharing a meal with your power-hungry father made you see red, and listening to the two of them prattle on about how you ought to behave once you were queen? That turned the world absolutely crimson. Each night, you crumpled up and clutched your skirts under the dinner table with shaking fists, creasing them with deep wrinkles that would take days to iron out, but all the while you continued to hold your head high, speaking only when spoken to just as you were taught as a girl. Your strained, thin-lipped smile was only let go of in the privacy of your own bedchambers, when it was replaced with a cold expression and even chillier disposition. Somehow, drifting apart from your family day by day wasn’t as painful as you had imagined it would be. It was easy, really, because there was nothing left for anyone to talk about. After all, your mother had always taught you that if you had nothing nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. However, your sudden “demureness and obedience”, as they put it, did not go unnoticed. 

Your parents were positively delighted with your recent change, or “improvement,” in attitude. Your lady mother congratulated you for finally agreeing to fulfill your societal role as a subservient wife and mother– an aspect of life of which you had previously been a bit resentful– and your father perpetually reminded you how beneficial this marriage would be to the rest of your bloodline. Even your younger brothers seemed excited for you, constantly coming up with new questions to pester you with regarding life as royalty. The only thing keeping you sane was the knowledge that soon you’d be living far, far away from your conniving parents, free to do whatever you wished. Whichever benefits a royal connection brought them would be nothing compared to your own guaranteed lavish lifestyle. You’d soon have your own castle, your own servants, and even your own soldiers! Oh, and the husband, too. You kept forgetting about that part. 

In some ways, the fact that he was a leper was a great relief to you. That meant you’d most likely be spared many of the wifely duties you had so been dreading; mainly, consummating the marriage. At your age, only 14 years old yet, there was nothing that interested you about the male body, giving birth, or raising children. It was not so long ago that you had helped raise your own little brothers, and the idea of going through all of that again made you feel so trapped. Not to mention the fact that giving birth was extremely dangerous. And painful. And frightening. That thought caused a memory you had been repressing for years to resurface from the depths of your mind, like a buoy in the ocean. It was the tortured screams of your mother the night your youngest brother was born. Had you not known better, you might have thought she was being ripped in two, and the labor lasted for so many endless, terrible hours, which felt more like days. You remembered the midwives rushing around, and the maids leaving your mother’s room with armful after armful of blood-soaked sheets and sloshing buckets of burgundy water. As they passed the place where you were hugging your knees in the corridor, a drop fell at your feet and sunk slowly into the stone floor, leaving nothing but a small round stain. 

Once it was time to leave your family home for the castle, you said goodbye to the view from your window, which you had become well-accustomed to. It was probably the thing you’d miss most, besides your brothers. You closed your bedroom door for the last time and meandered down the familiar, dimly-lit corridor, taking note of the particular stone which was still adorned by that tiny dot of brownish red. A shiver ran down your spine. You opted out of doing a final sweep to make sure you’d packed all of your belongings, because soon enough, you’d have better things to replace them with, anyway. The knights they’d sent for you had loaded your bags onto their horses about an hour ago and set off for your new home. Now, the only thing left to transport was you. 

Another knight was waiting for you outside with a large white horse. He watched as you hugged your mother and father stiffly, pretending not to notice your mother’s tears as she kissed you on the forehead like she used to when you were younger. Before you were a lady. Before you were the queen of Jerusalem. Your father said nothing, but his somber expression and the distant look in his eyes and the loose grip he had on your hand as he kissed the top of it told you everything you needed to know. The knight helped you mount the horse and get comfortable sitting behind him, and you waved goodbye to your family as you were carried away, truly intending it to be for everything you had ever known. But whatever sadness you might have been feeling was overpowered by sheer determination. Now, at 14 years old, your life was finally beginning.  

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The knight who sat in front of you on the horse did not turn out to be a very good conversationalist. The only responses you could draw out of him were along the lines of “Yes, Your Majesty,” or “No, Your Majesty.” You were hoping for someone a bit more…engaging, perhaps, as you were feeling an odd mixture of excitement and anxiety that grew with each and every gallop towards Jerusalem. And anxiety always made you talkative. 

“Is it fun at all, being a knight?” You shouted over the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, breaking the long silence that you had been enduring since the beginning of the journey. 

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

“You know, protecting the kingdom and such. Isn’t it exciting? I find the idea to be absolutely thrilling! Don’t you think so?” 

He paused for a moment, and then replied flatly, “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

You pursed your lips, waiting in silence for a few moments, expecting him to elaborate, but no such luck. Was it really so hard to share a gory battle tale or two to pass the time? You knew knights were known for having excellent integrity and virtuousness, meaning they would never say something that could potentially scare a lady, but couldn’t he humor you just this once, while you were alone? But maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it, you thought, imagining how burdensome it must be to know the feeling of cutting someone’s head off. So, you graciously changed the subject and mentally patted yourself on the back for being so kind and just. It simply wouldn’t do, as future queen of Jerusalem, to force sensitive information out of this poor, traumatized knight for your own fleeting amusement. Maybe a few months earlier and it would have been acceptable, but alas. You sighed.

“This noble steed of yours is breathtaking. Does he have a name?” you questioned, admiring the animal’s snow-white pelt, entranced by the way its powerful muscles rippled beneath it.

“I do not know, Majesty. This horse belongs to the king. It is the only one His Majesty trusts, so he instructed me to collect you using it.” Another memory flashed through your mind, this time of your first meeting with your future husband. He had been riding this very horse that day, its stunning color matching that of his robes. Your heart fluttered at the idea that he’d cared so deeply for your safety, although it shouldn’t have surprised you. It was not as if he had parents forcing him into this marriage. He was accepting you in holy matrimony for some other reason, a reason entirely of his own. His own choice. A blush crept up the back of your neck, and you were suddenly thankful for the fact that the knight was facing away from you. You cleared your throat nervously. 

“Well, what’s it like, working for the king? Is he nice?” 

You felt the knight’s huge sigh before you heard it, your arms that were wrapped around his midsection rising and falling in tandem with the breath. 

“Yes, Your Majesty, the king is very…nice.”

“Is that all?” you muttered, rolling your eyes at his reservedness. You got the hint. You understood he didn’t want to talk, that much he had made very apparent, but that was just too damn bad. As queen of Jerusalem, you wanted to get to know your subjects, and who better to start with than the one sharing a horse with you? 

“Will I have my own chambers, or shall I share with the king?” You asked, holding back a giggle at the expression you were imagining the knight had on his face. 

“I am sure you will be provided with your own chambers, Your Majesty, but the choice of whether to use them or not will be entirely yours and your husband’s,” he replied, a hint of dry humor in his voice. You let out a loud laugh, which actually startled him a little, and then followed it up with another. 

“I wonder if he snores!” you said, between giggles. The knight smiled, shaking his head. After that, the journey to Jerusalem was easy. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The next time you laid eyes on the king was when you were getting married, standing opposite each other in an architectural marvel of a cathedral, both dressed in extravagant clothing and expensive jewelry. His silver mask had recently been polished, and it shone beautifully in the sun, but still not as beautifully as his blue eyes. They were as you remembered them, only a bit brighter. His gold-trimmed robes were as white as ever, freshly washed and perfumed for the occasion. Even the gloves on his hands looked new and clean. You admired them as the priest rambled on in front of you. If God was listening right now, you thought, he’d surely be bored to tears. There was one part of the day you had enjoyed, though, which was the preparation for the wedding. You had been doted on by countless maids all morning, lining your eyes with black powder and weaving your hair into an intricate, interlocking braid pattern. The gown was altered to fit you perfectly, and the large, bell-like sleeves fell around your arms like wings. You were finally beginning to feel like a real queen. 

The ceremony seemed to drag on forever, but you passed the time by maintaining eye contact with King Baldwin. You drowned out the rest of the world and focused only on him. When you smiled, he smiled back. You could only see the corners of his eyes crinkling, but you knew what that meant. You cocked your head to the side, trying to imagine what his smile really looked like. During that evening you spent with him, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see it. Just as soon as he had taken off the mask, he had to put it back on. The consequences of your parents seeing Baldwin’s face would have been disastrous, but thankfully, their loud footsteps and jovial voices had carried quite well down the corridor, warning you of their arrival. Regardless of how short they were, those few seconds you’d spent admiring his bare face were enough to conjure up a half-formed image of what his smile might look like. However, that image disappeared when you saw him cock his head to the side, too, just as you had. You blinked twice. 

He blinked twice, too. 

Was he copying you on purpose? 

You shifted your feet, and he mirrored you, his robes shimmering like the ocean as they fluttered around him. You bit back a giggle. He was. Flames of mischief danced in his eyes, and something else, too, ignited there when you grinned at him. 

“…that these rings shall forever remained blessed, O Merciful Lord. Amen,” said the priest, approaching the king with a book, two rings laid on top of it. Suddenly, Baldwin became very serious, plucking one of the rings between his slender, gloved fingers and holding it gently. You stared as it glistened in the sunlight, which was penetrating the stained glass windows and casting colorful shadows around the altar. He slowly stepped towards you, making your heart begin to beat faster. His head stayed bowed as he presented you with his open palm. You held your breath and lifted your left hand, gingerly brushing your fingertips against his palm, now understanding what was about to happen. He effortlessly glided the ring onto your fourth finger, where it rested beautifully. The diamond glittered like water, mesmerizingly. Baldwin wrapped his fingers around your hand, now holding it as gently as he could, and the priest was now presenting you with a ring. You followed Baldwin’s lead, pushing it onto his fourth finger, which was waiting outstretched for you patiently. You stood mere inches apart, fingers of your left hands interwoven as the priest finished the prayers. The ring, as breathtaking as it was, was somehow still only secondary to the cerulean eyes of your now-husband, which were like two rich sapphires lined with delicate blonde hairs. 

