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saintobio · 9 months ago

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as you like it (sequel to romeo ♱ juliet)

↳ gojo satoru/reader

bound by the dictates of the prophecy, the emperor contemplates whether retaining his wife or severing ties with her may be the sole path to fulfill his ambitions. yet, what he may fail to discern, is that the plague in his reign lies beyond what meets the eye

♱ genre. tragedy, revenge, period piece, renaissance au

♱ tags. 26k wc, extremely ooc, tyranny, emperor!gojo, empress!reader, (you will hate the reader!), unrequited love, religion (especially catholicism), blasphemy, mentions of infidelity, violence, war, rebellion, misogyny, impregnation, smut, disease, gore, death, arson, and written in early modern english/archaic english

♱ notes. heavily inspired by anne boleyn's real-life story, and manhwas sister, i am the queen in this life and ten ways to get dumped by a tyrant, as well as shakespeare’s king henry V. direct quotes also derived from the movie the king. has no correlation to the original as you like it play except for the title, as i wanted a title to my r+j sequel that's still shakespeare-inspired :) feedbacks are highly appreciated :')

masterlist. playlist. gallery. archaic grammar index.

EARLY MODERN ENGLISH -> MODERN ENGLISH VERSION

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈�� 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐄.

SATORU, Emperor of Caelum.

YOU, of the same order.

SUGURU, knight commander of the Imperial Order of Knights.

TOJI, Emperor of Astheryn.

NAOYA, a duke, cousin to Toji.

GENEVA, nurse to the empress.

MAXIMILIAN, advisor to the Caelan Emperor.

NANAMI, a nobleman.

The Pope.

FRIAR MYCHAL, a Franciscan.

YUUTA, cousin to Satoru, exiled

A maid.

A physician.

The Oracle.

Citizens of Astheryn and Caelum; kinsfolk of both empires; the Imperial Court, Nobles, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

In a vast empire's might, an Emperor reigned,

Duty's veil his heart restrained.

Beside him, an Empress fair did stand,

Her love unmet, her heart unmanned.

Cold and still, his heart did lie;

Untouch’d by love's gentle sigh.

The Empress long’d for his affection true,

Yet his love remain’d a distant hue.

In shadows deep, her love did pine,

Bound by duty's rigid line.

As seasons passed, her love turned to ire,

A flower of vengeance, fuel’d by fire.

Now as our tale begins we see,

How love and duty bring us forth to tragedy.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

THE LATE 15TH CENTURY

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

Only slightly did you loosen up as the sequence of your steps were taken in slow but measured strides. Each footfall had a rhythm that was neither lacking in confidence nor hesitance, with your heels clicking on the marble floors and the sound of it echoing along the spacious hallway as if to remind every person within the vicinity that the Empress was arriving. You held your breath much to the tightness of your corset and tried to keep your emotions intact, taking a halt from walking knowing that your ladies-in-waiting were tailing you closely behind.

Two valiant knights stood by his door, offering a curtsy to their Empress the minute you had crossed their eyes. A knock on the door followed. Then, soon enough, you were granted a step forward inside your husband’s study.

There he was, ensconced behind his desk amid copious piles of paperwork, his attention undivided by the woman who graced his study with her presence. His locks, reminiscent of Arctic snow, were meticulously arranged, accentuated by the resplendent black doublet he donned, adorned with intricate silver patterns upon the brocade cloth. His eyes, as blue as the sky and oceans alike, declined to meet the gaze of his own wife.

“For what purpose art thou come?” he uttered.

Meanwhile, you made a swift curtsy and motioned for the attendants and knights to depart away, leaving the two of you alone. “I crave a word with thee, Your Majesty.”

His countenance appeared to congeal as he fixed his gaze upon you for several uncomfortable moments. "Of what matter?"

“Concerning the New Year's banquet, dear husband. It draweth nigh in a fortnight, and arrangements must be set in motion.” You stood squarely afore him, hands entwined afore you. A regal presence. A queenly figure, fashioned precisely to his desires. Such was the image the empire had embraced since your ascension to the throne. Before him stood the epitome of grace suited to that role. “Pray, what theme dost Your Majesty propose?”

He closed the ledger he had been inscribing on, scrutinizing your features intently. “I harbor little fondness for such gatherings, yet the banquet is a necessary evil.” His gaze shifted towards your gown, meticulously crafted to complement your form, adorned with the same elaborate embroidery as his own attire, accented by a sizable silver cross adorning your neck like the good Christian you were. “The citizens already begin to take note of our opulence; thus, I eschew an excessiveness that may draw undue attention. Let it be lavish enough to suit our status, yet not overly extravagant. As for the theme, it ought to be black and silver to match our regalia.”

The Caelum regalia, once bedecked in innocent hues of white and blue, underwent a somber transformation to black and silver upon his ascension to the throne. Behind this alteration lay a tragic tale. Satoru, the man whom you addressed as husband, had first borne the title of Crown Prince before ascending to the imperial seat. His younger sister, the infamous maiden who met her demise alongside her lover, was bound to an ill-fated romance that purportedly quelled an age-old enmity between two ancestral foes.

The forbidden romance betwixt a scion of a Zen'in and a scioness of a Gojou, both of princely lineage, ignited strife between the Astheryn and Caelum Empires. With half a century of animosity between these bloodlines, a lust for supremacy, and an unyielding clash between nations, the discord erupted into a civil strife, ceasing solely with the ratification of a peace accord signed by the sovereigns of both empires.

Yet before all these tumultuous events unfolded, Satoru's ascent to the highest throne owed much to you. Though you were not his intended betrothed, you were a lady deeply enamored with the prince; with whom he divulged myriad fervent nights with. As the daughter of a duke whose lineage boasted mastery in the craft of forging fine swords and weaponry, and so well-versed in the art of warfare, he saw you fit to stand as his empress, prepared to reciprocate your erstwhile unrequited love through means of marriage. Howbeit, this accord came at the cost of you aiding him in his quest to unseat both his father and mother from their thrones. He loathed his parents just as strongly as he did Astheryn. The rulers preceding him were despotic tyrants, showing scant regard for kinship ties, and they exhibited no sorrow for the passing of the princess, which was a loss deeply felt by Satoru.

Satoru carried ambitions of ascending to the august throne of Caelum from a tender age, unwilling to await the natural demise of his father for ascension and instead, do it by means of force. He was prepared to imbrue his hands with his own kindred’s blood to sit at the highest throne, yet such a feat was no trifling matter. The civil unrest presented the opportune moment to execute his plans, spurred on all the more by his sister's untimely demise. With your military affiliations and strategic acumen, you aided him in orchestrating a coup d'état against his own kin. Ending it all with him, severing his father’s head with a sword, and you, killing his mother with a dose of poison. His other oppositions followed, and those who did not support his cause were offered a swift journey to hell through mass execution. Throughout these macabre events, you stood steadfast by his side, currying favor with the surviving nobility to fortify his position as emperor. Identifying traitors, you presented them for his judgment. In due course, you became his most trusted confidante, the sole woman deemed worthy to stand beside him on the day of his coronation, heralding the dawn of a new era for the empire. Thus, a new nation, a new sovereignty, and a new regalia were born.

“As thou wish, my liege.” With careful steps, you navigated his study, casting an appraising gaze upon the books lining his shelves before pausing behind him. He ought to discern that the banquet did not solely occupy your intentions that day. “Prithee, burden not thyself with all this paperwork.” Your lips brushed his ear. “Instead, shall I expect thee in my bedchamber this eve?”

He tensed, drawing a deep breath to temper his emotions. You always seemed to know how to push his buttons—in good and bad ways. You played him like a fiddle as always. Indeed, he was well aware that your desires surpassed the scope of mere banquet arrangements. “Very well.”

The distant gaze he cast upon you pierced deeply. Eight long years of matrimony, and only now did he begin to exhibit such aloofness. Only now did such estrangement manifest. What sudden shift had befallen this marriage? You were not privy to the answer, yet you strived to deny it. Natheless, for the sake of your peace of mind, did you venture forth with your inquiry. “My liege, I wilt be so bold as to believe that thou dost not carry grudge against me.” Your eyes remained fixed upon his saintly face. “Do I speak true? For my failure to conceive the last time we—”

“‘Tis useless to harbor grudge over matters beyond control.” Displeasure thinned his lips. “What gain have I, to chastise thee merely because thou art barren?”

Pained by his words, you stepped away, quietly but firmly asserting, “...I am not barren.”

“Thou hast failed to conceive after eight years; to mine eyes, that qualifies as being barren.” He flipped back to the page he was perusing, resuming his writing.

Any trace of happiness that once adorned your mien now dissipated, and was replaced by the shadows of his cutting words. “Then, what plan shall thou construct if I fail to bear fruit?”

Satoru halted in his writing, his quill suspended in the air. He closed his eyes as he spoke, “Should thou not conceive in the foreseeable future, I am left with no alternative but to initiate a divorce. No matter the cost.”

Your eyes widened at his decision, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled upon you. His words seemed rehearsed, so well-thought of, as though he had expected this day to come and heretofore looked forward to informing you of this very plan. You failed to catch his reasoning, but succeeded at bearing the pain it had burdened you with. What had driven him to this conclusion? Certainly, a mere heir would not lead him to this ultimatum.

“A concubine, then, doth thou suggest so?” Firm and resolute in your stance was how you received his proposal.

The emperor averted his gaze, allowing silence to stand as your response for several minutes until he finally articulated a considerate reply. “Mine heir cannot be born a bastard, and so concubines shall only complicate matters. I have no plans in that department.” You sensed the direction of his thoughts, and you dreaded his continuation. “Rather, I beseech thee to abdicate thy throne, and I shall remarry another lady, be it of royal or imperial lineage, to bear the heir of this empire. It is the sole fitting course of action. That which, a divorce shall become necessary.”

“Step down from my throne?” Your voice quavered, laced with disbelief and anguish. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “Thou would cast me aside, discard me like a worn-out garment in your mistemper’d fit, for the sake of an heir? After everything I have done for thee.” Your words echoed in the chamber, each syllable heavy with the betrayal you felt.

Your heart, once brimming with devotion, now lay shattered at your feet. All your life, you have loved him. All your happiness and tears, you have devoted to him. You had stood by his side through every trial, every conquest, only to be deemed unworthy of bearing his legacy. The sting of rejection seared your soul, igniting a fierce resolve within your wounded spirit. Yet nothing was his response. No words of comfort did he return for your wifely agony.

With a voice trembling through a mixture of sorrow and defiance, you met his gaze. “Fair enough,” you whispered, your tone laden with a sorrowful resignation. “If it is a concubine thou seek, then so be it. But a divorce, will I not honor. And know this, my lord,” you declared, your voice rising with a newfound strength, “I am the Empress. The only one. There is none within this empire akin to me, for a worthless, lowly concubine shalt not depose this Empress Y/N of Caleum thou wouldst so readily compromise.”

And in that solemn proclamation, you turned away, your stolid mien masking the shattered pieces of your fractured heart.

His countenance remained stoic as he observed your departure, sighing inwardly as you exited his study. Although no longer offering a response, he found himself unable to deny the truth of your words. Nor the power in which you presented them. Your presence lingered in his thoughts, holding sway over him in a manner he could not fathom.

As expected, you were epitome of a powerful empress just like what his mother once was and there ought to be a lot more convincing for you to step down from your post.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈

“If the oracle speaks true, then I fear, my lord, that this empire is destined to fall.”

It was late in the night, though the castle still brimmed with light from the torches adorning the halls. Most servants had retired to bed by this hour, barring the guards stationed at key areas of the castle. Meanwhile, the emperor remained awake, engaged in discussions concerning the fate of his sovereign. A predestined fate that could only be avoided should he make the effort to fulfill the conditions of the prophecy.

Standing discreetly before him was Lord Maximillian, his advisor—a man who had witnessed his growth from juvenile years to the present moment. He had come to offer the emperor the much-needed counsel regarding the pressing matter at hand.

“Max, what say thee? Discuss unto me; dost thou deem me incapable?” The man of higher power questioned. “I have conversed with the Empress regarding the divorce. I have set forth the framework of my scheme should she falter in birthing my heir. I have articulated it in a manner that renders it just in her eyes. Yet, she reacts with such intensity. And loves so ardently. Ah! Women. Such vile, defiant women art the problem! A termagant—that, she is. For many years, I have afforded her the benefit of the doubt. Her mind is too ambitious for her own right. I know not how to proceed with her any longer. The prophecy dictates that I must have an heir.”

The old man returned him a soulless look. “If thou take the matter otherwise than is meant, then may I suggest that Your Majesty dispose of her.”

“Dispose?” he queried, as though he had misheard. “Her? My wife? Thou see it best to dispose of her?”

“Ay, I think it be. In the same fashion as your sire and dame,” Maximillian asserted, drawing a deep breath. “Prithee, do not misconstrue my intent as treason. My loyalty lies in thee, my liege. I stand by thee. I seek naught but the best for thee, for this empire hath not seen better days until thy sovereignty.”

Silence enveloped the air. Satoru took a moment to gaze at his elongating shadow, gradually shaping itself as he moved farther from the candlelight. In the darkness, his shadow morphed into a menacing silhouette, a specter lurking in the darkness was what had become of him. To become a tyrant was never his intention nor the promise he made to his departed sister, who yearned for Satoru to embody fairness and strength in rulership. And to be an emperor for the people. She had strived for peace among nations, yet here her brother stood, mirroring the oppressive parental figures he had overthrown. What allure did power hold over him? What such force could sway him now to forsake the very individual who had displayed unwavering marital devotion towards him?

“Hast thou been in correspondence with the King of Ellesmere?” inquired the Emperor. “Is it not so that his daughter, the princess, was to wed the late Prince of Astheryn? That prince was the very son of that wretch. That despot. That Emperor Toji II of Astheryn, my foremost enemy. What hath become of that princess, dost thou know?”

Maximillian stared at him intently. “Eight years and a vicennium ripe, yet still an unmarried maiden is the fair Princess Katarina. Is it her hand that Your Majesty seeks?”

“I shall speak my mind as the emperor, so I say this: ‘tis merely her status that makes of her the sole eligible woman to be my wife and empress of this empire.” His decision was wrought with hesitation yet born out of necessity. “Yet for the nonce, she cannot be seated until Y/N hath been dethroned. My decision shall hinge upon whether my wife shall be able to bear my heir anon. Elsewise, I shall dispose of her.”

His advisor sent him a look of approval. “‘Tis a decision that can only originate in thee, my lord. God be with ‘ye.”

“If that be all, then give leave awhile.” The emperor paused at the western part of the castle, a nigh away from the corridors leading to his wife’s bedchamber. “I do beseech thee to be my herald on the morrow. Write to the King of Ellesmere briefly and concisely. Ere thou falsely honor a new empress, the long hours of my night are to be spent with the woman presently seated upon the throne.”

Eventually, Satoru reached your chambers and noticed that a few candles had been lit, their warm light illuminating the room softly. In the solitude in which you found yourself, seated by the bed and bathed in moonlight, silent in such serenity he hoped not to disturb. The fabric of your nightgown, thin and delicate, revealed the contours of your womanly figure beneath. He, too, was clad in a thin robe that left little to the imagination.

As you turned to face him, you caught sight of the faint scars and marks from countless battles etched across his body, though his expression remained mostly neutral as it always had and you were unbeknownst to the profanity he had spoken of you a few minutes hence. Now, his electric blue eyes looked at you with careful scrutiny, pondering whether this sensual encounter would all be in vain or if you truly intended to fulfill your role and bear an heir this time.

“How stands the hour?” You spoke softly, approaching him with a sad glint in your eyes. “I have waited.”

“Pardon. Urgent matters call’d upon me.” Satoru could see the sadness in your eyes, but he tried his best to ignore it. You are barren, and there is little he can do to change that. He should begin his newfound task to detach from you. You brought him no good. You offered him no better fate. You were no longer instrumental for him to attain his long-standing ambition. Nevertheless, with your genuinely loving eyes he found himself conflicted, and that showed in his facial expressions. His brow knit, and he parted his lips as if to speak before hesitating and closing them again. You sensed his inclination to make you feel miserable, to render you desolate, yet he could not muster the resolve to articulate such words. Thus, he remained silent.

While you, you stood perfectly still. Like a porcelain doll displayed as a mere decoration. You wanted nothing but to give him his manly satisfaction that night, hoping that your marriage could still work and that he would not need the betrothal of another lady to carry him an heir. With delicate hands, you let the nightgown slip away, falling beneath your feet as the cold air caressed your naked form. This body. All of it belonged to him. “My lord.” You kept your eyes on him. And he, on your shapely bosom. “Please do with me as thou wish.”

Satoru’s eyes darkened as he stared at you, his voice taking a commanding tone to match his expression. “Turn around.”

You did as ordered. As obediently, as submissively. Like a servant serving her master. Yet, beneath this guise of obedience lay a deeper yearning—to vie for his love once more, and to affirm, if only for one last time, that his words this morn were but a fleeting outburst of heightened emotions.

“Thou art fair, indeed,” whispered he. ‘Tis a shame that you fall short in one aspect.

He walked behind you, enfolding you in his muscular arm, ensnaring you in his robust grasp as his fingers traced a path down your back. You could feel the contours of his toned abs pressed against your back, while he explored the dips and curves of your body with his touch, squeezing the soft mounds on your chest. He then leaned his forehead against your neck, trailing tender kisses along your spine.

The passionate night continued with the both of you taking turns in granting each other pleasure. The kisses around your neck, his tongue in between your folds, your hand wrapped around his well-endowed member. And before you know it, he was entering you from behind, penetrating the depths of your cavern in pursuit of reaching his high. His grasp on your hips tightened with each thrust, rendering your knees weak as you remained on all fours.

Your intimate session lasted for a while, as he was not satisfied enough at having only one release for the night. He jostled you from the back, to the side, and to the front. All of which left you with the warmth of his seed seeping out of your entrance, and subsequently down your thighs.

If only he did not let his mind speak, you could have deluded yourself that this night was his declaration of utmost love for you.

“I shall leave thee if an heir dost not soon grant me, do we share this understanding?” Satoru did not sleep as he looked at you, his thoughts running rampant as he questioned whether or not he was being too cruel. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a second of your tears, tears that you so rightfully held back, and he was at a loss of words for once. He knew that he needed to stay firm on his decision, but seeing you on the verge of breaking down... it struck guilt in him. Satoru’s face softened, his tone becoming more calm and less forceful. Subconsciously did he do his best to comfort you. “It disheartens me that it hath come to this. Though I speak it to thee, I have duties to fulfill as emperor.”

You could not answer immediately and tried to bear the sting it brought to your heart. “How now, didst so suddenly thou find it easy to cast me aside? Wherefore, is it another lady on thy mind?”

“That’s not so.” His guilt was knocking at the door, but he tried to pay it no mind. “This empire requires an heir and thou have failed me.”

“Blame the lack of children on thyself, perchance.” You bit back as your chest rose and fell from heavy breaths. “So infrequently did mine own husband warm my bed as though I am unwed. Blame it, then, on the distance thou have set upon us! A child cannot be born if not be made.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed at your words. “And dost thou suggest we consummate every minute and every second of the day?” A scoff left his lips. “Eight years, I have given thee.”

“And yet, for eight years, thou hast not learn’d to love me.”

Your gaze remained fixed, each word hanging heavily in the air, as the weight of your shared history and unresolved emotions loomed between the two of you. It was as though the very atmosphere crackled with tension, the silence pregnant with unspoken truths and unfulfilled desires. What was his true and most honest intent in forsaking you?

Satoru sat by the edge, ultimately deciding to leave you with yet another night devoid of slumber, lone upon your chamber. “Love? That very love is what killed my sister.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈

A fair distance from the Gate of Saint Pellegrino, a homeless woman cradled a baby in her arms. Her other children darted about Saint Peter’s Square while she sang a hauntingly familiar lullaby to her infant—a melody too melancholic for a child, yet so fitting for the occasion. You recognized it as the song created by the Caelan citizens after the war ended. Her dulcet voice would rival the angels of the sky, and amidst the throng of people attempting to breach the ranks of the knights surrounding the Emperor and Empress, she stayed firm in her spot, her haunting hymn weaving through the atmosphere, while her storm-grey eyes bore into you with an eerie intensity to captivate you in a trance.

A rose will bloom, it then will fade

So does a youth, so does a fairest maid

Beneath the stars, they found their place,

In secret trysts, love's tender grace.

But lo, the fates their love did fray,

In bitter strife, they slipped away.

So hush, dear ones, and hear this lay,

Of love that wilted, night and day.

In whispered sighs, they bid goodbye,

Two souls in love, 'neath starry sky.

A decade had passed since the most scandalous demise of the Astheryn prince and the Caelum princess had occurred, where both lovers were discovered lifeless within the somber halls of the Sistine Chapel. Contrary to the common folk's belief, they were not wed, nor did they meet their tragic end at Saint Peter’s, forsooth, as their bodies were in fact found at the nearby Sistine Chapel, and their mortuary later held at Saint Peter’s basilica. The Catholic church acknowledged this romantic tragedy as a conclusion to the long-standing feud betwixt two noble empires, henceforth commemorating the young couple's demise each passing year with a holy mass.

This year rendered particular significance as it marked the solemn tenth anniversary of their untimely departure. Mayhap, it may be the reason why your husband had been on edge as of late. Every year, his sister’s demise served as a brutal reminiscence for him—a grim reminder of his perished sister and the origin of his tyrannical reign. He bore witness to his parents' handling of the conflict with Astheryn ten years ago, whereupon they callously demanded the common folk spill their blood in service to the imperial dynasty, igniting civil unrest in its wake. Such ruthless and cowardly deeds left an indelible mark upon him and brought him to the ultimatum of becoming a usurper. You vividly recalled the night he sought solace at your family's estate, clad in battered armor from countless battles waged. That eventide, he wept in your arms, confessing the death of his sister and his burning desire to exact vengeance upon those responsible for his loss. In exchange for marriage, you devised a scheme to orchestrate the coup that would once and for all elevate him to the imperial throne.

Despite the facade of peace ushered in by the treaty between him and the Astheryn Emperor, the truth remained stark: both empires were merely feigning reconciliation. They were only nominally “at peace”. A cold war, by all accounts, defined their true relationship.

The tension could be felt inside the basilica even from the moment you and your husband arrived at The Venera, a microstate on the borders of Astheryn and Caelum, in front of the men of both empires, as well as the members of the Holy Catholic Church. For many years, this sacred state remained a recognized territory of Caelum, despite its official designation as an independent ecclesiastical entity. The Gojou family were openly pious and deeply devout Catholics, while the Astherean citizens were predominantly Protestants. Not all members of the Zen’in clan practiced their empire’s predominant religion, and some suggested that Emperor Toji himself might be an atheist, albeit discreetly so. Rumors also circulated that the mother of the late Prince Megumi was herself a Catholic, which led to intense criticism regarding her marriage to a lineal heir of the imperial family.

Nevertheless, this stark religious divide lay at the heart of the perennial animosity between the two nations.

“Announcing Their Imperial Majesties, Emperor Satoru and Empress Y/N, the guiding stars of our empire, luminaries in the twilight of sovereignty.”

As you walked alongside Satoru, you noticed his usual bright blue eyes turning into a darker hue. His gaze fixated upon the altar, his countenance void of emotion, as you proceeded down the aisle by his side. Since that night, silence had permeated your interactions. And you still had no desire to engage him, especially if it meant enduring relentless pressure regarding an heir or the prospect of divorce.

Yet there, you carried yourself with an air of quiet strength and dignity—a gown of the deepest black with long sleeves ending in delicate cuffs, a silver cross hung by your chest with a gemstone made from blood red corundum, and a flowing black veil crafted from the finest lace, enveloping your head and cascading gently down your back, partially obscuring your features. The veil added an air of mystery and solemnity in your poise.

As for him, the Emperor was adorned in a doublet and hose ensemble, embellished with intricate brocade and tailored to fit his form exquisitely to accentuate his stature and regal bearing. Draped over his shoulders was a lavish cape of rich, dark velvet lined with ermine fur and fastened at the neck with a jeweled clasp bearing the insignia of his empire. Each fold billowed around him as he moved, creating a striking silhouette that commanded attention and respect.

No wonder the citizens of this empire were noticing your extravagance. And despised you for it.

Throughout the mass, Satoru remained stoic, seated alongside you at the forefront of the church, his demeanor suggesting that this day of remembrance was a torment to his very soul. Still, he listened, but you doubted he agreed while Pope Alexandre VI delivered a sermon on the importance of unity and peace among nations, condemning the advocates of warfare and citing the tragic fate of the late prince and princess as a poignant illustration of how the animosity between two empires exacts a toll through sacrifice. Prayers were also offered for the souls of the civilians and soldiers who perished during the war, drawing inspiration from the teachings of the Bible as the mass adhered to the customary order of the Liturgy of the Word and of the Eucharist.

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” you recited under your breath, genuflecting before the altar and offering prayers for the soul of your husband's younger sister, beseeching that she find peace alongside her beloved under the guidance of the Holy Father. And as the mass drew to a close, you remained on your knees in prayer, the sound of approaching footsteps signaling the unwelcome arrival of an unexpected visitor—a presence that elicited a defensive reaction from your husband.

“Your Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Caelum.” It was none other than Duke Naoya of Astheryn, whose sarcastic presence seemed to have acted as a representative of their highest ruler. Emperor Toji's absence to this occasion already constituted an affront to Satoru, and the pompous mien exhibited by the duke only intensified the indignation. A decade had passed since the death of Prince Megumi, and the prideful Astheryn Emperor still refrained from setting foot on Caelum's soil to acknowledge the purported 'peace' between the empires. Even more, the subtle curve on Duke Naoya's lips added an infantile insult to the already festering wound. “Kindly accept my belated salutations. It took me but a moment to discern thy identity—they speak of the Calean Emperor’s presence as formidable, yet, alas, reality oft falls short of reputation.”

You rose from the ground, poised to defend Satoru, but he raised a hand to forestall your intervention, maintaining his unruffled composure as he addressed the noble man’s jest. “Ah, well the Duke's wit is sharp as ever,” Satoru replied, his tone laced with equal sarcasm and earning the laugh of the surrounding nobles. “It doth seem that overseeing a mere duchy grants the Duke his ample free time, unlike the responsibilities that accompany the rulership of an empire that he so covets.”

“Oh, certainly!” Duke Naoya spoke in Calean with a heavy Astherean accent, still unfazed as his eyes slowly drifted to you. “They doth pale in comparison to the burdens of ruling an empire. Yet, surely, it is not as burdensome with the absence of an heir.” He let his implication hang in the air, an obvious insinuation veiled in the guise of courtly banter.

Before the exchange could escalate into a diplomatic strain, Friar Mychal took it upon himself to intervene, exhaling a laugh of unease and positioning himself between the Emperor and the Duke. “Very well!” he exclaimed. “I have received tidings that the mass attendees shall offer tributes for the basilica in remembrance to the tenth year since the passing of the Prince and the Princess. As a matter of fact, there doth already lie a plethora of flowers adorning their statue that His Majesty Satoru hath offer’d to the museum.”

The museum was just a short walk from the chapel and the space itself was decorated with ornate ceilings, frescoes, and architectural details that added to the grandeur of the surroundings. An array of sculptures lined the hall; of cherubs, saints, warriors, and mythological figures. One of the newer sculptures were of the Prince and the Princess, portraying young lovers in a tender embrace with the princely lad staring at his lady’s face. The sculpture was from a renowned Calean artist which Satoru himself hired out of the pure intention of donating it to the Veneran Museum. The nobles, members of the imperial court, and members of the church were all in awe after the sculpture was revealed to the attendees as such meticulous carvings and lifelike detail could only be done by Giancarlo di Firenze.

“A remarkable piece, indeed!”

“The detail is breathtaking!”

“To capture such emotion in stone… ‘tis as if they are whispering their love story to us.”

Your husband could not have been prouder. Alongside him, other nobles also contributed their offerings. Some notable ones included stained glass art, precious jewels, a pair of lovebirds, and… a particularly intriguing tapestry gifted by the Astheryn Empire.

The tapestry depicts the Astherean prince and the Calean princess lying together in death with the symbolic addition of a bloodied dagger laid atop the princess’ chest, representing the same weapon that Prince Megumi had used to end his life. The imagery not only insinuated that Satoru's sister was responsible for the prince's demise, but also served as an insult to the prevailing belief in her innocence surrounding her own tragic death.

“This…” Your mouth fell agape. You need not look into your husband’s visage to perceive his growing ire. “This is preposterous!”

The joy was evident in Duke Naoya’s eyes, yet he endeavored to feign ignorance. “Ah, ere I forget, my noble cousin, the Emperor of the Astheryn Empire, did send an accompanying message addressed to His Majesty Satoru.”

In the threads of time, woven with the fabric of our shared tragedy, lies the essence of our 'peace'. As we gather to honor the memory of what once was, I send forth this tapestry, whereupon love and folly intertwine in an eternal dance. May it serve as a testament to the fragility of alliances forged in blood and ink, where shadows of deceit cloak the truth we dare not confront. Whilst thou sit'st upon thy borrowed throne, may thou find solace in the echoes of thy usurped legacy.

With insincere regards,

Emperor Toji II of Astheryn

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

ACT IV

“My liege, this is unacceptable! Astheryn doth taunt us.”

An urgent assembly convened at the council chamber, where courtiers gathered to seek counsel from the emperor who was now seated in a position of humiliation following Astheryn's brazen act of insult. You joined the court session in support of your husband, positioned at the throne beside him, while numerous men, each to their own titles and lordship, stood before you both. The courtiers' visages displayed incandescent umbrage as they protested and vehemently rejected the malignance from the rival empire in defense to the Emperor of Caelum. Yet the subject of the scrutiny himself remained staid and dignified.

“We cannot stand idle in the face of such an insult. If it be war they seek, then we shall grant it unto them!” exclaimed one of the members of the imperial court. A proponent of war he presented himself.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. To allow such an audacious act of disrespect wilt deem us cowards!” said another one of the men.

Satoru rested his arm on the armrest, a hand on his chin. He appeared to be lost in profound contemplation, yet you have grown long familiar with that expression of his to know that he was fueled with choler inside. “What say thee, Etienne? War is not a decision made lightly.”

Lord Etienne, as his name was called, spoke his opinion on the matter at hand and acted as an advocate for caution. “Aye and by, my lord. A rash decision could plunge our empire into chaos and suffering. Mayhap, we can explore diplomatic channels first. War should be our last resort, our first impulse not.”

“Your Imperial Majesty!” Lord Armand countered. “With all due respect, thy name hath been besmirched! This is blasphemous, is it not, to this empire and us, its men?”

“Our men are not prepared for war, Lord Armand,” the previous noble claimed. “An’ how can we wage war with our forces against those of Astheryn’s? Their military prowess is the mightiest throughout the central continent. They are barbaric folks, enemies to peace. We are naught but simple foes to them.”