“…And may God bless, preserve, and keep you, that you may have life and love everlasting. I pronounce that you now be man and wife together, in the Name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The cathedral filled with polite claps and murmurs of “amen” as Baldwin released your hand and you turned to face the pews. Next to you, much to your surprise, he quickly dropped to his knees, his body angled towards you, clasping your fair hand between his. You gazed down at him through your lashes, suddenly feeling your cheeks burn. Boldly, Baldwin drew one hand up to his masked face, grasping it by the nose and swiftly pulling it to the side so that it was hiding his face from the crowd, but revealing it to you. He lifted your hand to his pink lips and pressed a searing kiss to it, liberally letting the physical contact linger, all the while maintaining eye contact with you from under his furrowed brow. You covered your mouth with your other hand to try and hide the toothy grin spreading across your face. He saw it anyway. The next thing you knew, he was grinning, too. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and laughed. He laughed. You realized that you no longer had to imagine what his smile looked like. 

After the wedding ceremony, you were promptly bombarded by happy civilians wishing to congratulate you, or simply to catch a glimpse of their new queen, and Baldwin was whisked away by his mother, who seemed to be perpetually by his side. It seemed that she was not quite ready yet to surrender the role of Baldwin’s caretaker to you– but you had no gripes with that. You figured you’d grow into the role of loving, doting wife, as opposed to starting it right away, and unfortunately, the idea of changing his bandages each night before bed still made you shudder. In reality, his mother was not exactly thrilled about the marriage, either. She hadn’t found you or your family quite noble enough for her precious son. However, she was smart enough to see that it was unlikely that anyone else would ever volunteer their daughter to marry a leper, so she begrudgingly allowed the union. 

From the crowd, two plainly dressed women had introduced themselves to you as Matilda and Amelia, claiming that they were to be your servants. They would apparently be with you at all times, tending to your every whim and aiding you during your ascent to the throne, as well as bathing you and dressing you. Matilda was an older, more severe woman who had immediately intimidated you; her lips were drawn together thinly and permanently pursed, creating deep wrinkles around her mouth, and the rest of her face was an intricate web of creases and lines. Her graying hair was pulled back tightly, exposing her thinning hairline and sun-spotted forehead. Even her hands looked harsh, the skin rough and dry, cracking in some places, like mud that had been baking under the summer sun for too long. Amelia was quite the opposite; a timid, pretty young thing with wide brown eyes, fair hair, and a delicate frame. She’d barely had the courage to tell you her name, and rushed into the curtsey to avoid having to make eye contact with you for too long. She seemed to be around the same age as you, if not even younger.

After the attendees from the wedding had mostly dispersed, Matilda brought you back inside the castle to finally see your bedchamber, which you were to have all to yourself. She and Amelia led you through winding corridors and beautiful flowering courtyards, pointing out all the most significant landmarks along the way, such as the great hall, the kitchen, the maid’s chambers, the library, the chapel, the towers, the gardens, and the hundreds of guest bedrooms with conjoined washrooms. The last thing she showed you before your own room was the king’s quarters, which were directly across from yours. 

“Now, Amelia, go draw us a bath. There’s no need for two of us to be standing around here idly while the Queen inspect her chambers,” she ordered, and Amelia nodded, scurrying away to the washroom silently. 

As Matilda threw open the giant oak doors of your room, you couldn’t help but gasp, suddenly rooted to the spot. It was glorious. Taking up the majority of the room was a massive bed with four handsome posts, all carved with intricate floral patterns and stained a deep brown. The mattress was topped with overly-stuffed burgundy throw pillows and a comforter to match. Connecting to the four posts was a frame, from which wine-colored velvet curtains hung to give you some privacy. The same fabric was used to shroud the windows, which were floor-length and leaded. At the foot of the bed lay a pile of bags and wrapped items– all of your belongings from home! On the wall across from them was a large dressing table, covered in jewels and precious metals and bottles of fine-smelling oils. A small, round stool with a cushion on it sat underneath. Your eyes sparkled with excitement, and you couldn’t help but abandon Matilda in the doorway, running and throwing yourself face-first onto the bed, just like you used to at home. You giggled and kicked your feet up into the air, unsurprisingly beginning to sink into the plush mattress. Immediately, you felt your body melt against the malleable, pillowy surface, deciding that you definitely approved of its fine quality. Your bed from back home simply couldn’t compare. However, your glee was short-lived, because it was abruptly interrupted by a stern voice. 

“Your Majesty! You must cease this behavior at once and right yourself! That wedding gown is priceless, and you mustn’t risk causing it any damage!” Matilda scolded, pulling you up by the arm and frantically kneeling to check the delicate garment for any possible tears or imperfections. You winced and apologized quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed at your juvenile behavior. She was right. As a matter of fact, most things in the palace were probably priceless, and it wouldn’t do to act so impulsively, to be so unladylike. Even you, in your youth, knew better than that. You crossed your arms over your chest, beginning to feel rather insecure upon realizing just how much you had to learn about life as royalty. 

“Come, child, it is time to undress. You must be bathed and prepared for your wedding night,” Matilda called, holding out a hand, her voice much more soft and gentle this time.

You gulped, not wanting to think about that, preferring to cross that bridge when you got to it. She bustled over to the magnificent dressing table, pulling out the stool for you to sit on. You obliged, seating yourself in front of her and watching in the mirror as her spindly fingers deftly unwound your intricate braids. It was relaxing, the feeling of her experienced hands nimbly dancing around your scalp, so you let the buildup of tension from the day slowly seep out of your muscles, loosening up more and more every second that passed. Soon, she was finished, and helped you to your feet, ordering you to keep your arms out straight as she undressed you. She pulled out pins from here and there, untied laces all around, and in a matter of minutes you were ready for your bath. 

The water was warm and steaming as you stepped in, your skin breaking out into goosebumps at the feeling. Rose petals floated across the surface of the water, giving the entire washroom a fresh scent. As you expected, Amelia was waiting for you silently, brush in hand, ready to scrub you vigorously from head to toe. You braced yourself, expecting the rough bristles to be painful, but once she began working attentively, it wasn’t so bad at all. Yes, they were scratchy, but that’s exactly what you needed to get rid of all the dirt and dead skin. She lathered you in delicate smelling soap and added some more fragrant oils to the water, letting you soak until your skin had absorbed all the moisture it possibly could. Not a single inch of you was neglected by the time the water had grown cold, at which point you got out and were dried with a fluffy white towel. 

Next, you were ushered back into your chambers and changed into a pretty blue gown made of satin, which apparently “complimented the color of the kings’ eyes perfectly,” according to Matilda. You felt your gut twist at the mention of him, at the prospect of being alone in a room with him and that piercing gaze again. Now that you were man and wife, everything was different. You had a duty to fulfill, and it seemed to be unavoidable, despite how young and vulnerable you were. Despite how averse to it you might be. Your mother had told you all about it, about how it would only last a few minutes if you were lucky, and that you just had to breathe deeply and count the seconds until it was over. How it happened to every woman at some point in her life, and that what follows would be completely and utterly worth every second of endurance. How rewarding it was to raise a child, or two children, or as many as your womb could bear. But no matter how much you tried to reassure yourself, you were still scared. You didn’t want that yet. You were only 14. 

But before attending to your marital duties, first, there was dinner. You were seated at the complete opposite end of the table as Baldwin, as far as physically possible away from him, despite the fact that he was the only person there you had ever spoken to. You were too far away to be able to tell if he was even looking at you from under his mask. Next to him was his mother, who proceeded to shoot you sideways glances the entire night. The rest of the table was filled with noble men and women whom you did not recognize, their titles unfamiliar to you and the lands they hailed from even more obscure. You picked at your food and tried to stay as silent as possible to avoid making a mockery of yourself on your first night as Queen of Jerusalem. Sooner than you had hoped, dinner had concluded, and you were taken aside by Matilda, who pulled you into an empty corridor as the guests began filtering out of the castle. 

“Child, do you know what is expected of you on your wedding night?” She asked, her voice low so that nobody except the two of you could hear the subject matter at hand. You took a deep breath and straightened you back in an attempt to appear more mature, before replying, 

“Yes, I will lie down and be still and hope that I am blessed with a child.” 

The woman smiled at you and clasped your shoulder, seemingly approving of your answer. 

“Exactly right, my dear. The king will call on you when he is ready, so you may go back to your room and occupy your time with an activity of your choosing until you are collected.” 

You nodded solemnly and thanked her before slowly making your way back to your room, trying to take as long as possible in an attempt to actually slow down time. Upon deeper reflection during this walk, you came to the conclusion that it was not being alone with the king that you were afraid of, but rather the act of consummating the marriage, which was, of course, something he had every right to do with you that night. It was the correct course of action. It was what all newlyweds did, no matter how young and afraid they were. Did he know what he was doing, you wondered, or was he just as oblivious as you? You couldn’t imagine the young king being oblivious about much of anything, in all honesty. He was far too intelligent– something you had seen for yourself over that game of chess. 

Once you arrived at your room, Amelia was waiting at the door for you, an even more wide-eyed look on her face than usual. Uh oh, you thought to yourself. 

“His Majesty the King has requested your presence in his chambers, Your Highness,” she said quietly, bowing her head as she spoke. How did he get here so fast? You thought to yourself, terror rising in your chest. Amelia watched in half fear and half amusement as you frantically wiped your clammy hands on the bodice of your dress and ran your fingers through your hair, which was cascading down your shoulders freely. She was young, too, and unwed, and the idea of a wedding night was something that made her stomach churn as well, so she offered you a sympathetic look and watched as you dragged your feet across the hall, knocking on the imposing oak doors of the king’s bedchambers. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin had never been so jittery in his life. As he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for you to arrive, he fidgeted with his gloves, pulling them off by the fingers and then pulling them on again, over and over. All throughout dinner he had been gazing across the table at you, ignoring his mother’s neverending ranting as you stared down at your plate. Though you were only a blue blur with a vaguely maidenlike shape from where he was sitting, he was still completely enchanted, his heart beating in his throat every time you looked up in his general direction. He wondered if you could tell he was looking at you. Since the hour you were wed, he was able to think of nothing but you; your dazzling smile, your gorgeous hair, your playful sense of humor, the way the light in the cathedral illuminated your eyes. As the servants bathed him in strong-smelling medicinal herbs and wrapped the raw areas of skin with fresh bandages, he daydreamed about your voice, your laugh. And now, as he sat on the edge of his bed, awaiting your imminent arrival, he thought of practically everything except you. 