The belittling of Caelum’s military strength ignited your ire since that the training of soldiers, weapon crafting, and the establishment of the formidable imperial order of knights were specialties of your family—a legacy that your noble ancestors had established in this empire. It was why your family’s ties to the imperial Gojou family remained strong throughout the years. Therefore, hearing such remarks was derogatory to you.

You held your position and participated in the discussion. “Lord Etienne, dost thou speak so ill of Caelum, which is thy country, and speak so well of Astheryn, which is thy enemy?” For a moment, the court was silenced. “God quit you in his mercy! Hear his sentence. Is Caelum a jest unto thee? We have established our military might since His Majesty’s ascent, and are potent enough to wage war against the entire world!”

“But Your Majesty—”

“Silence, all of thee!” Satoru rose from his throne, exhaling in exasperation, and shot you a displeased look. His next words were sharp and his anger misdirected. “Empress, I appreciate thy indignation, but this proves women shan’t meddle in court sessions. Emotions depart from thy mouth ere logic enters thy mind. Thou art dismissed from this session. At once.”

You could not fathom his sentences. For the longest time, never before had he dared to disrespect you in the presence of his subjects. Never had he dared to deny you of your rightful place as the empress of this nation, knowing full well the pivotal role you played in his ascension to the throne. Why, you could not speak! You were rendered speechless, too stunned to respond as you sank back into your seat, grappling with the sting of hurt and humiliation he had inflicted on you.

And somehow, Lord Maximillian’s eyes were uncharacteristically fixed on you as though they were in triumph at your situation. He did well enough to mask that with indifference withal. What was this hostility? Even the knights who approached you only had regard for the emperor, following his command of escorting you out of the council chamber despite your desire to stay seated. Yet to save face from this abomination, you did it upon yourself to stand up and leave at your own will.

“Nanami.” In your disappearance, Satoru spoke again, this time facing his subjects. “How dost thou propose we navigate this situation?”

Lord Nanami was more of the voice of reason, expressing his approach on the matter with neither bias towards engaging in or retreating from war. “My liege, I speak as a good man for thee. Let us convene with our allies, assess our military readiness, and explore all avenues for resolution. Only then shall we make an informed decision. It is most meet we arm ‘gainst the foe.”

Satoru already knew the answer before the man had spoken of it. Why so? Because it was the same route he would take. Only, it was his wounded pride and disdain towards his greatest adversary that landed him to a much more inhospitable decision. “Along with that blasphemous tapestry, written in his message, did that Emperor of Astheryn disparagingly refer to me as a usurper when I am the true born heir to the throne.” He ground out the words with clenched teeth as he stared at the portrait of his father. His hands balled into fists, his face hot and pinched with resentment. He detested being called a ‘usurper’ as he detested Astheryn and all of the Zen’ins. Regardless of the path he took to claim his throne, he was still a direct lineal heir to the Gojou bloodline. “I cannot let that pass. I cannot let his insult go unanswered. Hence, take down these words and address them to him, who is mine enemy.” Satoru stared straight ahead, his face blank and emotionless as he spoke his next words in flawless Astherean language. “Emperor of Astheryn, your words are as venomous as they are misguided. While thou dost revel in thy petty insults and thinly veiled threats, know this: the patience of Caelum wears thin. Thy tapestry of deceit and blasphemy shall find no place within the halls of our empire. Let it be known that the path thou treadest leads only to ruin and despair. Should thou persist in thy folly, Caelum shall meet thy challenge with unwavering resolve. Consider this thy final warning. The drums of war beat ever louder, and Caelum will not hesitate to answer the call, for this usurper thou deride may stay true to that label when I seize thy throne and make it mine.”

Following the court session, the emperor retreated to the training hall until late evening venting his wrath against the despot from the rival empire. He devoted hours in the hall, wielding his sword, sparring with the swordsmanship master, and decisively overpowering him to feel a sense of honor for himself. In his mind, each strike was a fierce expression of his imagination, envisioning what that battle would be like if it were Emperor Toji II in his stead. It would have been their second encounter in the battlefield as the first one ended in armistice for the sake of the prince and princess. This time, however, the execution of this battle would be markedly different.

Later that eve, he returned to his study, still in his armor as he met with his most loyal advisor. It was a private counsel to discuss matters unbeknownst to the rest of the empire—the prophecy and, notably, you.

“I fear this as I say this: the prophecy is upon thee, my lord.” Lord Maximillian’s voice hinted at unease. His warning, spoken with a mood of paranoia. “The oracle’s riddles are living their truth, and this predicament with Astheryn is a vivid illustration of that fact. War looms on the horizon, and it threatens to be thy undoing. Now, more than ever, we require the backing of another nation in the likes of Ellesmere.”

“I see that.” Satoru responded with a heavy exhale, tossing his metal helmet onto the carpeted floor. He made his way toward the expansive window and gazed out at the courtyard below. There, he spotted you, meandering the rose garden alone under the cover of night. You were brighter than the envious moon, coruscating like a fresh tulip amongst the field of wilted roses.

The lord cleared his throat and stood next to the emperor. “Thou must rid of her, Your Majesty. If it is what the prophecy hath taught us, then the Empress serves as a harbinger of thy downfall. The destruction of Caelum is the comeuppance of retaining her. Abandon all hope that she will bring thee child or luck. I do acknowledge the attachment that Your Majesty hath formed with her in thy lusty years together, but she is ill fate to all of us.”

You stopped at the fountain, seemingly lost in deep thought, and then began an expressive argument with yourself in your solemnity. The sight earned his smile. Satoru could not keep his eyes off you as if they were drawn by your beauty under the luminescence of the moon. How pitiful, truly, that your innocence left you no knowledge of the conversation he was having with his advisor.

“She shall be appointed as a concubine,” he declared, “Ridding of her is a waste; divorcing her offers a suitable solution. She may not have my heir, but she is a strong empress. A true villainess, yes. That, she may be, but she is devoted to me.”

“Which is precisely why thou must dispose of her!" Lord Maximillian pressed onto the matter with greater seriousness. “My liege, it is anticipated that thou wilt yearn for Empress Y/N’s loyalty even at the success of your marriage with the Princess of Ellesmere. An’ her ferocious devotion could only hinder thy plans and bring about thy downfall. Who's to say she will withstand the temptation from inflicting harm upon the fair Princess Katarina out of jealousy? This, as thou knowest, could turn Ellesmere against us!” His passionate speech then silenced him into a quiet plea. “Pray, Your Majesty, I implore thee to ponder it deeply. For the sake of this empire.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕

In the evening, at the hour of eleven did you find yourself wandering the garden. It had become more and more difficult to live each day, unable to grasp why your spouse had been hostile against you for reasons you could not justify. If it were matters concerning your apparent infertility, then he could easily get a concubine just as you had already permitted. All of Caelum's nobility were well aware of your possessiveness towards him, yet it was you who proposed the idea of a concubine to him. Why, then, does he still entertain the idea of remarriage? Is it to guarantee that his heir will not be deemed a bastard? He possessed the authority to prevent such a label from being attached to the child.

“O, cruel fate!” You stopped in front of the fountain, staring at your reflection on the glistening water. “A dispassionate husband you have given me! Am I not fair? Hath I lost charm and warm youthful blood? Hath Cupid launched his awful arrow onto some other where? O, for that he is mad!”

Tears welled up your eyes, blurring your vision as you looked into the mirrored reflection. You thought of Satoru’s hateful gaze when you closed your eyes and could feel the painful knots in your stomach. He had been naught but a distant spouse for eight years in your marital union, alas and alack, any improvements were farfetched. Every attempt at progress only fueled into a relationship filled with disagreements.

Your monologue resumed. “There could be another woman, could it? A maid, perchance? One that crawls his bed at night whilst I am sound in my slumber. Fie, insolent wench! Or must it be a noble lady he had seen at a ball, a coming-of-age ceremony, or anything of the sort? Vile, dishonorable harlot! I shall strip off thy noble status and exile thee hence from Caelum!”

A sigh ended your ranting, leaving you with more tears to shed as you fondly remembered your youthful days of infatuation with him. He was the man you had dreamed of, yet now all he would do was to quarrel, and quarrel, and quarrel. You had become an enemy in his eyes. He may have drowned you with extravagant gifts and the rarest jewels throughout your marriage, but the one you most coveted—his love—was one he could not give.

“My lady?”

You turned around at the sound of the gentleman’s voice, whereupon a knight presented himself to you. No, not merely any other knight, but the Knight Commander of the Imperial Order of Knights. Sir Suguru, Caelum’s most prized possession, a power and battle-fit warrior, who could defeat a hundred armed men by himself alone. A hero he was referred to by this empire’s people. His commitment to chivalry and service did not go unnoticed as your husband, the very emperor he served, had more than once awarded him for fostering high morale and esprit de corps among other knights.

“What brings thee hither, and wherefore?” you asked, watching him curtsy before you as he did the standard imperial greetings. His silver suit of armor gleamed, reflecting the stars in the sky, while the black cloak enveloping him mirrored the void of the night. Truly, an intimidating presence for those that knew none of him.

Howbeit, his face was a stark difference from the aura he exuded. His eyes curved into crescent moons as he smiled, offering what appeared to be a handkerchief. “I am about my nightly rounds in the palace, and in hearing Your Majesty’s woe did I come forth. Is everything alright, Empress?”

You sighed in lamentation and accepted the linen cloth from his hand. “To say ‘alright’ how I wish that would be so. The state of my marriage troubles me, yet hear none of it for these matters art private.”

Suguru acquiesced to your words and nodded in respect toward you, still remaining by your side in silence. Like a personal guard stationed to protect you as it seemed he had no intention of leaving you alone in the courtyard.

“How, now! Dost thou not care to leave a woman in her peace?” you questioned, displaying a moue on your face. The tears have long been dried from your cheeks as you spoke to him. “I crave not to be perceived!”

It was already a rare sight to cross the Knight Commander’s path around the palace, given that his duties did not include serving as a personal guard to the emperor. He was typically present only during official or diplomatic gatherings, and rather trained and oversaw the elite group of guards that would protect the emperor and empress. Nevertheless, with what little interactions you had with him, Suguru had always conducted himself as a respectful and dutiful subject towards you.

“Forgive me. It is quite perilous to be alone outside at night, Your Majesty, as thy vulnerability may pose a risk to thy safety.” He moved to unclasp his mantle, draping the large black cloak around your shoulders, a much smaller figure than himself. “And if thou permit, the night is cold and a lady must stay warm.”

There was a strange flutter in your heart as your wide eyes saw the gentility in his intentions. You could no longer question why dozens of noble women would line up to vie for his attention. His actions spoke better than his words ever could. How far, you wondered, would his kindness to you take him? “Art thou not a bound subject to my husband?”

“Forsooth, I am.” He stared ahead. “I have been his friend since our youth. However, it is with Your Majesty’s kin that I owe the honor of being a knight. It is with thy father’s support that I consider myself alive, standing here in this palace as the leader of all knights.”

Not once did you move your eyes away as you studied his sincerity. “Then, if I ask thee to commit treason against the Emperor of Caelum,” you spoke with such regal power, “Shall I assume thy commitment to me?”

For a while, Suguru did not speak. He appeared to be contemplating his answer as his stance had become defensive. Or hesitant, whichever fit. He did not meet your careful eyes, though he did look down and confess a knowledge that greatly devastated you. “The prophecy is what dictates His Majesty’s disposition toward thee. In the dungeon hides an oracle that he fortnightly seeks. I escorted him when he visited the oracle, who foretold him that he requires the birth of an heir in the near future, else a woman of no monarchical descent shalt be the cause of his downfall. To mine understanding, he read her riddles as having the need to execute thee and wed another woman of true royal lineage. That, that truth bears my commitment to thee, Empress.”

Upon hearing Suguru's words did your heart sink, and a wave of disbelief washed over you. It felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath your feet, leaving you suspended in a state of shock, desperately trying to grasp the magnitude of what had just been revealed to you.

“Faugh! By’r Lady, that is a grave accusation!” Anger simmered beneath the surface of your composed exterior. You were livid at Suguru for being the bearer of such devastating news, for being the messenger of your potential downfall, and felt betrayed by your own husband, the Emperor, for keeping such a crucial prophecy hidden from you. You wondered why he had never shared this information with you, why he allowed you to live in ignorance while he made plans for your potential demise. But one thing for certain, was that this was the reason for his growing detachment toward you.

The knight could only provide you with a comforting bow. “By the grace of God, these words art true. Lord Maximilian conspires with him. Hie to the dungeons and seek the oracle, my lady. She shall impart the truth unto thee.”

Beneath your anger lay a profound sadness, a heartache that cuts to the core of your being. The realization that your own husband, the man you loved and had pledged your life to, saw you as nothing more than a pawn in a game of power and succession. You felt a sense of profound loss, mourning not only the potential loss of your own life but also the loss of trust, of love, of the future you had envisioned.

Despite the tumult of emotions raging within you, you remained outwardly composed, your mask of regal poise firmly in place. You knew you must tread carefully, that showing weakness now would only play into the hands of those who seek your downfall.

And yet, the devil showed himself. You had been oblivious to your husband’s presence by the window of his study as he stood a great distance from you, watching you engage in an intimate conversation with his Knight Commander down below. He could not gauge where that sudden familiarity came from as he witnessed Suguru draping his cape around you—an action that crossed a territory he should not have sought. The emperor could no longer tolerate watching it, walking in haste along the halls of the palace until he eventually reached the courtyard. His gaze was burning into the back of Suguru’s head as he stopped behind you, waiting for you to notice your husband’s approach before he spoke.

“Empress.” His deep voice startled you.

Your eyes were clouded with resentment, hidden under the veil of a devoted wife. “My liege.”

Satoru stared at Suguru with a fierce look before turning to you. “It is dangerous to be abroad at this hour. I desire naught untoward to befall thee, hence I came hither to ensure thy safety.”

“I apologize, then, for causing thy worry.” A bitter smile painted your lips and the tone of your voice suggested of feigned concern. “As thou seest, I have a knight here who is trained to guard and protect me.”

The emperor narrowed his eyes at the aforementioned knight, who elected silence out of deference to the reigning monarchs afore him. This very knight was a childhood friend of his, but now Satoru regarded him as a rival, for all the peculiar reasons. “Go and depart now, Suguru,” he commanded, and yanked the cape from the empress’ body, then flung it toward the knight. “I shall escort my wife back.”

Satoru caught you sending an apologetic look toward the Knight Commander, which in return caused his ire to grow. What was the conversation you shared with him for you to act that way? In fact, he had never seen you pay another man that much attention. What a devious, little wench. A foxy, scheming jezebel. Satoru threw insults at you in his head as he took your arm in a tight grip, pulling you away from the courtyard. The silence between the two of you was thick with unspoken tension as he led you up the spiral staircase on the eastern side of the castle. His side of the castle.

“Darling.” Your endearment came out as a protest as you tried to pull your arm from his grip. “Unhand me.”

Still and all, he was silent as he dragged you along. It was only a short distance to his quarters, but he did not let go of you even once. You should see in his eyes that he was not amused by the friendly interaction between you and Suguru.

“I said release my hand, at this very instant!”

He remained like a taciturn man while ushering you into his quarters. Once he had locked the door behind him, he released his grip on your wrist and turned to confront you. His eyes grew dark and cold. A shade of blue that reminded you of lightning. “I would prefer it if he did not approach thee when I am not present.”

“Ah, see now he speaks!” Scoffing, you glared at him. “He simply tender’d his best to comfort me. Do not suspect it of aught else,” said you defensively, in a voice backed by your authority. Only now did he realize that the expression on your face had become austere.