He panicked about the state of his body, the pressure of consummating a marriage, the burden of fathering a child at such a young age. He panicked about the weight of ruling an entire kingdom all by himself, no longer able to entrust the brunt of the work to Raymond, and of being a suitable husband. He panicked about how many years he might even have left, if his illness continued to progress. But every worry, every fear, every doubt left his mind as soon as he heard you knock on his door. 

He leapt to his feet, hastily pulling his left glove all the way back on and bounding over to the door, throwing it open wide with a grin on his face, to reveal… you, standing there, gaunt and sweating, looking like you had just suffered a bout of cholera. The smile on his face fell a bit, but it couldn’t be wiped completely clean. At least he could finally be with his bride, his love, his queen. 

“Good evening, Your Highness,” you murmured, your head bowed, pointing down at your shoes, as well as the freshly polished ones directly across from you. 

“Good evening, my Queen,” he breathed, heart beating quickly as you shuffled into his room. He closed the door behind you, letting it shut with a ‘click’ before following you over to the middle of the room, where you hovered like a ghost, still staring at the ground and clasping your hands tightly in front of you. A tense, silent moment passed, and still, you didn't move. Whatever was left of his smile faded from his unmasked face, and the panic from earlier began to return, crashing over him in icy waves. Why wouldn’t you look at him? He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from leg to leg. 

“Are you feeling very well tonight, my lady?” He asked tentatively, shuffling a bit closer. 

You sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly turned, stiltedly making your way over to the bed. 

“Let’s just get this started then, shall we?” You said tersely, laying down on your back on the plush covers and screwing your eyes shut tightly. 

“I am ready.” 

King Baldwin stared at you blankly, frozen in the middle of the room, and completely panicking. No, no, no, this was all wrong, this was not how he wanted it to go…he absolutely did not want to force you into it, to do anything you didn’t also want…and you clearly didn't want it. You were lying there, as stiff as a board. This was the final straw for him.

He wasn’t ready for it yet either, he decided. He would just have to lie to his mother. When she discovered that the queen was, in fact, not pregnant, he would blame it on his own body, claiming to be infertile. It was probably true, at any rate. He took a deep breath, feeling shame and embarrassment at not being able to consummate his own marriage rise to his cheeks, and spoke three words, 

“You may go,” 

And those were the last three words he spoke to you for the next three years. 

Note: I'll give you a kiss if you can count how many times I reference you being the "Queen of Jerusalem" in this chapter.

[cracksinthedark]

JMM screenshot redraw in honor of Kim and Jimmy's 20th wedding anniversary today. ❤️ AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55720525

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Jilted" - part 2

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Tags: boyfriend's dad au, left at the altar, father-in-law, hurt/comfort, forbidden attraction, silver fox Steve, age gap, size kink, strength kink, Dom/sub elements, daddy kink, fingering, oral sex, grinding, sex, dirty talk, cheating

Summary: You may be a jilted bride, but you don't feel like one for long when Steve soothes the hurt in unexpected ways.

Part 2 - "Taken to Bed by a Man" (Wait! I haven't read part 1 yet!)

Only hours ago, you were walking to the altar to marry a boy, and now you’re being taken to bed by a man—that very boy’s father. The reality of it becomes very clear as Steve walks into his bedroom with you in his arms and sets you down. Your toes dig into the room’s soft carpet.

“Turn around,” he whispers.

You obey, shivering as he steps in close behind. You can hear his breathing, can practically feel his desire for you. Somehow, he seems more tangible than he ever has before. More real, more solid, and you’re painfully aware of how close he is. “S-steve,” you breathe. “I—”

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, cutting you off. “I’m sorry I never told you. A woman like you should hear it every day.”

You want to say something, tell him that this is wrong, you can’t do this. He’s … he’s Pat’s father, decades older than you. He’s Captain America, for Christssakes. You shouldn’t want him the way you do. And now he’s got you doubting everything, every interaction you’ve ever had with him, every lingering glance, every brief touch, every polite word. From that very first time Pat brought you home to meet his father, the famed “man out of time.”

Steve doesn’t age normally, that much is obvious. You know about the serum, know that he was in his late twenties when they defrosted him back in the ‘nineties. And thirty years later, he doesn’t look as old as he should. His body and face are still those of a forty year old, betrayed only by the edges of his eyes, by the grey creeping into his hair and beard. He’s a total daddy, a thought that you’ve been shamefully repressing for the past two years. You’ve been so embarrassed by it, thought you were being such a creep, thinking about Pat’s father that way. Has Steve really been looking at you too all this time? You open your mouth to say something, offer some protest or reason why you can’t—

“Ask me to take your dress off.”

Your whole body clenches at how deep his voice is, how close he’s speaking to your ear. You tremble, able to feel the heat of his body behind you. “Steve, I …”

“Ask me,” he whispers, fingers skimming over your neck and shoulders. “Come on, Honey. Ask me. I promise I’ll only make you do it once.”

God. You manage to choke out an overwhelmed, “Please,” and thankfully it seems to be enough for him. His fingers find the laces of your dress and begin to delicately undo them. He goes slowly, almost like he’s relishing the act of removing your wedding gown. He peels off the dress that his son was meant to remove from your body that night, the fabric falling to the floor in a quiet ‘whoosh’, and his hands landing on your waist.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, sounding amazed. You whimper and try to move away, skittish, but he stops you, pulling you back firmly against his body with a tut. “You’re okay,” he soothes, arms wrapping around you to hold you close and calm you down. “Shhh. I got you.”

“S-steve,” you breathe, overwhelmed by how wrong this is, how turned on you are when he touches you. “We can’t, I shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” his hot breath fans out against your ear, then he starts kissing your neck and his hands slide covetously over your body. “Wanted you for so long, Sweetheart. Wanted to give you what you were aching for.” You whimper and try to pull away, but his hand slides over your tummy and pulls you back. “It’s okay. I’ve known. You think I didn’t know? Think I didn’t see you looking at me?”

“I – I didn’t …”

“Shh. There’s a girl. Let me touch you.” He’s so effortlessly strong and it feels so good to be held still by him. He rubs your belly and his other hand slides up your ribcage. “So beautiful.” He cups your breast, fingers dipping under the cup of your bra. “God, Honey. Look at you.”

You look down and exhale shakily, your cunt pulsing at the sight of his huge hand against your skin and the delicate lace of your bridal underwear. “Steve,” you breathe, shaking from nerves and arousal. “I want …”

“What do you want?” he whispers, lips trailing over your neck. He places a kiss on your pulse point, feels how fast your heart is beating. “Want me to take control?” he offers softly, almost kindly, like he can sense how overwhelmed you are. “I can do that, Sweetheart. Make it easy for you, make all the decisions. Is that what you want, hm? Want me to lay you out on this bed and do all the work?”

It’s pathetic, how fast you whine and nod, wanting that so badly. “Yes,” you say, grabbing at his hands where they’re feeling you up. “Please, Steve. Yes.”

He chuckles, low and with just a touch of condescension, the sound going straight to your core. You squeeze your thighs together to try and get some relief, but it doesn’t do any good. “Come on, then,” Steve says, moving you with capable hands. He guides you over and pushes on your shoulders until he’s got you sitting on the edge of the bed. You’re left staring at him, standing there in front of you in his tux, looking obscenely handsome, confident, and—oh …

His cock isn’t even fully hard yet, and it’s still a healthy bulge at the front of his slacks. You feel your cheeks heat as you can’t help but stare at it. It is right there, after all. You flush all the harder when he notices you looking and chuckles at you. One of those enormous hands brushes up against the front of his pants, and you nearly moan at the sight of him touching himself.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” he purrs. “You’ll get it. But first …” he sinks down to kneel in front of you, reaching for the straps of your bra. You tense when he starts to pull them off your shoulders, moving to reach behind yourself and unhook the bra, but he hushes you and stills your hands. “Shh, no. Let me do it, Honey. I want to do it.” He gets your bra off and tosses it aside, groaning as he kneels in front of you and looks his fill. “God, you got no idea,” he murmurs, sounding distracted by what he’s seeing. “No idea how long I’ve been wanting this.” His hands make an abortive move, as if he doesn’t know where or how to touch you first. “Shit, lookit you.”

“How long?” you ask on impulse, surprising even yourself. His eyes shoot up to your face, and you swallow heavily under his stare. “H-how long, have you wanted to?” you breathe.

He smiles, then his eyes trail back down and he sighs happily. He reaches out and just sort of … pets the tips of your breasts, brow pinching with want as he watches your nipples harden into firm peaks. “Jesus.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe he’s getting to touch you. “Oh, Doll ... Since I met you.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he says distractedly, big hands cupping your tits, making them look small and delicate against his rough palms. You’ve never noticed how masculine his hands are …

“S-since—”

“Since the first time you came in my house looking like you do, yes,” he growls, giving your breasts a squeeze. “Shit.”

His soft cursing makes you flush, feeling warm and exposed and needy and seen. “Steve,” you say, voice warbling with audible worry. You wait until his blue eyes come up to meet yours—God, are his eyes ever blue. You swallow heavily.

“What is it, Sweetheart?”

You chew your lip. “If we do this …” you fret, thinking about the wedding, about Patrick, about how fucked up this is going to make your life.

Steve’s hands smooth over your thighs. “Do you really want him back?” he asks you—knowingly. He meets your gaze without doubt, shaking his head the barest bit. “No going back,” he murmurs. You whimper, and he hushes you. “I know, Honey, I know it’s scary. But you can trust me.”