“Even if that were true, I have no need for another man—especially a knight—to comfort my wife.”

“A wife? A wife thou ask’d for divorce?” you mocked as his statement erupted a laughter out of you. A loud, boisterous laughter that screamed an insult to his face. “Thou see me as nothing but a bearer of children. Not a wife nor a person thou treasure with thy heart.” As you ridiculed him with humor on your face, your eyes had also grown deranged. “A mere pawn to thy chessboard is what I am.”

Satoru was rigid in his stance. “I only offer’d to divorce thee if thou were unable to conceive. It is my duty as emperor to sire an heir. If the empress fails to fulfill that duty, I am compelled to find someone else who will—”

“An heir this, an heir that. Out upon it!” You expressed your frustration outwardly, throwing your hands into the air. “Go get thyself a concubine, then, and I shall get myself a lover to even the score.”

A lover? Satoru was seething, yet his expression remained unchanged. He knew that you were taunting him, and still chose not to give you the reaction you wanted. “Then, I may be certain thou wilt have greater success at producing heirs with thy lover than thou dost with me.”

“Certainly!” you bit back, anger rising in each syllable. “In place of my husband, mayhap my lover could beget me a child, proving to the entire empire that it is not I who is barren.”

Satoru's eyebrows shot up in response to the blatant insult to his fertility. His cold eyes narrowed, the rage within him intensifying. “If thou hast a child by thy lover, it will not discredit my fertility at all. It will instead bring into question my choice to have a child with a woman who is unable to be faithful to her husband.”

Your chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. “If thou seek thyself a concubine, then I shall seek mine own lover. That or naught at all.”

“Fie! I seek not a concubine,” he raised his voice, a spasm of irritation crossing his face. “Ill-tempered shrew! Many times have said it, and I say it once more. In thy failure to conceive, my will is to remarry another lady and make her the empress, not a concubine! The heir must be legitimate. Stick that to thine empty head!”

Satoru could feel the heat of your stare burning into him, but his mind had suddenly wandered back to the previous conversation, and he could not help but wonder whether you would actually have an affair with another man. The thought of it infuriated him, but he pushed it out of his mind as you stared at him in blazing fury.

“Need I remind thee that it is I who aided Your Majesty in ascending to the throne?” A cloud of warning settled over your features. “It is I who aided thee in staging a coup to overthrow thy tyrant parents. If the princess did not perish, would thou not be a madman. Now tell me, the only payment I require in return is thy love, yet hast thou paid thy dues?”

He scoffed at your words. You believe all you did in leading the rebellion was for the purpose of making him emperor? It was in your best interests to see yourself climb the ranks of an imperial power. And it was certainly not love you sought, but mere attention and validation. “My respect should be enough of a reward for thee. I took thee as my wife as a sign of my gratitude. Love was never a part of the deal.”

“Love is the very essence of that deal,” countered you. “Thou would be foolish not to think so.”

In his eyes, love and affection were something you should receive only when you deserve it, not when you demand it. In his mind, you had grown too familiar with him, too spoiled by his presence. It was time he corrected this. “Thou art mistaken in thinking that love is a condition of our relationship. Never have I made any promises of love or affection. I only promised thee of attention and the prestige of being an empress. Have I not fulfilled this promise and made thee into an empress in its entirety? Love is a mere illusion conjured in thy imagination.”

“A tyrant, he reveals himself!” You pushed him off you, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? Miserable villain! Usurping knave! Betrayer of blood, who masquerades himself an emperor under a false sovereign! I placed thee on that throne thou so wistfully enjoy. Thy power and authority have no hold on me.”

The emperor's jaw clenched tightly as the empress's words cut through the air like a dagger. His pride was wounded by the venom of her words—words she had not carefully chosen, or perhaps did carefully choose, as she knew what words he despised hearing the most. His eyes flashed with jaundice as he fought to contain the roiling emotions churning within him. He wanted to lash out, to defend his honor and assert his authority, but he knew that such displays of weakness would only fuel the flames of dissent and discord.

Instead, he yanked your wrist again. “Forget not thy place, wife.” And then he grabbed your face with a rough hand, slamming you against the wall. “I may have promised not to take myself a concubine, but that privilege is not extended to thy behavior.” The tightness of his grip caused your cheeks to ache slightly, and he showed no signs of letting go.

“And what wilt thou do?” you spoke through gritted teeth.

“What will I do? I will remind thee of thy position, wife,” he continued to speak in a menacing tone, “Test my patience as much as thou liketh. Go ahead and take a lover. Let us see how thy arrogance holds up when I force thee to bear his bastard child.”

You cussed him under your breath. “Is that jealousy?”

Yet, his countenance proved otherwise. “Not jealousy, as I am not possessive of thee. Bear whomever's child as thou wish. But once that child is born, I would never claim my title as the father. It would be deemed a bastard, its blood impure, and its existence an insult to my throne.”

“Press not the matters of infidelity to me when thou art the one in desperate need to put thy cock inside another lady.” You were bold enough to send him a look of disgust. “Thou art an emperor all due to me. Without me, thou art naught.”

In a fit of rage, Satoru exploded like a volcano spilling out its reservoir of hot, scorching lava. “You?! You think yourself the savior of this empire? Not by far!” There was a brief pause before he continued, eyes looking at you in unforgiving judgment. “I would have succeeded in leading the coup, even without thee.”

A snort escaped your lips. “Delude thyself that.”

“There are no guards nearby. No witnesses for thee.” The warning he had issued was laden with the implication of impending punishment, fueled by your defiance and vitriol, driving him to a boiling point. He seized your wrist once more, his grip tighter than before, as he leaned in close and spoke into your ear. “I could hurt thee right here and now if I wanted to, yet thou art at my mercy.”

“I need none of thy mercy,” you spat, taken aback as he pushed you against the wall. You could feel his breath fanning your neck as he leaned closer, inches before your face.

Satoru's laughter rang out as you persisted in your resistance, his eyes narrowing with a mix of intrigue and anger. Your defiance only served to stoke the flames of his wrath as he began to speak, “Darling,” and made a mocking of your endearment, “Mayhap I shall ravish thee until thou art insensible.”

“Vainglorious dastard,” you spitefully replied.

He spoke no words for several moments, his breathing gradually intensifying as he gazed down at you like a toy he wanted to destroy. And for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he was weighing whether to persist or not, but eventually, he made his choice, his voice adopting a more ominous tone with each word. “Thou wilt be ravaged.”

“S-Satoru!”

He pushed you towards his bed, and himself against you, pressing his body heavily atop yours. His breath became uneven with his anger overtaking his mind. Your whimper of fear filled him with sadistic satisfaction. “Yes, me, as thou said. No one else is here with us, and no one would bat an eye if they heard a scream.”

Your decision to pull his hair proved to be a significant mistake, though it was evident from your expression that you derived pleasure from it. You longed for it. You desired this wanton affection. This carnal desire. Lust bathed in your eyes as you observed him hastily tear his clothing, eager to feel the velvety touch of your skin against his. He wasted no time in undressing you as well, ripping away whatever obstructed your bareness, leaving you both exposed under the moonlight, indulging in the passions shared between lovers.

“I despise thee,” you declared, a hot moaning mess under him as he rammed his hardened shaft in between your legs where he himself was grunting at the pleasure of your tight entrance. In and out he went, and buried his face on your neck to leave purple marks all over your skin. “I-I despise thee!”

“I share those sentiments,” he jested, squeezing your breast in labored breaths before he sucked the rounded mass in his mouth.

By the end of your long passionate exchange, he lay next to you, body soaked in sweat as he watched your sleeping face. The peace in those saintly features. Did you pass out? He could not be certain. Was he too rough? That, he was certain. It showed on the bruises that mapped parts of your body. He could feel a small tinge of guilt within him as he moved to pull the blanket over you, pressing a soft kiss on your lips.

“Is this not love?” He opened his eyes when heard you laughing softly, eyes still shut but with a bitter smile spreading on your face. In a cold tone of voice, you whispered, “Thy love is tough, yet love natheless.”

He knew it was not love, yet even if it was, you would soon be taken care of anyway. You would be exiled or worse, executed, should you fail to heed his warnings. He had to put his ambitions first and foremost before any form of affection he had of you. And if you truly, unconditionally loved him, you would understand why.

That, that was how he defined love to be.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈

The castle’s dungeon was an… unsightly place. Aside from the centuries of brutal torture and grotesque deaths that occurred down under, it also housed the memory of Satoru shedding his hands on his kinsmen’s blood. That was the place where he had slain his father, his rotting head still mounted on the wall as though he was an animal that his son had hunted. A tyrant, undoubtedly. Satoru's penchant for brutality knew no bounds, but he certainly got it from his father. While you were responsible for the death of a little over a hundred people, his would account for more than thrice that number.

As you descended further into the depths of the dungeon, the air grew heavy with the miasma of damp stone, blood, and decay. A putrid, sickening odor greeted your nose the more you entered. If not for the torches that flickered dimly along the walls, you would not be able to see at all, yet those torches casted eerie shadows that danced and swayed with each step you took. It was a frightening sight and definitely not for the faint hearted.

“Help!” Your senses were assailed by the sights and sounds of the dungeon's grim inhabitants as you ventured deeper into the labyrinthine corridors. Gaunt specters lurked in the shadows, their hollow eyes gleaming with a sinister light as they whispered chilling secrets to one another in sotto voce. Some also cried of agony and despair, some had already fallen unhinged from being held in captivity for so long—it became a cacophony of anguished cries and tortured souls. “Help me, Empress! I plead mine innocence!”

“Step back, Your Majesty.” Suguru, who acted as your companion in this macabre trip, unsheathed his sword to protect you from being touched by the prisoners. He threatened to slash their hands with just a simple touch on your dress.

“Empress! Empress!”

You deemed it wise to pull the hood of the cloak over your face, especially as the prisoners were starting to recognize you within these cursed confines. It would be troublesome if Satoru were to arrive soon and they began to scream your name in his presence.

“Empress, this dungeon is meant for souls as tainted as thine!”

That statement proved itself to be spine-chilling and hair-raising, as such accusations could not be denied. Truthfully, your crimes far surpassed theirs. You belonged with the forsaken and the damned. You already accepted that all your sins and trespasses would bring you nowhere near heaven, yet you had blindly murdered people out of love for Satoru. That was how crazy you were at winning him over. And now, this is where it brought you.

But you pressed on and continued traipsing through the dungeon until you could feel the presence of the oracle drawing closer, a beacon of hope amidst the despair that gripped the dungeon like a vice.

Finally, you reached the chamber where the oracle awaited. It was a figure cloaked in shadow at the far end of the room. And upon adjusting your visions, you could see that the oracle was an old woman, her white hair cascading like a waterfall of moonlight around her frail shoulders. Her skin, alabaster. Her eyes, ghoulish and devoid of color, and they seemed to pierce the veil of reality itself as she spoke in riddles and whispers that sent shivers down your spine. It was your first time to encounter such an unrealistic being. They said each word from the oracle dripped with the weight of centuries of wisdom and foreboding. She spoke of prophecies and portents, of trials and tribulations yet to come, her words weaving a tapestry of fate and destiny that hung heavy in the air like a shroud.

“Speak.” You stopped at her chamber, demanding to hear the prophecy she had said to your husband. “Tell me the Emperor’s prophecy.”

Much to your ire, she gave you no response, still staring at the empty wall.

“Speak!” Your patience was growing thin as each passing second would crumble any hope you had inside that Satoru was not a man who would forsake you, or even execute you, in exchange for his ambitions. But it had been twenty or so minutes and still there was no word from the oracle. “Have you no mouth? Art thou not a soothsayer?”

Suguru sucked in a deep breath. Should his accusations of the emperor prove to be a lie, you swore to yourself that you would be the one to put him inside one of the iron maidens in the dungeon. Or that daunting Judas cradle if he preferred. “Your Majesty, it takes time to make her speak.”

“I do not have that luxury of time! I cannot be seen hither.” You gave him a menacing stare. “On peril of thy life, Sir Knight, if this be naught but foolery, I will disembowel thee myself—”

“Beware! O Empress, keeper of fragile dreams!”

The sudden burst of the oracle’s voice startled you, as they were far from what you had expected from an old lady. It carried an otherworldly quality that seemed to transcend her physical form. They were melodic and haunting, a chilling quality that hinted at the supernatural origins of her prophetic abilities. It was as though you were paralyzed by the time she spoke, like all your senses stopped working and all you could ever do was be forced to listen to her prophecy.

“For the Emperor's gaze wanders far,

As he seeks a lady of royal blood,

Ambition cloaked in the guise of lineage,

And in his thirst for power, lies your peril.”

As you listened, your heart bled terribly, knowing that the answers you sought lay buried within the enigmatic riddles of the oracle's words. The haunting words of the prophecy echoed through the dim chamber where you stood frozen, in a state of despair and disbelief and every awful thing in the world combined. The truth, once a lurking suspicion, now materialized before you and it left your heart in shattered pieces because you actually hoped that none of the accusations were true. So, how could Satoru do this to you? How could he betray you after all your sacrifices just to be his wife, your efforts just to receive his love, and your crimes just to satisfy his desires? Through your hands, more than a hundred souls had perished. You had shed the blood of many Christian souls for him. You had offered him your chastity and turned back on your reverence by profaning the word of God. You had worshiped him like a divine being. Yet so easily would he cast you away. No, he could not even offer the slightest pleasure of loving you genuinely, without any inhibitions, without anything in exchange.

While your sacrifices were his definition of the “greater good”, his betrayal against you was his definition of a “lesser evil”. It was his “personal gain”, for your demise would have no profound repercussions on this empire.

Undoubtedly, that must be his truest and utmost feelings for you.

Suguru held you in his arms when you fell to the ground, your entire world crashing before you as the oracle revealed your husband’s plans. Your hands were shaking, trembling. You had trouble breathing. He was there to guide you out of the dungeon safely, even if you were to run and weep like a madwoman. But of course, you were not that insane yet. It was simply the ache in your heart that catapulted you into an abyss of pain.

Satoru must not succeed in his plans. He must not come out victorious. The greatest revenge you could think of was brimming in the back of your mind, ignited by the visible spite you felt for him and his web of deceit.

And back alone in your bedchambers, nausea overcame you and had you vomiting all over the floor. You retched the harrowing experience at the dungeons, disgusted by things you saw and heard, especially the treachery of your very husband. You were sick at the thought of him planning your assassination behind your back, like an ungrateful imbecile who only cared about himself and his vainglory.

“Nurse!” you called, coughing out the foul taste of bile expelled from your throat. “Come hither!”

“Anon, madam!” Geneva came to your aid as soon as you summoned her and tended to your needs immediately. At the time, you could not make out much of the clatter that was happening inside your chambers as you lay in bed with your eyes shut. It seemed that Geneva had ordered the other servants to clean out the mess you had created, while she took over in putting you to bed and making sure that you were warm and comfortable. She had no single idea about what was going through your mind, and had she had any hint about what it was, you could only imagine how bloody traumatized she would be.

If Satoru wanted to dethrone and destroy you, then you might as well help him with it. He should no longer be surprised to see what good of a show you could offer for everyone in this empire.

“Good madam,” Geneva called gently, after an hour or so, pulling you out of trance. “A physician is already—”

You lifted a hand, stopping her while you tried to get out of bed. “There is not a need for that.” Despite your queasiness, you had decided that there was no time to waste for this war of love and death against your husband. The sooner you planned things out, the greater your advantage would be. You had to have the upperhand in this. “Nurse, whither wander dost my husband?”

The nurse guided you up and draped a lightweight shawl around your shoulders. “I ween His Majesty is undertaking a military inspection. Escorted by a ten or so knights goes he.”

An inspection? It must be related to the discussion at the imperial court. Of course, if Satoru was planning to wage war against Astheryn, he had to review the troops stationed in different regions of the empire to assess readiness, morale, and preparedness for defense. He could deploy an initial 25,000 men in his heavy infantry should he find the need to go on an all-out war with the enemy, but those amount of soldiers would require the emperor himself to arduously test if they were ready for battle. Naturally, the inspection could last four or five days depending on his assessment. And in his absence in the palace, either the empress or the other trusted advisors would usually take on the duties that usually were his.

This was the perfect opportunity to devise your plan; to prune the branches, weaken the trunk, and uproot the tree entirely. The branches began with his loyal advisors, which have already been filtered out as those previously appointed by his parents became his enemies. Enemies that died by his hands and yours, because those enemies were advisors who did not support Satoru in his method of seizing the highest throne, so he could not risk having rebels in the empire who would later work together to topple him from his seat. When he first rose to the throne, he had several assassination attempts aimed at him, typically by means of poisoning his food with arsenic, or hiring highly skilled mercenaries to slay him behind his back—all of those attempts were intercepted by you. And at the elimination of those disloyal to him, Satoru assumed that the current members of the imperial court could hence be trusted since they had not shown any hints of falsity for the ten years they had served him.

The difference between you and Satoru was that he was easily beguiled because the noblemen treated him a lot differently than you. They were ass-lickers, trying to win him over for their own superficial benefits, while you knew who among them were simply supporting Satoru for the sake of not being executed. Out of fear, out of an inherent will to live, out of an obvious lack of choice—there was one noble who stood out among the rest.

And it was the one whose presence was not the loudest.

“Lord Nanami.” Upon mentioning his name, you entered the palace library—a grandeur chamber notable for its high ceilings, expansive oak shelves, and accoutrements—as he stood in front of a wood table, strangely interested in codices. “Well met.”

The blond nobleman curtsied. “Your Imperial Majesty, ‘tis an honor to be in thy presence.”

You gestured your hand into dismissing him, cutting to the chase because you were still unwell. And for all the necessary reasons, you had to have this conversation with him or else there would not be an easier opportunity with Satoru’s eyes and ears around the palace. Nanami was his most trusted advisor, not Maximilian as much as he fooled himself to think so. “What codex read thou?”

Nanami spoke cautiously, his eyes fixed on the codex. “Of some medical writings and scientific treatises. Rumors are circulating about a mysterious outbreak in a remote village in Constantia, a city within the grand duchy of Valoria. It seems to be an illness that is spreading rapidly with only a 10% chance of survival. I hear they are calling it the ‘Black Death’ due to the appearance of gangrene. Considering the trade routes, that city lies along the Veridian Sea, which is a path taken by the ship that trades metals and minerals with us. They engage in that route due to Constantia's involvement with the slave trade, boarding the ship bound for Caelum for the metals and minerals, while ferrying their slaves all the way to Astheryn, their largest buyer.”

As if the gods were with you!

The topic pulled your sudden interest, for it was proving to be exactly what you needed for your plan to be successful. “An illness, thou sayest? What records have we about its origin?”

“Valorians perceive it as divine punishment for their involvement in the slave trade. Another prevalent theory is the miasma it brings, attributing the disease to foul odors and noxious fumes in the air and in the environment in which they live. Personally, I suspect it originates from a bacterium resulting from interactions between humans and infected animals.” Despite lacking sufficient research to support his hypothesis, you acknowledged that Nanami's personal theory seemed more plausible. “The symptoms suggest to me that it is not airborne, contrary to what most people assume.”

You kept your eyes on him as he fixed his pince-nez. “What symptoms doth it have? And what conclusion have thee on what they are?”

“Your Majesty, a swarm of dead rats were found in Constantia a month ago,” he first informed, leading you to his suspicions. “Given the escalating tension with Astheryn and our increased need for metal to support our crafting and weaponry, I bade a dispatcher to send a message to Constantia due to their failure to supply us with the agreed-upon metal,” Nanami explained, showing a haze of regret behind in his eyes. “The dispatcher wrote back to me, stating that he is unable to return to Caelum promptly as he was experiencing chills, buboes, and gangrene. I presume he perished within days of arriving there.”

The moue you displayed on your face could not be stopped. “Doth His Majesty know? Of this and yon rumors in Valoria thou speakest of?”

“His Majesty, the Emperor, hath not been apprised of the matter yet.” The blond nobleman looked at you solemnly. “‘Tis my duty to inform him as soon as he returns from his—”

“No, thou wilt not,” you commanded sternly, earning his surprise in return. “Thou wilt not speak a word to Satoru about this. Obey my word and thou shall be rewarded.”

This was good. This was perfect for your plans! If it was true that such illness was spreading in Valoria, it would only be a matter of time until the plague reached Caelum and wiped half its population! You laughed heartily inside your head. It would be an utmost entertainment for you to watch Satoru’s downfall before your very eyes. If Astheryn was no threat to him, then a biolgical warfare would certainly destroy him. No one else had to know of your schemes but you.

Of course, the ever-so-noble Nanami was not easy to convince, especially if it was a clash between his duty and morality. “Empress, I fail to comprehend... Such matters couldst pose dangers to Caelum and its lands. His Majesty needeth be informed, as he possesses the authority to prevent the trade ship from reaching us. Astheryn had already long ceased their slave trading due to it. We must do the same.”

“And thou believe I lack the same power to issue commands as an empress?” As you raised an eyebrow at him, his stance became more apologetic. “Continue with the trade by hook or by crook. I will sign the permit and have the ship arrive us on Monday next as planned. Let us not allow rumors of an illness to hinder us from obtaining our required metal from the city of Constantia. As thou said, we need abundant supplies for our weaponry. We must seize this opportunity to bolster our arms. Do not mention this to His Majesty, and if thou dare, thou shalt face the punishment of getting thy tongue cut out.”

Nanami’s eyes widened. “But Your Majesty…”

You pressed your hand firmly against the table and asserted your authority over him. “I have ownership of a couple of remote islands near the outskirts of Caelum. Surely, thou art aware of them? I will instruct my father, the Grand Duke, to transfer one of the larger estates to thee. Additionally, I shall provide thee with a quarter of my jewels and 15000 celestas as a deposit. In exchange, I command thee to retire from thy position and never again engage in conversation with my husband.”

It was a fair bargain. The man was certainly considering that because not only would he secure his own land and riches, he would also be away from the dangers of the plague should it truly spread throughout Caelum and its nearby nations. He would be safe there in his own estate with enough money to retire early. “Empress… whatever it may be that thou art planning, this is treason.”

“This or punishment is thy only option,” you stated, eyes burning with fire. “Make wisely of thy choice.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈

The preparation for the New Year’s ball was arduous, and you spared no effort to ensure that every detail lived up to Caelum’s prestige. Because you had a generous budget allocation for this year's banquet, you did not hold back on the display of wealth, power, and culinary sophistication. The menu alone boasted elaborate roast meats, poultry dishes, pies, pastries, desserts, and confections, accompanied by a variety of wines and spirits to enhance the indulgent dining experience. More so, the smell of luxurious dishes inside the grand hall would be enough to water the mouths of the guests.

Invitations were extended not only to the nobility within the capital but also throughout the empire, welcoming all to partake in the feast as long as they came from noble houses. The theme, as initially requested by your husband, was black and silver to match the regalia, although this theme did not extend to the guests. They were free to choose their attire as they pleased, with the only restriction being to avoid the loud colors that represented Astheryn.

It was well-known that Caelum’s nobility enjoyed flaunting their wealth and status among themselves, further highlighting the perception of the empire as superficial and governed by leaders who indulged in unethical opulence. While you may have denied such rumors, the truth remained: such ostentatious display of wealth was a century-long tradition upheld by the Gojou family to showcase the Caelum Empire as the wealthiest and most powerful across the central continent. If there was anyone Satoru should blame for this excessive extravagance, it should be his ancestors. Not you.

As the empress of this nation and the person who oversaw these types of celebrations, you saw it fit to wear an elegant gown befitting your status. You were dressed in a majestic gown of midnight black velvet, intricately embroidered with religious motifs and adorned with pearls and jewels that glimmered in the candlelight. A towering headpiece, resplendent with silver filigree and bedight with twisted crosses and angelic figures, rested upon your head as a symbol of your pretentious reverence for the church. You moved through the banquet hall with regal grace and elegance, a vision of piety and power, with your outward display of devotion masking the darkness of your thoughts inside.

Next to you was your tyrant husband, whose attire was an obsidian velvet of the finest kind. Around his waist was a thick belt of black leather cinching the robe, its buckle emblazoned with the imperial insignia. His chest was bedecked with a chainmail hauberk, a display to his martial prowess and readiness for battle, while a silver mantle was draped over his shoulders, adding to his imposing presence. Upon his head sat a crown of gleaming silver encrusted with onyx and obsidian stones.

“Long live the Emperor and the Empress! May Their Majesties reign be blessed!”

Upon your entrance down the staircase to the Grand Hall, the guests offered their curtsies and salutations to you and your husband to show their deference and recognition to the imperialty. The nobles had their chance at a brief greeting with the imperial family based on their ranking, although Satoru showed little to no care for those at the lower ranks. Nonetheless, those of lower statuses devotedly sought to curry his favor and prove their allegiance to him.

He is naught but a fool, you thought inwardly as you watched your husband dismiss a mere count. Satoru must not have realized that those he considered of lower ranking were often the most loyal to him. They were driven by their wish to climb the upper echelon of high society, therefore, they would go to great lengths to gain recognition from the emperor. Conversely, if push comes to shove, those of higher statuses would be the first ones to turn their backs on the imperial family, as they already possessed the wealth and status to sustain their own estates and exclude themselves from the rest of the empire.

“Lords and Ladies, esteemed guests, and subjects of my realm,” Satoru spoke with gracious authority as he stood by his throne, looking down on the nobility before him, “I stand before thee on this very occasion, the commencement of a new year, to address the empire that rests beneath mine unwavering rule. As thy Emperor, I look upon the vast land that stretches beneath me, and aim to build great cities, forge mighty alliances, and expand our dominion to the farthest reaches of the known world. This eve, we gather not merely to celebrate the turning of the calendar, but to reaffirm the absolute authority that guides our great empire. Let it be known, plainly and honorably, that the prosperity of this realm is intrinsically tied to the strength of its ruler. In my hands, I hold the reins of power, and I shall steer this ship through tumultuous waters with an unshakable resolve. Those who seek to challenge the stability of our empire will find themselves met with the full force of imperial might. Let this banquet serve as a reminder—a celebration of the empire's indomitable strength and an acknowledgment of the consequences that befall those who dare to defy it. Raise thy goblets high, my loyal subjects, for we embark upon another year under the banner of unassailable authority.”

Satoru might be a terrible spouse, but he certainly was not a terrible emperor. He asserted his authority when it demanded him the most, and he knew well enough how to make his subjects cower in terror at every word he spoke. His speech was a simple warning not only to the nobles, but perhaps also to you, as he believed the prophecy pictured you as a traitor to his reign.

Initially, you could say he was wrong and that never in a million years would you betray the same person you helped ascend the throne. But now that his resolve was to entirely eliminate you in order to succeed in his ambitions, you would not deny such grave accusations of treason on your part. He deserved a taste of his own medicine. It was only too bad for him that he had no knowledge of what you knew, and that was exactly why you were ten steps ahead of him.

The sound of classical music served as a backdrop for the banquet, with the dulcet sounds of flutes, harps, and viols creating an elegant ambiance through the hall. The nobles worked on their usual slobber and socialization, usually reserved for recently debuted ladies to mark their own impressions within high society. The males were often there to discuss lands and politics or to be in search of their bride who would become the next noble ladies of their respective houses. The scene reminded you of your happy days as a once noble lady, a daughter of a duke, who was also the most popular and most eligible bride for Crown Prince Satoru among all of the nobility within the Caelum Empire. Back then, your biggest rivals were Lady Anastasia de Florentine and Lady Serena de Visconti. Both ladies came from esteemed houses and had therefore become a threat to your desire to be Crown Princess. In terms of beauty, talent, and elegance; they were definitely strong contenders. What they lacked was the wit, the cunningness in which you pride yourself with, as you ended up becoming Satoru’s choice as his empress.

You were aware that Satoru spent his years as a prince dallying with other noble ladies, even courtesans, as he himself was fair in the face. And he was aware that the ill-fate that had befallen some of those ladies were due to your own cruel doing. You tormented any lady that vied for his attention. It was not until he gave in and got to know what you offered did he stop fooling around with random whores, deeming them unworthy to stand next to him as they served no purpose for him in the long run. You offered a better role to him than the rest of them, especially with your skill as a tactician and your family’s background in the military and weaponry department which all came in handy at the time of his usurpation to the throne.

In other words, he knew how evil you could be since day one. And benefited from you because of it.

“What plagues thy mind?” he asked, holding your waist and your hand as you both gracefully danced in pavane. His hair was neatly brushed away from his forehead tonight, with a few stubborn strands dangling on the side. “How awfully silent.”

You stared at his bright blue eyes coruscating under the chandeliers, noticing how his gaze wandered to a noble lady. “It matters not to thee.”

Satoru then narrowed his eyes at your coldness. “It matters much to me. What is this foolish act art thou playing at?”

“A foolish act of playing the role of thy wife,” you answered briefly and sternly. “Dost this banquet satisfy thee? I have invited the empire’s most beautiful and most eligible ladies to be thy concubine. All of age and of noble background so worry not. Thou may choose anyone to thy liking, so the best be with thee.”

The offense you caused was evident in his visage. As much as it entertained you, he was clearly enraged and on the verge of losing it. You already knew he would just remind you yet again that he wanted to remarry instead of getting a concubine, but it was too good of a reaction to pass up on. In fact, he stared at you blankly, speechless for a few moments as he processed the implications of your words. “This is the game you play?” he murmurs through gritted teeth, a hint of a scowl forming on his face. Conflicting emotions surged within him, a mixture of anger and hurt, yet ultimately he chose not to give you the reaction you seemed to seek. “I will humor thee. Where be these concubines thou dost speak of?”

You scoffed, and then laughed out loud to the point where it gained the curious stares of the nobles. “Wherefore, look everywhere and haply may thy eager eyes find them,” you answered in absolute joy. “That is all they shall be; mere concubines. If thou prefer a young and ripe virgin, that is also possible—”

“Do not get smart with me,” Satoru warned, grabbing a tight hold of your chin. The muscles along his jaw tensed. “Thou art but a petulant wench, a mere ornament next to my throne, lacking the wit and wisdom to comprehend the weight of imperial decree. The matters of remarriage are not simply to jest about. Know thy place, woman, and heed the consequences of thy impudence."

“Is that a threat?” You returned his glare, now feeling all eyes on the both of you. The thick air of tension permeated the hall like a cloud of incoming thunderstorm.

The emperor was not one to show weakness in front of public eyes, now displaying an authoritarian mien to his wife as he tightened his hold on your jaw. “Take it as thou may.”

In defense to your wounded pride, you shoved his hand away and maintained a rigid poise. “Keep thy filthy hands off me, you usurping tyrant.”

As tension crackled through the hall, a hushed unease descended upon the assembled guests. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like a gathering tornado, and uneasy glances were darted between the nobles and servants as they witnessed the brewing disagreements of their imperial rulers. Some averted their gaze, feigning disinterest, while others leaned in with rapt attention, hungry for the spectacle unfolding before them.