Delicately, he reaches for the clips of your garters and begins undoing them, one at a time. You’re stuck watching, helpless, as he looks you in the eye and gently eases your stockings down your legs. They’re the real deal: silk, seamed, non-elastic, and a strange feeling rolls through you as you watch Steve’s fingers move over them deftly and you realize that he likely knows what he’s doing because these were the sort that girls wore back in his day.

“Don’t worry, Angel.” He kisses the inside of a knee. “This isn’t just for tonight. I have every intention of keeping you.” His eyes flash upwards again, and you feel heat course through you at his face being right there between your legs … And at his words. He sees your face pinch with doubt and he nods. “Yeah. I told you you’re mine, now. I don’t say things like that unless I mean ‘em.”

“But …” you falter, not sure what you’re even planning to say. But I’m supposed to be engaged to your son. But I’m supposed to be married to him. But people will know, people will—

He slides his hands over your hips and starts edging your panties down, maintaining that all-consuming eye contact as he does it. “But what?” he purrs. “You worried about what people will say?”

You shake your head in denial, but the truth is that you are. Buzzfeed and CNN had been at that cathedral, goddamnit, and there’ll be articles tomorrow about what happened. What on earth will the headlines say when word gets out that you’ve traded in Captain America’s son for the Captain himself?

“You worry too much,” Steve says, easing your panties down your legs and guiding you to let them slip from your feet. He lifts your calf and kisses the inside of your ankle, smirking. “I’m Captain America, Everybody loves me. And I’m allowed to have nice things.” His gaze slides down to the vee of your legs, and you watch as his eyes rapidly darken to something greedy and ravenous. He makes a gruff sound in his throat, utterly possessive, and the next thing you know he’s shoving your knees further apart and forcing his way in, arms hooking underneath your thighs and wrapping around to hold onto you.

You squeak as his broad shoulders push your legs apart and you tip backwards. You catch yourself on your hands and prop yourself back up in time to watch the inaugural press of his mouth against your sex. And oh, it feels almost as good as it looks. You inhale sharply and your hips jump up of their own volition. He’s only pressed a chaste kiss against you, right up high on your mound, but the sight of Steve Rogers’ face between your legs, his head of silver-blond hair and his dark lashes resting against his cheeks as he noses against your most intimate place … it’s enough to have you clenching hard on nothing, slicking up so much that you can feel it getting messy and wet.

You whimper in arousal and impulsively reach with one of your hands to try and hold his head. “Jesus, Steve,” you whisper, turned on beyond belief. It only gets worse when he looks up at you again. You exhale shakily, belly heaving at the way his eyes scald you in their intensity.

“Tell me,” he rasps. “Tell me what you want me to do with my mouth.”

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s not fair. You whine and pant down at him. “Nnn, Steve …” You can’t. You can’t.

“Come on, Sweetheart,” he coaxes, voice like sin. “I know what I promised. And I meant it. I’ll take control. I’ll make it easy for you, and so goddamn good you won’t remember your name.” He turns his face and kisses the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want it. “But I want to hear you say it, first. Please. Just do that for me, Babydoll, and then I’ll make you feel so good.”

You swallow thickly, turned on beyond belief and knowing that if you want him, you’re going to have to put your big girl panties on and do this one thing for him. So, despite the fact that most of your brain cells have liquified and run out through your ears at this point—and despite the fact that you are not one for dirty talking in the bedroom—you look him right in the eyes and croak out a breathless, “Kiss my pussy, Steve. Put your mouth on me and lick it, suck—ogn …” You cut off in a moan when he seals his mouth right over your clit and sucks hard. “Oh my god.”

“Mmhm,” he groans. He sucks your folds into his mouth and flattens his tongue, rubbing it firmly against your clit and working methodically at it until it’s puffy and swollen. “Mmm. Mmph.” His sounds of enjoyment only make it filthier, and you can’t hold back your own choked off little moans and gasps at the eager way his arms grab onto you and haul you in for more, the way he purposefully grinds his face against you and uses his nose to give you more pressure from above your clit.

You wind up sobbing and tossing your head back as you feel yourself gush, and for a long moment you don’t even realize how much you're humping his face, rubbing yourself off against him, trying to get more of that sucking mouth and that lashing, sinful tongue. “Oh, shit. Holy shit …”

You should be mortified by your own desperation, by the sounds you’re making. Maybe you would be, but for the way that Steve responds to it. He growls and jerks you in harder against him, grinding his face into your cunt, sucking and slurping and then hurriedly freeing up one hand to push his fingers into you.

You cry out sharply as he tries to start with two but quickly halts when he can tell that it’s too much. He softens and slows down, kissing your clit in gentle apology, slipping one finger inside your drenched pussy instead. “There we go,” he hums in response to the pleasured sigh you give and looks up at you while he works his finger gently. “That feel good, Sugar?”

You’re gonna die from the fucking pet names, and that is perfectly okay. You nod dumbly down at him, eyes glued to his gaze once again as he fingers you. “Y-yeah,” you say shakily. “Steve …”

He kisses the hood of your clit and drags his lips over it. “Has it been awhile?” he asks, with all the tender concern of a lover who wants to please.

It makes your belly swirl just as hard as his mouth on you had, and you whimper and nod, working your hips down a little against his finger. “I h-haven’t,” you stutter, “Nn … not, oh, not in a while.” You don’t elaborate, and you sure as shit aren't going to admit it now, but the truth is you’ve been avoiding sex with Patrick the closer the big day got; telling yourself that it was to make the wedding night more special, when in reality you suspect it was something else entirely. You whimper and shake your head shyly, and Steve seems to understand that you don’t want to talk about it.

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing your thigh again as he keeps working his hand against you so gently. “That’s okay. We’ll take it slow. We’re not in any rush, ain’t that right?”

You can only whimper and nod, and he coos and smiles at you and how you’ve gone nonverbal already. “Yeah,” he purrs, smiling. “Don’t even worry about it, Babygirl. Daddy’s gonna treat this pussy right. Gonna make you feel so nice, get you real good and relaxed, teach you things you didn’t even know you could do.”

You cry out at how excruciatingly intimate those words are, at the way he kisses your hyper-sensitized clit and changes the angle of his hand, finger dragging up against your walls slower and more purposefully and firm. Your eyes clamp shut and you toss your head back with a pitiful keen. “St-eve, oh, please, please …”

“Mmhm.” He keeps going, still gentle but picking up on what you like, figuring out what makes you get louder and squirm harder. He fucks you on his hand and nurses at your clit in a constant, pulsing rhythm—steady, steady—reading your body’s cues and committing himself to the task, breaking away every once and awhile just to murmur little things against your cunt:

“That’s it, Sweetheart, just like that. Such a good girl. Keep going baby, yes. Let it come, let it happen for me.”

When you get close he stops talking, sealing his mouth to your pleasure and humming his praise straight into your skin instead. And it’s so good, building and building, and he’s doing it just right, holy fuck …

You fall to your back on the bed, Steve following right after you as it makes your pelvis tilt up, never breaking contact, never faltering as your hands scrabble and claw at his hair and your cries get louder and sharper. He holds you down as you start to thrash, desperate for the edge you can feel so close, so close …

Your legs wind up around his head and your heels dig wildly into his back, and still he doesn’t falter, grunting and slurping against you, giving you what you need so good that you sob.

“Oh please, please, Steve! I’m gonna cum, I’m–I’m gonna … ohhh …”

He groans right along with you as it happens, keeping that same exquisite pressure and pace in such an ungodly competent way that you just about scream from how grateful you are. He’s perfect. You sob as the pleasure crests and wanes so sharply, leaving you trembling and gasping breathless little “thank you’s” at him over and over again as he eases off and climbs up your body.

“Shh, sh sh. There we go. Aww, I know, Angel, I know. It’s okay. Did that just feel so good?”

He coos a rhetorical litany of gentle praise at you as he climbs up and rearranges your body fully on the bed, telling you how beautiful you are, how good, how much he wants you. His hands are everywhere, attentive and comforting, petting your legs and smoothing over your belly and chest as he gazes down at you adoringly. It’s romantic, intimate, and like nothing you ever had with Patrick.

You sigh happily and whisper Steve’s name instead, which only seems to please him more. He sidles up alongside you and slots one thick thigh between your legs. That’s when you realize that he’s still completely clothed and you make a tiny noise of protest. Though there is something deliciously dirty about him clothed and you bare, the fabric of his tux over the firm muscle of his thigh pressing up against your soaked core, you still want to feel him. “Steve,” you breathe, pulling at his shirt impatiently. “You too, please.”

He chuckles and nods, hushing your protests as he continues to luxuriate in smoothing his hands over your body. “Hang on, Sweetheart. I will, I will. Let me do this. I’ve always wanted to. Always. Don’t make me rush.”

“Steve,” you sigh.

“Shhh. Good girl. Just let me have this first.” He continues on, heedless of his own body and fully intent on yours, keeping you on that cloud of hazy, post-orgasmic pleasure.

It’s as he’s hovering over you like that, pressing you into the sheets and kissing tender affection all over your face—worshiping you, for lack of a better word—that you realize:

He’s treating you like a groom treats his bride.

Epilogue imagine/outline

Masterlist

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@steverogersbingo

Card: #sb3088 - stark-contrast

Square D2: "I've always wanted to do that"

@allcapsbingo

Card: sarahyellow AC1105

Square: FREE SPACE (wedding night)

@marvel-smash-bingo

Card: sarah-writes-stucky

Square N4: daddy kink

[christiwhitson]

“Was it how ye thought it would be?” he asked quietly, and Claire returned his lazy smile.

“It was better. Intense and… consuming.”

“Aye. But I didna ken if that was because of the magic or if everyone felt that way.”

“I don’t know.” She hummed thoughtfully. “The few times I heard my schoolmates discussing it, their accounts never sounded this… profound.”

“I was afraid it would hurt you,” he admitted, watching her expression carefully.

“If it did, it passed so quickly I scarcely noticed.”

Jamie relaxed and resumed his study of her body for a minute or two before another question crossed his mind.