Meanwhile, Satoru was forcing a laugh at your chosen insult. Calling him a usurper really hit a nerve, as always. “Watch that foul-tongued mouth,” he warned once more, “Barren wretch!”

Approaching one of the palace sentinels halfway across the hall, you countered your husband’s heavy footsteps by drawing out a sword from a knight’s scabbard, thereupon making a swift turn to point the silver brand directly at his throat. You had not even realized that it was Suguru’s sword that you took. Deadly silence instantly spanned the hallway, and even the tick tock of the nearby clock had stopped because of the rising tension between Caleum’s reigning monarchs.

But with one sword raised at the emperor’s neck, twenty more were directed back at the empress. Satoru’s loyal knights were quick to trap you in full circle to protect their sovereign ruler, forcing you to submit and restrain yourself from moving the sword any closer to the emperor’s throat.

Unfortunately for him, being submissive was no longer in your repertoire.

“You dare commit treason in mine own palace?!” Your husband’s venomous blue eyes bore holes into your skull—his mouth thinning in displeasure as you stayed unwavered by his imperious tone. “Thou art too brave for an empress consort!”

“That is rich coming from a usurper himself!” you countered, satisfied by the spasm of irritation crossing his face. “Have as many concubines and courtesans as thou wish, but never disrespect me in front of my people. Treat me not as though I am lower than a mistress merely because I am childless to thee. Dare you not look down at me for I am an empress first ere I am thy wife.”

What kind of psychopath was that man, truly?

You left the hall as soon as you said those prideful words, no longer wishing to hear what more intelligible things he had to say to you and of the preposterous scene in which you engaged. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized how much you had come to despise every fiber of his being. He was an ungrateful imbecile who would slay his own kin at the price of his ambitions. You may have started the quarrel, but he did not need to escalate it and put his filthy blood-stained hands on you in front of the nobles. His goal might be to put you in your rightful place, but he chose the wrong person to be his empress. That choice alone was the start of his tragic flaw.

And with that disrespect would soon come his downfall.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

Satoru struggled to comprehend the shift in your demeanor toward him and the words you chose to speak to him. He found your behavior baffling, as if you had lost touch with reason to be acting such a lunatic. You were out of your bloody mind! What could have driven you to act so irrationally, becoming incensed at every little remark he made? Was it solely because he expressed a desire to remarry for the sake of an heir and requested you to step down from your throne? No, your anger seemed to stem from deeper roots than mere marital disagreements. The hostility in your eyes said so, and it was the kind that mirrored the animosity he had witnessed in his ancestors towards their rival empire. That was the level of rancor you had of him.

Or could this be the dreaded prophecy coming to life?

Maximilian had been warning him that the prophecy was becoming truer day-by-day, and that the only way to ultimately prevent it was to banish you. It should be easy, truly, since Satoru had no problems slaying his own kin and hundreds of men. Why should another soul like yours cause such an impact on him?

Yet, Satoru found himself unable to take that step. The reasons eluded him. What he despised, however, was your increasing defiance. You were no longer the submissive wife he had grown accustomed to. Albeit your inherently strong personality, you had never before lashed out at him, insulted him, raised your voice, or shown him any form of antagonism. You always let him win arguments and understood your place. Extravagant gifts like luxurious silk dresses, rare jewels, and exotic fragrances used to be enough to maintain your compliance. Were his gifts no longer sufficient to appease you? What more did you desire from him?

Love?

How preposterous. Love was no gift.

The emperor cussed under his breath as he slid the robe off his shoulder and stepped inside the tub, soaking his naked body under the warm fragrant water. He raked his fingers through his wet, white hair, leaning his head back as he stared at the ceiling. It never occurred to him that his eyebrows had furrowed as his thoughts of you had consumed him. A small part of him yearned to punish you for your recent behavior, while a larger part of him longed to pursue you. He desired to regain your trust and devotion, no matter how absurd it might seem to others. How else could he manipulate someone who harbored such animosity towards him? You had been easier to control when you saw him past his selfishness, turning a blind eye as long as he played the role of the loyal husband.

Fine, if it was disloyalty that enraged you so, then he would show you. In another way. That the loyalty you seek still possessed him somewhere.

The subject of his plan stood in his privy chamber, assisting him as he bathed that morning. He had long noticed this particular servant's subtle attempts at seducing him, but had always chosen to ignore her as he never felt tempted to indulge. Instead, he found it somewhat amusing that she would willingly display her body to him in private settings like this. Perhaps, he mused, it was a message to him, indicating her desire to ascend to high society by becoming his concubine. She likely sought to escape her life as a mere peasant and elevate herself to the status of a noble lady. She may have even heard of his sexual escapades back then as a wayward prince who entertained different ladies in his chamber before he married you. That was probably why she wanted to take advantage of the carnal weakness that she thought still lingered within him.

This strumpet. Satoru scoffed inwardly as he watched his personal maid pick up the bottle of lavender oil from the floor. She had purposely unbuttoned the top most part of her attire so that her voluptuous breasts would pop out like two balloons sitting on her chests. Appearance wise, it was clear that she had tried to put on cheap rouge from vermillion or beetroot juice, tinting her lips a brighter red than usual to complement her fiery, ginger hair. Her eyes were lined sharp from the soot, as though she was trying to resemble the empress’ seductive eyes.

“Your Majesty,” she spoke in a seductive voice, finding her seat at the edge of the tub as she poured the fragrant oil on the hot water. She raised her skirt higher as an obvious attempt to show off her legs, and offered a better view of her huge breasts as she leaned forward. Now that she was closer to him, he could see her taut nipples peeking behind her thin layer of clothing. “Wouldst thou desire for me to bathe thee?”

His lips may have curled upwards into a smirk, but his eyes were as terrifyingly sharp as ever. “Dost thou seek death?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, feigning her innocence as she received his warning. “Nay, Your Majesty! I do not seek such.”

“Why art thou so bold to think thy body is more desirable than the empress’?” He began to question her pride, and later put her stupidity into good use. She would be the perfect pawn for him to win his wife’s favor again. “My wife hath the most perfect figure I have seen in a woman, and thine is what? Thou boast of thy breasts that resemble a cow’s?”

“I…” The servant stammered, clearly offended as she got up from her seat and attempted to mask the embarrassment that appeared on her face. Satoru raised an eyebrow and waited for her response, while she gathered her courage to deny his claims. “Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended thee.”

Satoru shook his head in amusement. “What is thy aim, then, if not to inveigle me into bedding thee? I do not consort with trollops.”

Caught red-handed, she stumbled and bowed her head at the lowest possible level before him. “I beg thy pardon, Your Imperial Majesty! I merely sought to aid thee in the birthing of an heir. I am not barren unlike Her Majesty the Empress, and I can assure thee I will bear fruit even if thou only dost me once.”

“Get on thy knees,” he ordered, stepping out of the tub and wrapping his bare body with a robe. “Thy know that to be certain?”

Her eyes pleaded for desperation to become his mistress. “Certain, yes! I am certain, my lord! And I will be a loyal subject to thee unlike the empress—”

“Pardon?” As if her words intrigued his ears. In a swift motion, he turned to the servant and looked down at her with his cold, scrutinizing eyes. “Unlike the empress? Repeat thy words with caution. Thou art maligning the most noble woman of this empire.”

It did look like she found her way out of his criticism by directing his ill-temper towards his wife. “Your Majesty, I am not maligning thy wife. ‘Tis true that Her Majesty is having an affair with your commander of knights! Some days ago did I see the empress and Sir Suguru in an intimate embrace, running through the halls as though they wish not be seen!”

The emperor's expression hardened at the servant's accusation, his brows furrowing with disbelief and anger. His hand tightened into a fist as he processed the shocking revelation.

“Is this the truth thou speaketh?” His voice was low, carrying a dangerous edge that hinted at the storm brewing within him. The accusation struck at the very core of his trust and authority.

The servant's gaze faltered under the weight of the emperor's scrutiny, but she remained resolute. “Your Majesty, I speak only what I have witnessed with mine own eyes. By my troth and by God’s bones, I swear by all that is holy, it is no falsehood.”

Satoru’s mind raced with conflicting emotions, but he showed none of his inward thoughts outwardly. Instead, he delighted in this ideal opportunity for him to deal with gaining your devotion again.

“Undress thyself. I want thou bare and without any clothing," he said, his voice cold and measured, “and thou shalt remain in this chamber until my return.”

With that, the emperor swept out of the privy chamber at once, leaving behind a stunned and apprehensive servant. She believed it to be her sign of good luck. Of good fate. That she now found her place as a mistress to the highest ruler of this nation. She could not believe her destiny as she triumphantly unclothed herself, peeling every fabric off her body with excitement as she imagined the things the emperor would do to her upon his return. She would definitely have to deal with his wrath since he just found out that the empress betrayed her, but she was willing to have him use her body and let his anger out on his adulterous wife. An emperor with a distracted mind would be her ticket to being impregnated by his child. Soon, she would be his concubine, she would be the mother of a future emperor.

She would never again have to suffer as a servant!

Upon the sound of footsteps nearing the privy chamber, the servant provocatively sat at the edge of the tub, displaying all of her body to him and him alone. “Your Majesty, I am ready for thee.”

“Art thou?”

Horror washed over the servant’s face, her heartbeat increasing tenfold as she saw the empress sending an icy stare into her as she stood by the privy chamber’s entrance. Behind her were her ladies-in-waiting throwing their judgeful stares at the naked servant, surrounded by knights who seemed to have come under the emperor’s orders. The emperor! There he was, appearing behind the empress, kissing her cheek and encircling her waist, whispering to her that the servant had attempted to seduce him and had even accused his wife of infidelity. Satoru's actions struck the servant as reminiscent of a child tattling to his mother. He adopted an air of artificial innocence, as if his only intention were to win the empress' trust.

“Send this harlot to the throne room,” he commanded his knights, his voice loud and clear. “Let it be known that there will be consequences for those who dare to deceive their emperor.”

At the throne room, you found yourself seated at the elevated throne next to your husband. This was a place in the castle where the trials of the accused were often held, and now the accused kneeling before you on the lower part of the hall was a lowly maid which Satoru had claimed to have seduced him and besmirched your name.

Did he think you were stupid? You knew what his ulterior motives were. You were aware of his covert schemes, and that his sole attempt at orchestrating this entire spectacle was to use the maid to regain your trust and obedience out of gratitude. He was clearly at an unrest ever since you had been defiant to him and he was doing the best that he could to make you submit to him. He was desperate to show you that he was on your side and believed that by reporting the maid's advances, he could convince you of his loyalty. Satoru must truly underestimate your intelligence if he thought that such acts would restore his control over you. But for the sake of a good show, you decided to play along.

As customary, the emperor presided over the trial, while the accused maid stood before the imperialty, her eyes downcast, while whispers could be heard through the assembled courtiers.

Satoru announced her sin in a commanding yet measured voice. “Maiden, thou stand accused of attempting to seduce the sovereign and spreading slanderous falsehoods regarding Her Majesty's honor. These are grave charges that strike at the very foundation of our empire.”

The accused maid trembled slightly but remained silent, her gaze fixed on the ground. She seemed to be having a battle in her head, realizing that she was being used by the emperor’s cruel game. What did she expect of him? You rolled your eyes. Satoru was a known tyrant. She would never last a day being his mistress, much less a concubine. You were the only lady in this empire that could handle him.

The emperor then turned to you as he continued with his speech. “As for thee, my wife, thou hast been accused of a betrayal that, if true, would bring shame upon the imperial family.” He paused, his expression grave yet thoughtful. “Therefore, I shall entrust the judgment and punishment of this matter to thee. Thou alone knowest the truth of these accusations, and it is thy virtue and integrity that shall guide our course of justice.”

You wanted to laugh at how ridiculous this was. Now he was even entrusting the maid’s punishment to you? His tactic obviously consisted of two things: 1) giving you the authority to impose punishment on the accused would make you liable for the consequences tied to the matter 2) if proven not guilty, you would have to face the shame of your misguided punishment. Because Satoru was not certain that you were having an affair, he was putting you on the spot to decide the punishment you would give based on your conscience.

Either that or he may have simply intended to convey trust in your judgment by allowing you to administer punishment. This could be a gesture aimed at restoring your sense of authority and influence within the palace. However, given the complexities of your relationship and the context of the situation, it was likely that his motives were more layered and multifaceted.

“How dost it strike thee, Empress?” Satoru asked in a strangely calm mien. “Mayhap we can give her ten or twenty whips? Have her sent out to the dungeons or the west tower?”

Oh, did he assume you were not capable of being creative with punishments? You were not one to shy away from brutality like him. In fact, you had something better in store for this servant of his.

The courtiers listened intently, their eyes locked upon you as you spoke. “It is my judgment that the maid shall be subjected to the punishment befitting her transgressions.”

A hushed murmur erupted through the assembled crowd as they awaited the empress’ decree.

“Firstly, the maid shall be paraded through the streets of our capital, stripped of her garments and bearing the shame of her actions for all to see. Let her walk the path of humility, that she may reflect upon the consequences of her deeds.” Your cruel words carried a weight of overwhelming gravity as you announced the first part of the punishment and proceeded to the next. “Furthermore, the maid shall be delivered unto the custody of our executioners, who shall mete out the final aspect of her punishment. Let her be subjected to the pear of anguish, that she may atone for her sins and serve as a warning to all who would dare besmirch the name of their sovereign.”

The courtiers exchanged somber glances, trembling out of fear at the severity of your inhumane judgment. Even Satoru himself was shocked at the lengths you had chosen to take just to punish a lowly maid. Why was he surprised? He, himself, was entertained at the usage of the brazen bull, roasting his enemies alive as a punishment. The pear of anguish was not even as severe as his usual choices, as its purpose was to have a pear-shaped instrument be inserted in the maid’s vagina, and expand it to the point of internal injuries and mutilation.

“No! No! Your Majesty!” she cried, her words choked with emotion. She quivered in terror and fell to her knees. “I beg of thee, have mercy upon me! Spare me from such unspeakable agony! Forgive me for my transgressions and the harm I have caused. Pray, grant me the chance to repent and seek forgiveness. I shall never again show myself to thee. Prithee… Empress Y/N… Spare me from this horror, I beg of thee!”

Her voice echoed through the hall with her desperate plea for clemency amidst the shadow of her impending doom. In the silence that followed, your eyes caught the guilt spreading on Satoru’s face. His blue eyes were, for a second, wide and horrified. But he was quick to compose himself and keep yet again a rigid face.

“Very well.” Satoru gestured to his knights to take the maid away. “Do as my wife says.”

“My liege, this is preposterous!” In the midst of the tense atmosphere, one advisor, a voice of dissent, stepped forward, his expression grave and his tone measured. Lord Maximilian was only intending to address the emperor, completely ignoring your right as the empress. “Your Majesty, the Emperor,” the advisor spoke respectfully but with conviction, “I humbly beseech thee to reconsider this severe course of action. The pear of anguish, in particular, is a device of unparalleled cruelty. The punishment is more severe than the crime committed!” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I propose a more measured punishment, one that upholds the dignity of your sovereign without plunging us into the depths of brutality. Mayhap a period of confinement or hard labor could serve as a more merciful yet effective means of retribution. This way, Your Majesty, we demonstrate both strength and compassion that define thy sovereign rule.”

“Compassion?” you scoffed, humored by Lord Maximilian’s little speech. His pretentiousness was truly out of this world. He was obviously against it because he refused to see your authority over the court restored. He had not even a single idea that you were already aware that he had been conspiring with your husband to execute you. “Thou speak of compassion and mercy, Lord Maximilian, when this empire had seen the ruthless perish of a thousand Christian souls under your counsel to the emperor. Is that not irony? What about the body of his lordship, Count Stefano, that thou order’d to be skinned alive? Or what about the corpses of men speared on pikes by the Tiber River? Now, tell me about that compassion.”

Satoru, stuck in the situation, scanned the throne room and searched for his voice of reason. The man who always stood his ground between good and evil. Lord Nanami. Yet the man was nowhere to be found. “Is Lord Nanami hither? Call him forth to me.”

“I am afraid not, my liege,” spoke one of the courtiers, “He had left Your Majesty a letter advising of his immediate need to be on a sabbatical. Cited he no reasons as to why.”

“Is that so?” your husband’s face contorted into confusion, while you were exchanging glances with Suguru, who seemed slightly aware of your participation in Nanami’s sudden absence. Howbeit, he spoke no words about it.

And no one else also said another word, therefore, leaving Satoru to move forward with your decision on the punishment. If he was smart, he should see that your decision was not just a mere punishment to the maid but as a warning from you, that he was not the only person in this empire capable of being a tyrant. That you, as devoted as you used to be, could also be cruel if you wanted to be.

You ignored the maid’s screams of terror as the knights took her away. You kept a dignified appearance and walked out of the throne room, followed by your ladies-in-waiting as they engaged in gossip about the maid and how she had always spoken badly of the empress. You wished you cared, but truthfully, you were far too nauseated as you walked through the hallway heading towards the western wing of the castle, hearing your husband’s voice calling your name.

What did he need? Your gratitude? Your declaration of love? Your pledge of allegiance?

Frankly, you cared none, as your extreme nausea eventually had your visions blurred, and your body fainting on the marble floor.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐗

Your head ached.

By the time you opened your eyes again, it was already past noontide. No, it was evening, was it? You were lying in Satoru’s bed while its owner was engrossed in a conversation with a physician. You briefly recounted the events before you were carried here, remembering the trial at the throne room, and you fainting while walking back to your side of the palace.

“Art thou certain?”

“I am certain Her Majesty is with child, yes.”

“How is that possible? Tried have we for eight long years.”

“We owe this blessing to God, my liege. Thy wish for an heir hath come to fruition.”

You were… with child?

You could not believe it. As the whispered revelation reached your ears, the news brought you a swirl of emotions, for the delicate life growing within your womb just challenged the very foundations of your plans. A child. A baby. A life was growing inside of you! It was not just any other life, but an heir to the throne! A byproduct of you and your husband!

But what about your revenge?

You had a moment of introspection as you imagined yourself at a crossroad of destiny. Should you persist with your plot to topple your husband's rule, or should you embrace the newfound responsibility and safeguard the legacy that had taken root within you? The precipice of your decision would depend on Satoru’s reaction to this matter. Your decision would fall upon his level of trust in you.

For eight years, you had always wanted to carry his child. You had always dreamed of bearing his heir. This was the very reason why the prophecy existed in the first place, and now that you were pregnant, should that mean that he would no longer find the need to remarry and execute you? Should that mean that the prophecy was false after all? The oracle was a heretic through and through and he never should have consulted with her to begin with!

“My wife.” The gentle caress of Satoru’s voice soothed your aching head. It only took you then to realize that the physician had already left you two alone, and now your husband was sitting on the edge of his bed, touching your cheek. “To think,” he mumbled, his voice tinged with wonder, “that our union has borne fruit at last. An heir to carry forth this legacy of mine.”

He was joyous. He was surging with happiness which was glowing within him, the kind of joy that you had never seen before as he embraced his beloved wife and shared the news. For a moment, your heart melted and you were ready to forsake the grudge you carried in your heart as he proved his reaction to be genuine. His eyes sparkled like jewels as he placed a soft kiss on your belly, then moving to press his lips onto yours.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to tear up as never in your life had you received this much level of affection from your own husband. He had never looked at you with such adoration and respect for the longest time since he had been with you. No, this was the very first time he had truly acknowledged you as his wife.

“Am I no longer useless unto thee?” you asked, carrying a hint of sadness on your tone despite smiling at him. “Shall I no longer be called a barren empress?”

Satoru solemnly shook his head and kissed your hand, your cheek, and your lips. “No. Each tongue that rises ‘gainst my wife shall fall.”

You were uncertain whether it was you or him who pulled each other for an embrace, but the gravity that brought you to two together was of mutual force. He held you in his arms tenderly just as you enveloped yourself in his warmth. So this is how it feels like to be loved? You were in complete bliss. You were free from the emotional torment that—

Knock, knock!

The abrupt knock on the door interrupted the intimate moment between you and your husband, diverting his attention to the intruder who dared disrupt the special moment. Satoru, no doubt, was already thinking of potential punishments in his mind as he summoned his attendant to enter. The attendant conveyed that a knight sought an urgent audience with him, but what could be so urgent at this dead of night?

The intruder, to your surprise, was none other than his knight commander Suguru.

“Suguru?” Satoru faced him with a more lenient countenance, “Speak briefly.”

The knight commander glanced at you before he knelt on one knee and looked at the carpeted floor, delivering a message that required urgent and utmost attention. “Your Imperial Majesty, we have discovered a group of knights clad in silver armor, mounted upon war horses lining the city’s border. My men have identified the potential invaders as the Aurorae Heavy Cavalry of the Astheryn Empire.”

“What?!” Just like Satoru’s explosive reaction, you were also surprised by the news. You knew Astheryn was ready for war, but you did not expect them to move so rashly. Satoru knew he was right to conduct a military inspection a week prior, because now, in spite of his growing temperament, he was also mentally prepared for an all-out war. “Those Astheryn bastards! How many are they?!”

“Estimated at about 6000 units, my liege.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. Thousands of foreign soldiers stationed at the border of the Caelum Empire was undeniably an invasion. The audacity of this act, carried out without any prior communication to Satoru, no wonder fueled his anger like a volcano on the brink of eruption. It was a blatant disrespect to him as an emperor and to his lands as an empire.

“Double the numbers of our infantrymen and dispatch them to the border!” Satoru's voice carried a low growl, his hand instinctively reaching to massage his temples as he pondered a course of action. “They must comprise our most elite unit. I demand these men be vigilant and alert at all times. Anyone caught sleeping will have their eyes gouged,” he ordered, his tone reflecting the gravity of the situation. His eyes held fury in them as he silently paced back and forth in his chamber. However, just as Suguru made to depart, Satoru's hand halted him mid-step. “Better yet, remain here and stand guard over my wife," he commanded, his voice taut with resolve. “I will issue the orders to the army personally and confer with my chief tactician.”

Your husband had already left before you could even stop him. His presence, in a mere blink of an eye, was gone as he stormed out of the chamber, yelling out, “That bastard Toji will die by my hands. How dare he!”

And now you were left with his commander of knights, Suguru, who looked at you in concern as you made an attempt to get out of bed. He was quick to catch you in his arms, guiding you to walk carefully. “Is it true?” you asked, face inches close to him. You could feel his hand on your waist, and the other guiding your arm. “Astheryn’s invasion?”

“Empress, it is imperative that thou remain within the safety of His Majesty’s chamber," Suguru advised, his fox-like eyes seemingly enamored by your face. “Thy well-being is paramount, especially now. I see now why thy radiance has been so pronounced of late.”

You smiled at his words. "And what might thou be implying by that?"

“That our beautiful empress bears the heir to the empire,” he spoke softly. “This is a direct contradiction to the prophecy. Art thou pleased, my lady?”

As you nodded, you felt Suguru placing a gentle kiss above your hand, still kneeling before you like a true, loyal knight. He looked at you with a gaze filled with the desire to protect. His chivalry was evident in his demeanor toward you, the most beautiful lady of the empire. Unbeknownst to you, Suguru had long been captivated by your beauty. From the moment he first came to your family’s estate to train as a knight, he harbored a wanton desire for you. Yet, he struggled with his feelings, torn between his admiration for you and his loyalty to Satoru, his friend and lord. How could he? He should punish himself for having a mere attraction to the emperor’s wife.

“Suguru, I expect thy loyalty to me until the very end,” you interrupted his reverie, bringing him back to the present. He held your hand tenderly, and your waist affectionately. “Can I count on that from thee?”

Before the knight could respond, a fit of unhinged laughter echoed through the chamber. There, your crazed husband walked in, his sardonically joyful eyes wide with paranoia. “Ha ha ha! Absurd! Utterly preposterous!” His loud voice reverberated through the walls, his mind now free of the on-going invasion and was instead evidently consumed by the scene before him. “My wife, thou jest, surely? Suguru, tell me this is some jest! Loyalty, indeed, I have full faith in thy loyalty, but this... the maid’s accusation. It is true after all?!”

Immediately, the knight commander moved away from you and scrambled to kneel down at the furious emperor. You yourself could not hide your growing anxiety, but it was best to keep calm and explain the situation to your husband properly.

“My liege, ‘tis not what it seems,” Suguru swore to your husband, who was now laughing manically.

“Ah, a conspiracy unfolds!” Satoru’s eyes darted between you and his friend. “I see it now, the hidden plots, the whispers in the shadows. My wife and my loyal knight, plotting against me! Speak, reveal the treachery!”

You shook your head, maintaining your composure. “He speaks true. There is no affair—”

“Fie, you wicked bitch!” By this time, Satoru was throwing a tantrum, kicking the nearby console table and throwing the first vase he saw.

Suguru rose, his voice pleading, "Your Majesty, I..."

“Get out or I will eviscerate thee in front of her!” Satoru's words cut through the tension, and Suguru, after a moment of hesitation, took a deep breath and left, casting a worried glance at you before exiting. It was clear that Satoru was in a state of manic denial, with his laughter echoing through the chamber like a haunting refrain.

Alone with him now, you observed his demeanor, noting the same scene of past trauma in his laughter. It was reminiscent of the night his sister perished for committing suicide—a portrait of a man on the brink of madness, masking his torment with deranged laughter. Each step he took towards you carried danger. “This... This child thou carry is a bastard, is it not? That child is not mine!”

You shot him a look of disbelief, refusing to entertain such absurd accusations. “Thou art speaking folly!”

Enraged, he seized another vase and hurled it across the room, the sound of shattering porcelain ringing through the chamber, though you maintained your composure despite the sudden chaos. You must not act weak in front of a tyrant. At this rate, he could kill out of impulse, but you were careful not to pull the trigger.

“My wife thinks I am lost in a mire of absurdity?” Satoru’s laugh rang in your ears again. “Conniving bitch! Tell me, this child thou carry, what do I do with that awful thing? Shall I cut thy stomach and pull the thing out myself?”

Slap! A resounding slap, sharp and clear, graced Satoru's cheek as his words drew tears from your eyes. Despite the welling tears, you mustered enough courage to respond. “If thou question the lineage of this child, then is that not a question to thine own fertility? Dost thou deem thyself barren, unable to sire thine own bloodline? If so, thou hast long scorned me for lacking an heir, yet now thou cast doubt upon the child that I carry. Useless, thou have call’d me. Now, useless, thou call thyself! A barren emperor, unable to secure his own legacy, is that what thou perceive thyself to be?”

“Hold that tongue, thou impudent wench!” With a rough hand, he grabbed your arm and tightened his hold so much so that it would leave bruises. “Lo, here stand I, grappling with a war that hath the power to shape or shatter mine own legacy, whilst mine own wife doth gad about like a wanton whore?”

A whore? You laughed, as equally maniacal as him. No, a lot worse than him. How foolish of you to think that your husband was someone you could trust your life with? You could not believe that you almost let your guard down in front of him after you learned that you were carrying his child. Yet here he was, spouting nonsense like an absolute fool. He only judged what he saw, not analyzed what he was yet to know. This was exactly why Emperor Toji would always be a smarter ruler than him.

“I am thy wife, and I have stood by thy side through thick and thin. I have shared thy lows and highs. I have seated thee at that very throne! Therefore, I will not dignify such insults with a response.” Each word left your mouth with gritted teeth. This was your future, peeled off for your eyes to see. No matter how much you cared for him, no matter how loyal you were to him, no matter how much love you offered to him; you were naught but a woman ready to be thrown at his disposal. It hurt. Truly, it hurt. And because you loved him, you tried holding onto the thin string of hope that he was true to you. That even if he could not love you, he still trusted you. That was the foundation of your relationship from the beginning. Trust. And that will be your ultimatum to him. So, with a shaky voice and tearful eyes, you asked, “I require nothing else from thee but this… dost thou trust me?”

His answer was a make or break.

His answer would determine whether you would carry your plans out or not.

Because if he said yes, then you would forsake everything and be loyal to him without his unconditional love.

But if he said no, then there was no point at being his wife when your role would always be easily replaced.

Satoru’s stolid mien was an answer in itself, because his blank gaze and unsympathetic expression sent your heart to the deepest layer of hell. “No,” he declared, “I never have and never will.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗

Four days.

Or perhaps five?

The days blurred into an indistinguishable haze since your husband's decree consigned you to the confines of the west tower. Unlike the dungeon, reserved for commoners and lower ranks, the western tower housed nobility and imperial captives. Though superior in amenities, it remained a prison in essence. There was only a solitary window within the cell that offered a small glimpse of the world beyond. The view was barely within your reach as it was too high up for you to be able to see outside.

You were treated no less than a rebel. Accused of treason. Accused of infidelity. Your reputation as an empress was tarnished, excluded from social circles, excommunicated by the church—at least, these were some of the things you have heard from the passerby, the attendants who do their nightly rounds in the west tower. The attendants and guards themselves no longer respected you, although you could still sense that they were cautious around you. Afraid that if the emperor were to change his mind and release you, that you would remember their faces and get back at them with brutal repercussions.

It was entertaining, truly. It was even more humorous to watch the attendant serve you with soup and bread day and night. Judging by the distinct odor, the soup was laced with arsenic. Someone was definitely trying to poison you, but you were certain that it was not orchestrated by Satoru. Not him. He was too stupid to conjure such a plan as it also contradicted his penchant for more direct and violent approaches. If he wanted to assassinate someone, he would rather crack their skulls or slash them in half. He was too bloodthirsty to kill someone by means of poison.

So that left you with one person: Lord Maximilian.

Your father, the Grand Duke, promptly sent you a letter after hearing that you were locked up in the west tower, assuring you of his efforts to persuade Satoru to release you and clear your name, demanding your innocence be proved to the empire. He also cautioned that it might be a considerable amount of time before your husband could address your case, given the pressing matter of the Astherean army's invasion on Caelum's borders. In your head, you knew Satoru was having a hard time dealing with the military conflict without your counsel. It was your mind that staged the coup, leading him to his succession 10 years ago. Now, without you, he was faced with difficulty. He did not even have Nanami by his side to guide him through the war.

You laughed. Good for him.

On the 7th day, your father wrote again. This time, he informed you that there was a ceasefire between Caelum and Astheryn. Apparently, Caelum was struck by the bubonic plague. Astheryn withdrew its cavalry out of fear of losing their soldiers from the Black Death, while Caleans were left to suffer from the spreading disease. The citizens were going mad, panic was ensuing, and there was food shortage everywhere. No one knew what the cause was nor how to cure it. He said those who had caught the disease would fall to their deaths in a matter of days.

You laughed again. That is my own doing, father.

Three days later, another missive arrived from the Grand Duke, informing you of his recent audience with Satoru. Your father let you know that the Emperor still held a lingering wrath towards you, but he confirmed that your trial would be scheduled shortly. The letter also conveyed unsettling rumors of your potential deposition, suggesting that Satoru entertained matrimonial negotiations with Princess Katarina from the Kingdom of Ellesmere.