“Is it normal to do it face to face like that? I grew up on a farm, so I always just assumed…”

“Um… People can do it that way too. And a number of other ways, from what I’ve heard,” she replied, clearly struggling not to laugh.

“Oh, aye?” He eyed her with interest and leaned in to taste the skin just beneath her ear. “Perhaps we’ll try a few… And maybe invent some new ones.”

[yazmeens-islamic-world]

[dreambigdreamz]

On Our Own | Éomer Éadig (part three)

Summary : The wedding night.

Rating : M, oral + consummation

Word count : 8,776

Author’s note : ahehehe. I have never written anything smut and rarely write anything physical-romance beyond eye-contact and that sends me into agony 😣 I know this doesn’t do anyone or anything enough justice. But I tried. Next up, our newly wedded King and Queen of the Mark has their first marital quarrel <3 Elfwine will simply have to wait until these two can sort their feelings out and that might take some time.

Part One Part Two

Hope you enjoy.

The ladies-in-waiting were getting Lothíriel ready for her first shared night with her husband, while Éomer was having to undergo a further round of backslapping ribaldry before his friends and companions escorted him to her door. The Princess had a heavy mind and was apt to drift away into distant thoughts but she did not let it show that the silence hung gloomy around the bride on her wedding night.

“He liked you,” one of the young women said as they were brushing out her hair. “He watched you very closely, he liked you.”

“And why should he not?” she asked back with the instinctive arrogance of a girl who was delighted with the result of her best efforts.

“Then, why were you ever nervous this morning about whether he would like you or not?”

Lothíriel only smiled sheepishly, looking at the mirror in front of her with a flutter in her stomach that reminisced again the rare smiles on the King’s face that had turned everything around for the wedding day. And she was immensely grateful for it.

But the day was over and night had set in, and what to say but that Lothíriel felt a new kind of dread?

She was then quietly put into her nightdress and her dark hair plaited by her ladies; Lady Saelwen kissed her good-night and gave her a mother’s blessing.

“Good-night, princess. Or rather,” Lady Saelwen looked up from her curtsey with a glow of matronly pride and smile on her face, “Queen Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel gave a slow nod, giving a small smile in return. It would seem she was trying to repress a beam of childish delight, already donning the grace and propriety of a queen — but rather, it was the nervous thump-thump in her chest that made her smile come out uncertain.

“Lady Saelwen,” the Princess — the Queen of Rohan — turned round to speak decidedly to the woman as the ladies were retreating towards the door. “A word, if you have a moment.”

The other ladies-in-waiting all looked with apprehension. There was an underlying tremor in the way the princess had ordered, and they were only too curious to know what she would have to say to Lady Saelwen now. But Lothíriel saw them standing around, and said coolly, “The rest of you may leave.”

Once the ladies had departed and only Lady Saelwen remained, Lothíriel stood up and walked briskly to her. The older lady waited patiently, though there was a look in her eyes that prompted the princess to voice anything she might have to say. After a few moments of silence while she processed her words and emotions, Lothíriel blurted out with as much self-command as she could,

“I do not know what I am supposed to do. I have tried to ask everybody I could, and nobody has told me what exactly I am supposed to do.” The words came out of her, first a bit composed and steady, but then increasing in speed as her vexation grew obvious and her trepidation took over, fidgeting with her hands and the strings on the front of her nightdress as she continued, “My mother says everything will happen by and by; but that is vague, and actually does not answer the question at all if you think about it, really. My aunt — oh Valar — my aunt says all that I need to do is obey my husband and make sure I do not sully our family’s honour in no way. Whatever in Middle-earth is that supposed to mean? What does she mean?”

At this point, Lothíriel was almost talking to herself incessantly, her voice growing wobbly with each word that formed from her anxious mind. Her eyes finally fixed on Lady Saelwen and with a regained composure and determination, Lothíriel said, “You must tell me. You must tell me everything.”

Up till then Lady Saelwen had observed the princess mildly and nodded with a calm countenance contrasting to Lothíriel’s very much disheveled expression. Now, she was nervous herself, biting her lip in careful consideration of a proper answer. “You are overthinking, Lothíriel. Maybe there is not an exact . . . description to tell you. Don’t let yourself panic, sweetling, it will go just fine and there is nothing to worry about,” the lady cooed in that motherly way of hers as usual, gently stroking Lothíriel’s hair to soothe her.

But this time the Princess — the Queen — was not to be satisfied.

“No. I must know what it is that might happen and what I should do then. I will not have my fears lulled in this manner, you know I never liked it. Nobody bothered to tell me about that ring-exchanging culture in Rohan, nobody bothered to let me know what might happen, and look how that turned out! I am sick of it! Lady Saelwen,” and then Lothíriel’s voice steady and her face grew stern, as if she was speaking to a servant or a lesser person that was not her beloved nanny since her childhood. In truth, Lothíriel’s good nature had given way to anxiety and then anger in turn that now she felt inclined to lash it out right now on anybody really. “Lady Saelwen, I command you to tell me.”

But the lady was not fazed a bit by this fey mood of the princess. She stood there all calm and proper, only pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “What exactly am I to tell you?” Then, with a little hesitation she added, “Why do you suppose I should know it enough to tell you?”

“Oh,” was all Lothíriel managed to say as her shoulders slumped from their tense posture, a few things dawning on her all at once, and she was quieted though her questions were not.  “Oh, okay, I am sorry.” But then why did not her mother or grandmother or other matrons ever told them anything? “But surely somebody should have told us,” she complained as a last resort.

Lady Saelwen only sighed, and they were both silent. Then she observed Lothíriel’s blank expression and tried to think of something to say, and choosing her words carefully, she said, “All that will happen is most probably a few . . . kisses, and then he would insert himself and it shall be done.”

“Insert himself? Insert himself where?”

“Your— where your moon blood comes from every month,” Lady Saelwen said nervously, wishing they could get this conversation over and hoping no more questions were coming her way.

Lothíriel stared at her. “Where— and, and that is also from where the baby will come out?” She had learned long ago the story about the storks bringing babies was simply untrue.

Lady Saelwen nodded solemnly without a word.

“So, it is true then?” There was almost a note of incredulity and disbelief in Lothíriel’s voice. “What Mylaela has been saying . . .”

“What has Mylaela been saying?” Lady Saelwen demanded.

“She told us very long ago that where everything goes in, is where the baby comes out,” Lothíriel gulped nervously. “So it’s true? I was hoping she was just being crazy like she always is.”

“You should not be discussing such kinds of—”

“Well, how else am I to know what it is that everybody wants me to do?” Lothíriel snapped viciously. “You send us out of the room when the conversation becomes inappropriate, and then you expect us to know what to do on our own. You think we already know about everything by the time we’re grown up or whatever; but most of us don’t, not unless we go around shamelessly prying and listening behind corners, like Mylaela does. Most of what she hears and says is appalling, but I think I have her to thank for right now!” 

The newly wedded queen stopped her frantic pacing across the room, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion and sighed. “I know, I know. I am getting worked up again, and this will not do. It’s just . . .” She raised her hands in a gesture of haplessness. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lady Saelwen. Ariellë had her love match; Andrídha fell head over heels as soon as she met my brother; but what of me? What will happen to me? Nobody should be sent away to do something they haven’t even got an idea of what! ”

Lady Saelwen endured her anger not only civilly, but kindly. She took a step forwards, and rubbed Lothíriel’s side of the arm comfortingly. “I understand, I understand what you are feeling, my sweet princess. Be brave; you are strong, and you must be brave. You are a Princess of Dol Amroth and if he mistreats you in any improper way, king or no, you come straight away to me, understand?”

“Thank you, but I do not think he will, rest assured.” And Lothíriel only smiled, not adding how Lady Saelwen’s words had felt quite useless and brought no real comfort to her actual dread of the night. How could she let the woman know what was truly making her nervous, when she herself could not materialize that fear itself into words? “So, is it going to be very painful? Like childbirth?”

“More or less, I suppose. I would not know of either, now would I?” Lady Saelwen tried to brush away the embarrassment; watching over the princess for over two decades had not prepared the spinster for this.

“Would I . . . die?” She held out tightly for the older woman’s hand.

“Heavens forbid, no! What makes you say that?”

Lothíriel struggled with herself to bring out the words. “I don’t know, maybe the fact that women often die in childbirth? Mylaela also told us that the man lies on top of the woman in bed, so isn’t it possible that she might suffocate to death? And in any case, you said—”

The door to the chamber opened to reveal Éomer King standing there. Lothíriel turned abruptly and stared with wide eyes, and let go immediately of Lady Saelwen’s hand that she had grown to clutch in desperation. It probably did not strike as a regal pose, and she awkwardly tried to straighten herself and take a step back to be standing independent on her own. And then in her best attempt to sound calm and normal, she said very slowly, “If that is all, you may leave now, Lady Saelwen.”

The lady curtseyed and made her way out.

Once her lady-in-waiting was gone and she left to herself, Lothíriel promptly invited the king to sit down at the table; all the while his eyes fixed on her meaningfully.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Lothíriel asked not too composedly, still trying to recover from the shock of having to receive him so soon, hoping desperately he had not heard anything.

“The ale, please. And one for yourself too.”

“I . . . don’t like ale very much.”

“This is different,” said he with patience, as if he understood the cause of her uneasiness. He was too skilled with women to ask her what was wrong. He knew very well what was wrong: the impending sense of fear added to the loneliness, and homesickness natural enough in a young woman. But she would show none of it, nor would she accept sympathy for it. So Éomer remained silent on the subject. “They call it wedding ale. It’s sweetened with mead and spices. It’s for courage.”

“Do we need courage?” Lothíriel found herself draping herself in cool lightheartedness, chuckling to mask away the uncomfortable, disquieted feelings attending to her.

He was emboldened by her smile and got up to pour her a cup and handed it towards her, saying with the slightest curve of his own lips, “I should think we do. It is only a tradition, and traditions merely exist to impart courage at times.”

She took the cup of hot ale from his hand, noting the gold band on it, and dared to look up at him standing next to where she sat. The candlelight had enveloped his figure in a golden frame, and the expression on his face was an unreadable one. Lothíriel lowered her head in confused turmoil of her emotions and sipped the heady drink. “Oh, this is nice,” she remarked with quite a delight in her face and took a few more sips eagerly this time.

It soon became apparent, however, that she was going through the ale quite fast as she poured herself another cup and finished that one as well. Éomer quietly watched her from across the table, enchanted by the flawlessness of her being. He drew a heavy breath, at last, and stood up and walked to her as she was pouring another time. Lothíriel glanced at him, her cup of ale held in her hand. Gently, he took the cup from her and she looked on in silence, her face a blanch-surface of calm but her eyes were indignant, curious and resigned all at the same time.

“Even the best of ale should not be taken in excessive,” he said with a small smile, polite but firm as Lothíriel’s head drooped.

“Should I now leave for you to retire?” Éomer added.

“L-Leave?” Her eyes widened at his unexpected words, her confusion hardly concealed. And on top of that was worry bordering on alarm. “But is there not something we are supposed to do?”

He hesitated a moment, before saying slowly, “I shall be honest now as you asked me before: I do not wish for you to be brought to bed positively terrified and unprepared for what will take place when you hardly know what—”

“I know what must be done.” She had stood up abruptly in indignation, her reassurance had come out haughty, and then she covered her mouth in an apologetic way, and she added a bit more composed, “Or at least, I would be willing to learn. Whatever the case, I shall not skimp my duty.” Saying so, Lothíriel willed herself to look up at him with utter determination though she felt like her knees would give away anytime.

It was Éomer’s turn to speak out hastily this time. “Is it always going to be duty, for you?”

“I do not understand . . .” she was taken aback, was quite perturbed, to be honest. But she knew better to let it show, waiting for him to clarify what he meant, but her heart was beating away quite violently at this very unexpected change in his behaviour.

“I am sorry,” Éomer started again. “But I would not wish for you to be forced by your duty to do something unwillingly. I would not wish for you to be unhappy because of our marriage.”

“I am not unhappy,” Lothíriel tried to put up the argument calmly but with precision.

“But you are uneasy,” Éomer countered with a docility of his own.

“It is only the wibber-gibbers, the heebie-jeebies.”

“And quite drunk,” Éomer added, and a smile threatened to pervade his countenance.

His bride gave a scowl, “That was only my third cup that you took away.”

There was a long while of silence, as both of them strove to deal with the different emotions. Éomer looked on the lady standing in front of him with quiet apprehension, unable to keep from admiring every thing about her, while she looked down at the floor, trying to collect herself wisely and keep the situation in control. But she hardly knew what she needed to be doing! All she knew was she needed to make him understand, she needed to let him know that it was all right with her and they somehow needed to get this done and so she needed to make him stay. Then what? What next?

Lothíriel bit her lip in thoughtfulness, finally deciding on being equally honest to him as he had also asked her before, going through her words carefully as she said, “I thank you, for caring about me. But you are a king and you also have a duty to your people. You need an heir for your country, and it is my duty to help you. I would be honoured to be your friend, partner, and comforter. I shall be perfectly honoured to be your wife.”

“And what of happiness?” The King of the Mark lifted her chin, making her look into his dark eyes filled with a thousand concerns and questions that she understood but did not know how best to answer.

“That too. I believe I shall be a happy woman married to you.” Then she tiptoed to kiss him.

This time, despite the drink and the pounding of her heart, Lothíriel was fully aware of the touch of his lips against hers: it was soft, warm and his beard brushing lightly on her cheeks. She knew she had done one thing correctly at least as he responded to her and deepened the kiss that grew passionate; his one arm round her waist, drawing her body closer to him, and the other caressing the side of her face as she stood there, quite rigid, the warmth spreading through her from where he touched her body over her nightdress.

She had never even been kissed before today, let alone to have known how it felt like to be touched this way by a man.

When they parted, Éomer saw her face flushed as her ruby lips and the glimmer in her large, grey eyes. He gently ran his thumb across her smooth skin, taking in the sight of her as if mere memory could never be enough. The slightest look of sadness crossed his face, and Lothíriel saw it in his eyes as if his heart was breaking from some kind of pain—with a sense of the situation, she grasped the meaning of that look to be something of love, and that was when Lothíriel’s instinct brought her to hold his hand that was against her cheek, and her eyes spoke of earnestness.

“My dear lady wife,” Éomer said softly, dropping his hand from her face and holding her hand in both of his. She felt soft and gentle, her small hand fitting into his rough, calloused ones like they were meant to be fitted for one another perfectly. Lothíriel, in turn, laid her other hand on his, trying to get out of her shell to reassure this kind man who was now her husband.

But she glanced at the bed behind her, and steeled herself to ask him awkwardly, “Would . . . would you like to undress me, my lord?” The warmth in her cheeks grew fiery, her eyes cast down on the floor, unable to meet his eyes again in the embarrassment of what lies ahead.

“You shall call me Éomer, when we are on our own.”

Lothíriel dared to look up at him and quickly looked back down again, feeling very much like blushing and giggling and running away all at the same time. 

A soft sigh later, he reached out, nimbly caressing a lock of her hair between his fingers, before his fingertips grazed her cheek, trailing down her neck. Lothíriel could feel her breath quicken at the feathery touch, as he wordlessly continued to trail his fingers down to the neckline of her dress. He paused there and looked her in the eye, his silence telling her there would be no going back once he started. As he found her face unwavering, he deftly pulled on one of the strings at the front of her nightdress, and soon they came loose and Lothíriel held her breath, as Éomer lifted it up from the hem of the dress and over her head. She raised up her arms, making sure her plaited hair did not get messed up.

When she stood there in front of him, unclothed and uncovered by anything, a great wave of emotional instability hit Lothíriel then. She felt like sinking into the floorboards, she felt like sobbing and telling Éomer honestly that she could not do this. She had never dreamed of having to do this; she would willingly have gone through the world without knowing about this; she would have died before ever imagining herself this way in front of a man, husband or no. This was utterly appalling!

But despite the strongest urge to drop all courtesy and run and dive under the bed sheets, or to even just try and cover herself with her hands, Lothíriel stood still. She could not bear to meet his eyes, but she willed herself to do it with all that she had in her entire being. She was a Princess of Dol Amroth and she was not meant to show fear or uncertainty. She was now a Queen of Rohan and there was a country and people to lead.

She brought herself to look up at Éomer, and saw in his face the usual, unreadable expression of a vague scowl. Like he was displeased. Or just a very intense gaze. Lothíriel could not be certain.

Something like disappointment washed over Lothíriel this time, and she felt the emotions constricting in her throat — she looked away, hiding the vulnerability in her gaze, her silver-glazed eyes facing the quivering flames of the candles in the room.

“Are—are we not supposed to blow the candles out?” she asked in a small whisper.

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s normally done? In the dark?” Lothíriel said innocently, her words trailing off on a high intonation that indicated her uncertainty.

“Who told you that?”

“No-one!” She had looked at him in alarm, not wishing to come off as the kind of girl who ever discussed these things. Though only earlier she was bitterly resentful of not knowing, it was still hard to shed off old ideals that had been ingrained in the ladies’ minds that it was horrifying to know of these matters.

She saw a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and her stomach turned a somersault again. She loved and hated what he did to her feelings, so entirely what she had never been used to.

Éomer replied slowly, “Not exactly. Not always, no. But if you wish . . .”

“I do,” Lothíriel affirmed and there was a tiny quiver in her voice. She was thinking, while Éomer went to put out the flames one by one, that it was better to not have to see his face at all and for him to not see hers if he did not wish to. And he obviously did not wish to. Maybe? But Lothíriel stole a quick glance at the sight of her husband walking round the room, bending to blow out the candles, the light reflecting off through his golden hair. She would mourn in silence to herself the loss of having to see him; but as one candle remained lit at last, Éomer turned to her.

“May we not leave just this one?” Her blank face of confusion made him add more hesitantly, “It would be a shame to miss seeing you in the darkness.”

Oh, what does he mean, was the question racing through Lothíriel’s mind in a frenzy as she found herself nodding slowly, like a little puppet whose strings of control had snapped suddenly. She so longed to know what he meant!

“But if you do not wish . . .”

“Yes. I wish, very much.” She told him quickly, and forced the slightest of a smile through her shocked expression for good measure that he was assured of her willingness. Then she added in a flustered manner, “I mean, I only thought . . .”

“You thought?” Éomer asked as he came back towards her, his eyes fixed on her face.

Lothíriel lowered her head, shaking it slowly.

They stood in front of each other, untouching, and after a few moments Éomer said, “Your hair . . . will you allow me to . . .?”

She glanced behind her shoulder to realise that he meant to undo her plaited hair, and awkwardly but clearly she replied, “Oh, yes, certainly.”

When he moved nearer to her, and got behind her back, it was overwhelming how the warmth from the proximity of his body seemed to radiate and envelope her. But Éomer kept strictly to his word alone and touched nothing but her hair that he had asked; he undid the plait of her hair gently, his hands combing through the dark mass of it and, as it got loose and flowed down her shoulders and past below her back, Lothíriel felt soft prickles all over her skin at his barest touches. She turned to look at him, and his eyes met hers with a steady gaze that made her flustered.

“What is it?” he asked, soft and courteous but his voice naturally gruff.

“Nothing. I—” there was something insistent in the look of his eyes, something of undoing all her stone walls, that Lothíriel allowed them to crumble and herself to wither away, and told him plainly but shyly, “You are not upset with my hair?”

The wonder that came into her husband’s eyes could only be described as incredulous and shocked, as for a momentary pause his sternness melted. “No . . . why would I ever . . . your hair? What do you think could be wrong with your hair to make me—upset?”

Lothíriel was left stunned and at a loss for some of her usual quippy remarks as she tried to process the way he had just said what he just said; for she was almost shocked as himself to have this brief glance of him being uncertain and the way he struggled for the proper words, and how he had said them in so uncomfortable a manner, especially that last one. His brows were furrowed and that was not unfamiliar, but now there was real confusion in his eyes and he looked, why, he almost looked like a mere pageboy trying to understand something incredulous. It left her throat dry. Moreover, it left her frustrated because she could not pin down on why it made him so endearing in her eyes and heart. He was still the self-same King of Rohan, tall and proud, very regal and so utterly dashing in his roughshod manners, and yet the distant formality and ambiguity. But here there was this small side within him that was looking at her with wide eyes as if she had said something labyrinthine. It drove her insane.

“My hair . . .” she started uncertainly. “Is it not . . . well, dark and foreign and . . . and so very . . . I don’t know . . . dark.” Lothíriel heard herself saying this and tried to justify the emotions but immediately decided it sounded stupid in the end. She lowered her head, in a struggle that went beyond words or comprehension of men.

She felt, no, she knew, that what she was trying to do was a useless attempt to re-summon the wild uncertainties she had faced earlier in the morning. These were beginning to be cleared away gradually somehow with each passing moment now, but she still wanted to keep room for these doubts just in case, just in case she was hoping too high and above the blunt reality that often fell into the lot of women before her. A high-born lady married to a stranger for convenience or alliance, that case had two scenarios and an uninteresting in-between; and she was well aware which was the more probable oft-times. And just like most young ladies, she entertained this doubt and hope at the same time.

Éomer stared at her for a long moment, during which Lothíriel was on an earth-shattering brink of suspense, then he blinked. “It is beautiful,” he said slowly, caressing and bringing all of her hair onto one side of her shoulder. “And, and I love it.”

A thousand things happened all at once; and it was all in Lothíriel’s mind.

When her heart seemed to have recovered from the momentary pause and air breathed into her lungs once again, when the exploding fireworks in her chest had quietened down and herself had run happily across the length of Middle-earth there and back again in her mind, when her legs had regained steadiness and her ears had stopped to ring with the singing and shouting of her own voice and celestial bells, then Lothíriel’s lips quivered into a smile, grateful and relieved, and she murmured a little “Thank you,” still heaving breathless from what he had just said. If only he knew. Oh, the Valar be praised, if only he knew.

He gazed at her face, from her eyes to her lips to the slender curve of her neck, and asked, “Would you mind if I . . .” His hand, thick and roughened by years of war, softly traced the side of her face. The sensation brought Lothíriel to meet his eyes, and though he did not specify and she longed to know what it was that he meant to say, she nodded, saying,

“Not at all.”

The touch of his fingers, so calloused yet gentle, trailed over her jawline, and then down her neck and landed on her bare shoulder, smooth and glowing in the golden candlelight. They continued down across the length of her arm, leaving behind the feel of goosebumps on her skin and the silent yearning for more of that heat from his touch. When he reached her hand, he held it to his lips and placed a kiss, looking at her and taking in with much awareness of how her lips had parted a little and she looked on with suppressed anticipation in her eyes.

“You . . . are . . . flawless,” Éomer said quietly, almost to himself, and a shuddering breath escaped him before he pulled her towards him in a kiss of effusion, placing her hand over his chest. Lothíriel only had a moment of a small gasp before her lips crashed into his and she found herself kissing her husband again, this time more passionate and desirous as she felt his hands on her back, pressing her body against him. Their lips seemed to move in synchronisation to a dance of desire, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to do away with all space between them as she felt the burning fire inside, longing to feel his body all over hers.

For a moment there, a thought passed her mind about the propriety of how she was behaving and feeling. It left her confused and stopped short her responding, but half a second later Lothíriel had pushed away these chastising thoughts away from her mind and returned to the warmth that was growing inside her at the touch of his skin or the taste of his lips.

He appeared to have understood her mind, or at least taken notice of this new fervour of her kissing, and brought up his hand to tuck away the loose strands of hair away from her face. Then it slowly travelled down her neck, and this time to the side of her breasts where they lay pressed against his night tunic, and making him hard down below. He cupped one of them, gently squeezing it, and earning another small gasp from her as she stopped their kiss to look up at him with widened eyes. Éomer moved his hand away, asking with some gravity,

“Do you not like it?”

His wife batted her lashes bashfully, and her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed with some nervousness, and shook her head to say quietly, “No . . . just surprised, my lord . . .” She struggled with herself to get the right words out, then emboldening herself to look at him straight in the eye, she said, “Please, continue.”

Éomer’s mouth went dry and parched, but he assumed a small smirk and replied, “It will be my pleasure.”

They recommenced their kissing, and he placed a firm hand over her breasts, softly kneading the flesh and running his thumb back and forth over the tips that grew stiffer with each of his strokes. Lothíriel was by now trying so hard to hold back letting out any improper noise, and no longer was she able to respond properly to his kisses when his touches on her sensitive buds were making her head go wild and her breath go shallow like she couldn’t get enough of air, enough of him. Her one hand served to push against his strong chest whilst her other hand was on his tunic collar, pulling him in desperately than ever.

The painful ache of her breasts grew unbearable over time under his administrations, building up like waves but without any rocks to crash on and release, and Lothíriel, eyes squeezed shut, gave in at last and let out a small whimpering moan into their deep kiss. The sound seemed to affect Éomer greatly, arousing him ever more and driving him to nip at her lower lip with a grunt, and his hand moved downwards across her abdomen, before stopping suddenly.

“Gods,” he swore loudly, breaking off the kiss to look at her basked in the light, a vision of his dreams every night turned real into flesh. He had his brows furrowed in great seriousness, or rather frustration, before he took in a deep breath and asked gruffly, “Bed?”

She nodded, with a blush of shyness now accompanied with the twinkle of eagerness in her grey eyes.

Slowly Éomer led her to the great white-covered bed of mattresses, and sat her down on the edge of it, with his arms on each side of her. She held his face close to hers, observing every chiselled detail from the lines on his forehead to the way his beard was trimmed above and around his lips and small, dark moles across his cheeks.

He was utterly handsome.

It wrenched Lothíriel’s heart for some reason to realise this and the poignant joy that came with the realisation of how fortunate she was to end up with him, to actually have her fate entwined with his. She felt like she could stay in this moment for ever, to have his eyes on her and never stir again. But of course, she also enjoyed the way his touches left her skin burning like there was nothing more holy than the way he’d hold her in his strong arms.

Their kiss changed a different kind as Éomer tenderly placed these tokens of affection all over her face, trailing from the one side of her temple down her ear to the crook of her neck where his head lay buried and covering with gentle, firm kisses, sucking and grazing at her skin in turn. Lothíriel then pushed his shoulders back and asked in her equable, quippy manner, “Why am I the only one undressed here?”

“And do you consider it unfair?” Her husband asked back with amusement in his eyes but barely a smile on his lips.

“I would think so, yes,” she answered honestly, and it was then that a smile overcame his stern features and he took her hands to place them upon his tunic. Lothíriel took hold of it by the hem and raised it up over his head and arms, and she took in the full view of his body, his well-toned muscular front, the light curly hair on his chest and the two dark areoles, and the visible tightness of the muscles packed in his shoulders and arms up to his hands where the veins could be seen underneath the roughened layer of his skin now enveloped in golden yellow. She reached out an arm to lay her hand on him, feel the touch of those muscle-fibres of an experienced warrior that made him look so god-like in her eyes. When her skin touched his revealed chest, she took a nervous gulp to quell the drumming of her heart, whereas Éomer visibly took a sharp intake of breath, still locking her eyes in his.

She delicately trailed her way down across his midriff, touching him with just the slightest tips of her slender fingers, the heat from his body grazing over them and coursing throughout her own. When she reached to the top of his trousers, and made to work on the string, Éomer seized her wrist then, startling her with the fierce gleam in his eyes. But he said softly, albeit what sounded in a low, threatening whisper, “Not yet, my love.” 

The words sent her into a spiral, a love spiral of fluttering warmth in her chest. It caused her to sit still, breathing heavily in anticipation, as her husband, her love, ran his hand through her hair and leaned in to kiss her, gently pushing her down onto the bed. Lothíriel fell back against the soft, white mattress under her, their kiss unbroken as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders, pulling him down the same and he followed suit. She could feel the sheer weight of him above her, though he was standing on his own and just leaned over the edge of the bed. But his body pressed against her bare skin, with nothing between them no more, was making Lothíriel feel like her whole being was on fire. And she wanted more.

Éomer started to move his kisses down her neck, and on her collarbone, and then lower between her breasts down to her abdomen, slightly below her navel. When his kisses ceased, Lothíriel, who had been conscious of everything while having her eyes closed, opened them and looked at him, face slightly flushed at the sight of having him so near her private parts.

“Allow me?” he asked gruffly.

“Anything,” she breathed.

Without breaking their gaze into one another’s eyes, Éomer parted her legs slowly, first placing his hands on her knees then moving up her thighs from the inside. Lothíriel could not tear her gaze away; to feel his hands on her skin, but to see them as well, made her heart go up into her throat where she felt the painful sensation of waiting. 

Éomer’s hand reached and touched at her nether lips, eliciting a shaky moan from the Gondorian princess who felt both pleasure and shock at this act. To say she was mortified would be saying less; but she would not be questioning her lord husband’s intentions, especially when she understood he was nothing but considerate. 

She felt his fingers deftly rubbing over the sensitive regions of that part of her body, going over them in circles at some times and back and forth at others. When one of his fingers was easily sunk into the wetness of her folds, Lothíriel let out a small gasp of pain. But it soon subsided after the first initial shock, and then she began to find it quite dizzying as he started on a perfect rhythm of thrusting it in and out. 

 It became hard for her to keep a level head, and she sank back onto the softness of the mattress beneath as she felt the steady pleasure travel through her body, making her weak. However, Lothíriel had sealed her eyes and mouth close shut, determined that no improper noise should escape her now, lest she became too loud and those waiting nearby the rooms should hear her indiscretion.

But, as said before, it was hard to keep a level head.

She turned her head this way and that, hands clasped tightly onto the sheets as something of a new sensation built up inside of her. All the while, Éomer had taken several notches up the stage, and was kissing those nether lips of hers, as yet untouched in any way even by herself. He was surprising her at every twist and turn; and she was responding to his administrations with hardly suppressed moans and whimpers as he flicked his tongue over her sensitive pearl.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked, pausing to look up at her from below, and found that he enjoyed this view of her just as well. 

“Yes. I do not know what you are doing, but I would like you to keep doing it,” she replied, eyes still shut, and need dripping in every syllable of her usual sultry accent. 

“As my queen wishes.”

He continued whatever he was doing before, and Lothíriel returned to it with a stronger sense of gratitude and relief and she sighed shakily as she felt his finger enter her again. Soon, he was pacing it faster and faster, and Lothíriel’s grip on the sheets tightened and her knuckles grew white in need of a release. Her back was arched barely from the bed, her breathing shallow and everything seemed to be mounting into something great and fragile, until she felt the long-awaited for release overcoming her body in a rush of ecstasy, the tightening knot in her stomach gradually easing as it seemed to flow out of her, leaving her a mess, but a happy mess. 

Her eyes were blurry as they opened up to the wooden ceiling above, her breaths heavier now and panting for more air, when she felt Éomer’s lips kiss her down there and she realised the fire hadn’t been extinguished. 

“Was that it?” was what Lothíriel found herself asking despite all her internal remonstrations. She tried to keep away from her eyes whatever thoughts could betray her, but knowing she probably failed this time.

“No,” was the subtly amused answer her husband gave her, and a smile. “If you wish.” He paused, and came up towards her and brushed aside some strands of her hair soaked in sweat, and asked, “But tell me. How . . . was that?” 

She could only look up at him, blushing furiously but unable to contain her smile. “I— um, it was . . . it was invigorating.” She saw, at the approximity of their faces, that his lips and a few hairs around were still glistening with the wetness between her thighs.

“I am happy to hear that,” he said, staring into her eyes, and she chuckled nervously, absolutely in love with the way he had said it so genuinely like a young boy who was just as nervous as she. 

He bent down to kiss her cheek, and then a little nib at her ear, asking her with a soft growl, “Are you ready then for the rest?” 

Lothíriel eyed at him shyly and answered, “Surely, you do not need my answer to know.”

“Yet I would hear it. I love your voice,” he said, making her head toss into a spin, as his hand trailed down her body.

“Yes,” she moaned softly under the drug of his touches. 

He pulled himself up straight, making Lothíriel wonder in half-alarm and half-curiosity, and started undoing the string of his pants. She sat up then, too, and helped him with it, keeping her eyes fixed on his that she would not waver. She got it loose and he let them fall onto the floor in a pile, leaving him as naked as the day he was born. Just as she was.

Lothíriel’s eyes, involuntarily as they were, travelled down to his lower body, to where his manhood lay erected and hard as a rock. She swallowed embarrassedly, not wanting to be rude as she stared, but she could not help doing so; blinking a few times, maybe, but it always ended up on his throbbing member, with its pink tip glistening in the light. 

“May— May I?” she asked timidly, something out of courtesy than curiosity as she thought to make it up to him fairly as how good he had made her feel. Well, perhaps the curiosity was also a large factor. 

Éomer, eyes still intent on her face, took her hand in his and brought it to his crotch. From there she slid down, touching him there for the first time, and taking back her hand in timid surprise initially. Then she placed it firmly against it, bringing her hand around the shaft of it.

“It’s . . . it’s,” she bit her lip, trying to think of something to say but her mind having gone blank. So instead she looked up at Éomer, her mouth perched, as he guided her hand to rub up and down the length of him. She took it up quickly, and started to murmur, “Well, it’s —um, hard but soft at the same time . . .” and he chuckled at that, a deep sound that came from his chest and reverberated throughout his body and to hers. 

She noticed he was losing composure, and his fingers were straying from her breasts, when at one point he grabbed her hand and said gruffly, as he pinned her down onto the bed, “That’ll be enough, my lady.” Then he got down to her thighs again, and spread them gently apart, telling her, “Now this may hurt a bit at first, and you must let me know if you wish for me to stop immediately.”

“Yes . . .” Lothíriel answered nervously, worried now as to what he meant and coming to realisation on her own. 

“I promise I won’t let you be in pain if I can help it,” Éomer said again, visible concern filled in his gruff countenance.

“‘Tis all right,” but she bit her trembling lips, gone pale for fear of standing on the brink of the unknown.

“Just... try and relax....it’s not so much painful as when your body is tensed up.” Then, holding her shoulder gently, Éomer looked into her eyes, golden-brown meeting stormy-grey ones with unspoken words of trust. “Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” said his queen. “I have never been afraid of anything.”

Men, like her father and brothers, had to fight their way in open warfare to secure their kingdoms. Most women, like her, had to endure painful ordeals in private.

As he placed himself at her entrance, and Lothíriel’s heart beat so loud it deafened her ears, Éomer traced circles on her thighs to ease up her muscles. And when he penetrated slowly inside past her warm folds, she turned her head aside, covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the cry of gradual pain. He then stayed still for a while, and she started to breathe slowly, getting herself adjusted to half of his length being inside her. It was a searing pain, and though he was gentle it still hurt her much; but eventually when it seemed she had gotten used to it, and every vein in her body seemed to be pulsing in rhythm with his, she gave a small nod, signalling him to go on.

He began moving his hips against hers, slowly at first as he inched himself forward with each thrust. As his pace quickened, and Lothíriel grew used to the friction of having him thrust in and out, her body too caved in to the pleasure albeit being painful. Her white-knuckled grip on the sheets loosened, and her hands went to his shoulders as he propped himself above her on his elbows. The knot that was tightening in her stomach grew, and there seemed no other way of satiating the sinful desire in her as she buried her hands in his hair, wanting to pull him down into a kiss, but her conscience was not yet too far gone for this.

At last, her determination gave in to the strong urge and moaned softly his name, “Éomer,” which spurred him on to continue faster and eventually led to both their releases, like waves meeting the shore, crashing onto ocean rocks. He too groaned out her name, over and over, as he filled her with his warm seed, his face buried in the crook of her neck. 

He collapsed beside her, their pantings heavy and fast, the only sounds that were heard in the dimly lit chamber-room. Lothíriel had fixed her eyes on the ceiling above, thinking over to herself what had just been done.

The pain was no worse than she had expected. Her cousin Ariellë had said it was not as bad as falling from a horse, and she had been right. Andrídha, her sister-in-law, had said that it was paradise; but Lothíriel could not imagine how such deep embarrassment and discomfort could add up to bliss—and concluded that Andrídha was exaggerating, as she often did.

But when she turned her head to where Éomer lay, his golden hair sticking in sweat and his body glistening, Lothíriel felt inclined to admit, at least a little bit, that the experience had not been entirely distasteful. He had been kindest, gentlest, and most considerate that any woman in her place could have wished for. 

He caught her looking, and smiled and said, “Yes, my lady?” 

She flushed, but quickly regained herself to correct him, “It is only Lothíriel to you, my lord.”

He let out a deep chuckle, closing his eyes for a moment. “That is right.” Then he turned himself to her and kissed her forehead, saying, “Lothíriel, my queen.” 

He got up, and a thought passed her mind in dismay that he might be leaving. He seemed to catch the alarm in her eyes, and told her gently, “I am only getting a towel.” 

He came back soon with it, soaked in warm water, that he started dabbing over her face to wash away the grime and sweat from their labour. Lothíriel looked on with wonder in her eyes, never failing to be awed by his being such a gentle person despite his stern looks. Both remained in silence, the good kind where words are unnecessary, until he reached down to her lower parts, and she, realising the blood and mess down there, embarrassedly told him, “Oh, I’ll do it.”

But Éomer looked at her with a meaningful look in his dark eyes, saying, “I insist.” She then felt it out of her power to keep arguing, and quietly acceded. It was such a strange matter for her, that he would be touching her even after, well, their duty had been performed. But no, it had been more than that. 

“By the way,” he said, bringing her out of her reverie. “I love what you always say. Won’t you say it again? Say it for me again, my queen, say you are not afraid.” He raised her chin, studying the flawlessness of her face in the candlelight. 

She leaned in, half-giggling into their kiss like a schoolgirl, “I am not afraid of anything, not anymore.”

When morning came, Lothíriel woke up in the arms of her husband, wrapped around her like strong walls of safety and happiness. The warm sunlight streaming in from the window fell onto his face, serene in sleep, softening the stern features and transforming into a picture of all that Lothíriel ever wished to love.

He went away with a small nod, bidding her good-morning and a quick kiss, very much aware of the pink glow in his wife’s cheeks as she avoided his eyes in the first waves of embarrassment renewed by daylight. The men greeted him with cheers outside the door, and marched him in triumph to his own rooms. Lothíriel heard him say, vulgarly, boastfully, “Gentlemen, this night I have been in Dol Amroth,” and heard the yells of laughter that applauded his joke. For a while, she lost her breath imagining everything that would come, and felt distressed by the prospects of having it known and teased by everybody, when it was a special thing she wanted to keep only between the two of them. 

But there would be no avoiding the ceaseless questions and inquiries, she knew, now that she was the queen and her top priority was producing an heir for the House of Eorl. Lothíriel mentally braced herself; she would brave through it. And, well, with Éomer, it didn’t seem so terrible.

Her ladies came in with her gown and heard the men’s boisterous laughter. Lady Saelwen raised her thin eyebrows to heaven at the manners of these Rohirrim.

“I don’t know what your father would say,” Lady Saelwen remarked sullenly.

“He would say that words count less than my happiness, and my happiness has been secured,” Lothíriel said firmly with a smile.

 Sincerely Snow

8 July 2024 — 29 August 2024

tagging : @konartiste @celeluwhenfics

this turned out much better than what was on the previous post … unfortunately, no toads from amrothos.