You laughed even more. A remarriage, just as he wanted.��

On the 14th day, your father did not write. He visited you on the western tower himself, somberly informing you of Suguru’s demise. He revealed that the knight commander had been thrown in the dungeon on the same day you were taken to the west tower, but he was treated more harshly. He was tortured, mentally and physically, until he met a gruesome death. Your father chose to spare you of the details of Suguru’s tragic fate.

At that, you could not laugh. No, in fact, you cried silently in your cell that night knowing that an innocent man died ruthlessly because of you.

What a hypocrite you were!

The burden of introducing the Great Plague to Caelum, resulting in the deaths of countless innocent citizens, rested on your shoulders. Yet, your moral boundary seemed to be drawn at Suguru's demise?

You found yourself engulfed in laughter once more, disregarding the puzzled stares from attendants and guards alike. They may have deemed you mad, yet perhaps, madness was the only sane response to the chaos of this world. Why? What was there to be ashamed of? Life was but a game of strategy, a grand chessboard where the king, though less agile than the queen, would always be the last man standing.

Seated in a corner that night, your laughter mingled with tears, a mix of raw emotions unleashed, as the echo of approaching footsteps reached your ears. The flickering torchlight casted a shadow upon the wall, revealing the silhouette of a tall man escorted by two knights.

“Y/N.”

When Satoru visited you on the eve of your trial, you never expected him to call your name so tenderly. What you were anticipating was his usual torrent of anger and scorn, and you found yourself bewildered by the odd shift in his demeanor. He then entered your cell and crouched before you, his blue eyes seemed almost softened by sympathy.

“Thy trial is scheduled for to-morrow,” he spoke deliberately, though you avoided meeting his gaze. “I have a proposal for thee.”

You remained silent.

“Even if thou have betrayed me, I will extend mercy unto thee, out of gratitude for aiding mine ascension to the throne.” The irony of his words were a slap to your face, hurting your ears as you listened. “I require thee to step down from thy throne with humility, dispose of the bastard thou carry, and live a modest, solitary life in the countryside. There, an estate awaits thee. I expect thee to live quietly, and await the time I will visit thee. Thou will remain as my mistress, though it will not be officially acknowledged.”

As the emperor's words were spoken, the empress's laughter erupted with a wild and bitter sound that echoed through the chamber. Your eyes blazed with defiance, lips curled into a scornful sneer.

“Ha ha ha!”

Satoru’s lips tightened a fraction, his body turning into solid ice as you let out an ear splitting horselaugh.

“Ha ha ha ha!”

His eyebrows furrowed in anger. “Empress!”

“Fool!” you spat, your voice laced with derision. “Thou think to offer me mercy while chaining me to a life of servitude? Thou speak of gratitude while stripping me of dignity and autonomy. Thy offer is but another prison for thee to keep me as a pawn!” Your laughter turned into manic fervor, fueled by rage and disillusionment. “I will not bend to thy will, nor will I accept thy false benevolence.”

In the end, Satoru was still a hubristic man. An ungrateful, hubristic man. An ungrateful, hubristic, foolish man.

“Art thou aware of thy current standing?!” He was livid. Oh, he certainly was.

Yet you? You smiled. You offered him a beautiful, sarcastic smile. “No soul in this empire shall love thee except for me! All are foes to thee, except for me! I alone have loved thee for thee. Ponder upon that, my misguided husband, for in thy quest for dominion, thou hast forsaken the one who loved thee sincerely.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈

“We gather today for a matter of great import: the trial of Her Majesty, the Empress, accused of treasonous infidelity.”

As the trial went on, your thoughts drifted back to the day of the maid's trial. Then, she knelt beneath the throne, facing the scrutiny of the court as she protested her innocence and pleaded for mercy. You, once seated upon the now-vacant throne, regarded her with detached interest. The irony of the reversal was not lost on you. It was true that you would pay the price of your wrongdoings, and be rewarded for your kind deeds. In this life, you let your greed get the best of you. You let your love for Satoru blind you. If you were ever to be reborn, you vowed to never again allow yourself to be ensnared by such folly for it led you to nowhere but misery.

How funny is that? These nobles were all here to watch your trial, while a war and plague were happening outside of the castle’s walls.

“—may our deliberations be guided by the righteous light of truth. Empress Y/N, you appear to be in jest. This trial is a serious matter to thee.”

You received the courtier’s look of disapproval, while the others were judging your sanity.

“Let her be,” ordered Satoru, who looked tired and resigned. You could hear his sigh even if he was a couple meters away, and his eyes glowed in sad blues as he stared at you, as if it would be the last time he would ever see your face.

Perhaps that truly was the case, and you made no effort to fight against it nor did you appeal to prove your innocence. There was no mercy begged for, no forgiveness sought for. It was because you saw no purpose to live this life. He must have sensed your true feelings inside as he watched you from afar, but Satoru still seemed like he was looking for a way to get you out of the situation. Instead of imposing a tyrannous punishment on you, he was clearly attempting to make you innocent. To give you a benefit of the doubt. All of the courtiers and advisors, however, were in complete disagreement. They knew that the emperor held a soft spot for you, but they did not know that his only purpose was to keep using you.

Honestly? Your mind was growing weary. The trial dragged on endlessly as Satoru struggled to mitigate your punishment. Not until…

“His Majesty, Emperor Satoru, is consulting with an oracle,” you declared, silencing the entire hall with your revelation, ending this ridiculous trial once and for all, “Deep in the dungeon, he hides the old lady. The emperor of this nation is a supporter of heresy, therefore, he is to be subjected to inquisition.”

Your accusations, indeed, were grave. An eerie and portentous air filled the throne room as Satoru himself was stunned and wide-eyed. Surprise contorted his features after he was exposed. His lips quivered and his jaw muscles tightened, and anger soon smoldered all semblance of composure on his saintly face.

Caelum was a deeply Catholic nation and the Catholic Church, as an institution, did not endorse or recognize oracles as legitimate sources of divine revelation. Practices associated with oracles, such as divination, fortune-telling, and consulting spirits, as forms of superstition were heretical. These practices were considered as attempts to circumvent the authority of the Church and seek guidance from sources outside of the orthodox Christian belief.

Individuals suspected of engaging in practices associated with oracles, particularly if those practices were perceived as challenging the Church authority or promoting beliefs contrary to Catholic doctrine, could be subject to investigation, trial, and punishment by ecclesiastical authorities, even if they were members of the imperial family.

Thus, in your revelation, Satoru was now subjected to a much more serious, unforgivable crime than you. Because he would be at war with the Church.

And not only would he be at war with the Church, but also with Astheryn, and the Great Plague all at once.

Of course, Satoru intensely denied it and tried to turn things around on you. He was going haywire as your ‘accusation’ caused a commotion amongst the courtiers who whispered and murmured in shock and disbelief. As the emperor, his voice held the greatest authority in that hall, and so he became furious at you, claiming to everyone that you were diverting the situation to seem innocent, denying the existence of an oracle in his castle, and that you were to be publicly executed for the crime of commiting lèse-majesté by slandering the emperor’s name.

Finally, the tyrant was back.

You were sick of his sympathetic gazes.

If your husband knew you by heart, then he would know that your sole intention at declaring his fortnightly consultations with the oracle was because you wanted to anger him, and in turn, get a punishment that would be enough to free yourself from his grasp. That was the perfect approach.

But of course, Satoru might be slow in that department. All he could see right now was a traitorous wife whose malicious intent was to undermine his authority and topple him from the throne. An enemy. That was what you had become to him.

On the day of your public execution, your father cried. And so did your ladies-in-waiting. The rest were eager to see you beheaded, all with keen eyes as you were ushered at the public square, drawing in a large crowd of nobles and commoners alike.

Who would have guessed that you held such notoriety?

The words, “witch!”, “traitor!”, and “evil!” were thrown your way as you were guided by two knights towards the center of the scaffold. With a rosary on one hand, and a bible on the other, you looked at your father. He should be safe. You had written him a letter, telling him to bring the family and the servants to a remote island away from Caelum. As for you, your end was near.

With your head pressed against the block, and the executioner raising his sword, your impending doom was imminent. The imperial sword he carried, you recognized, was Satoru’s personal and favorite sword.

“Your head will be severed swiftly,” said the headsman, “Any last words?”

Your eyes found the sky as your lips curled into a sinister smile. “Citizens of Caelum, I will soon meet thy Emperor in hell!”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈

A month has passed since your execution.

Instead of having your decapitated head impaled on spikes atop the city gates, Satoru ordered your corpse be buried at the tomb. The location was not revealed to anyone else. The citizens also did not question his choice.

The emperor was secretly grieving the loss of his wife.

Everyone knew. They were all aware that the emperor was mourning over the empress despite your betrayal of him, yet all of them turned a blind-eye on it. They were afraid that the emperor would punish anyone who would remind him of you.

Was this still not an act of love?

In fact, no, not everyone knew. Not everyone were aware that one of your lady-in-waiting swore to him in oath that you never had an affair with the knight and that the child you carried was not at all a bastard, but his. It was Satoru’s heir. It was his own child. It was the future Emperor of Caelum.

Because of his misjudgment and his paranoia, he lost the only woman who truly loved him.

Now the empire was in shambles. Satoru could not deny that your lack of presence in the castle had a much more devastating impact than the plague that wiped half of Caelum’s population. His advisors were of no use when it came to military tactics. Nanami, the most competent of them all, was nowhere to be found. The soldiers have been struck by the Black Death, lowering his total heavy infantry down to a quarter of its nominal full strength.

The plague had spread rapidly, causing widespread devastation and food shortage, and as the death toll rose and communities were decimated by the plague, desperation set in. There were villages that had more dead people to collect than living beings who survived. It was a state where all were affected no matter what their noble rankings were.

People tried various remedies and treatments, often turning to religious practices such as prayer and penance in hopes of appeasing divine wrath and stopping the spread of the disease. Plague doctors also swarmed the streets with their dark canvas robes and beaked masks, implementing quarantine and treating infected individuals.

Satoru secluded himself in his chamber, both day and night, observing the devastation of his empire from the castle's highest vantage point. Desperation ran rampant, driving citizens to seek sanctuary within the palace walls. Initially, the emperor permitted entry only to the highest-ranking nobles. However, as word spread of the palace offering refuge, lower-ranking nobles and commoners clamored for entry, prompting Satoru to order the complete fortification of the castle walls.

The stench of burning bodies permeated the air as the castle became besieged by the diseased, seeking entry but met with the fierce flames intended to ward off infection from the emperor and his staff.

“What say the Kingdom of Ellesmere?” Satoru, who had been suffering from high fever, muscle pain, and skin lesions, was accompanied by a state of paranoia as he spoke to Lord Maximilian. “The marriage negotiations with that… that princess. What says them?”

“My liege.” He bowed, apologetically. “They no longer wish to proceed. As we are struck by the plague, King Kalleon IV thought it would be of no benefit to be in alliance with a fallen empire. Furthermore, there is something that thou must be aware of, Your Majesty.”

The emperor looked at his advisor.

“The trade ship that caused the plague to spread throughout Caelum was…” the old man paused, wary of the ruler’s reaction, “It was approved entry by the late Empress Y/N.”

Ha ha ha ha!

How twisted of you, indeed. Where does he go from here? Satoru was sick, genuinely sick, as he heard the clamor of diseased individuals rioting outside the castle walls. Inside the palace, his own people were also engaged in their own chaos. He was at a point where he was too fatigued to react violently at his wife’s crimes. What did Maximilian want him to do, chastise you? You were already gone, and you have left him with the most profound revenge than any punishment he could ever fathom.

Satoru found himself consumed by a maelstrom of emotions. He was seeing red from his visions, and seeing black from his discolored skin. Gangrene. Buboes. Chills. All he could do now was laugh at his misery. He grappled with the haunting question of how he arrived at this wretched juncture. What deeds, what choices, led him down this harrowing path of suffering and despair?

Lord Maximilian did one last attempt at coaxing the emperor. “My liege, the prophecy…”

The mere mention of the prophecy, however, ignited a primal fury within him. His words filled Satoru with a seething rage and he entertained the notion of silencing Maximilian's voice forever, drawing his sword and executing a swift slash on his advisor’s neck.

That damned prophecy!

That, that was what led to all of this!

In the depths of his suffering, Satoru had experienced the last stretch of the disease entering his body. He was vomiting, crawling on the floor, reaching for the window in hopes of seeing his empire for the last time. But eventually, his weakened body had him submit to his forfeit.

In a matter of minutes, he would soon find death and earn his place at the ninth circle of hell.

In a matter of seconds, he would soon be named the most hated emperor in history, just as you like it.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

In the aftermath of the plague and the cessation of war, the once-mighty Caelum Empire lay in ruin, its rulers, named the most evil Emperor and Empress in history, overthrown. The remnants of the imperial lineage crumbled under the weight of their tyranny. Rising from the shadows of despair emerged the newly crowned Emperor Yuuta, the only remaining lineal heir of the Gojou lineage, who returned to Caelum from his exile with a fervent commitment to restore and rebuild. Known for his fairness and compassion, Yuuta pledged to rebuild the empire, to heal its wounds, and to usher in an era of lasting peace. With each brick laid and each decree issued, he sought to honor the memory of those who perished and to ensure that the horrors of the past would never be repeated. And so, under Yuuta's steadfast guidance, the Caelum Empire embarked on a journey of restoration, its future brightened by the promise of a new dawn.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

-> NEXT PART

#oneshot: as you like it #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo angst #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojou x reader #jjk angst

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neptuniadoesstuff · 2 months ago

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Harvester Concept Art?

Concept Art for a dragon I'm designing. Not sure if this will be the official design, so that's why I say it's concept art.

So anyways, this goofus is named Havester, & they're based on a Harvester butterfly. They exist in the universe known as "Reign of Ruin" which sorta... Makes the pantalian Dragons more buggy. (No I'm serious they're more buggy. Don't ask me ask my frend u goofus. This is their universe, not mine.)

Now you may not like their design, but sometimes AUs & whatever do some different things & honestly. I think it's cute imo. (Minus the soulless eyes, but what can u really expect from a bug? They're cute but also stare into yur soul with them big ol eyes)

Credits

Design was created by me but owned by the same frend who owns "Reign of Ruin"

Art is mine

Program: IbisPaint

Bubs' TOS: Plz don't repost/steal, trace, or recolor my art WITHOUT MY PERMISSION! If you do, I'll take yur femur and pelvis.. SO, DON'T THINK ABOUT IT! (The PNS on my blog's pinned post clearly means "Please No Steal" plz follow that rule.) If you do post my art on anything like yur blog or somewhere else (With my permission) PLEASE CREDIT ME!

#neptuniadoesstuff #art #oc #WoF #wof au #wings of fire #wings of fire au #WoF: Reign of Ruin #Silkwing (RoR)#Harvester (OC)#Silkwing #Dt #Design Trade #Concept Art?

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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

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All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell.

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you.

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself.

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out.

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you.

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin.

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls.

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me!

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise.

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies.

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

“I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress.

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight.

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring.

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water. You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips.

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip.

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone.

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek.

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all.

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement.

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release.

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt.

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are. He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly, shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you. You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab.

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation.

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm.

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure. “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #monster romance #terato #monster x human #dragon x reader #monster x reader #homelander fanfiction #i'm gonna need so much aftercare from y'all on this one i've been writing it for the last 23 days lmao #and i'm posting it all at once because I LOVE U #my writing #monsterlander mania

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velarisdusk · 4 months ago

Text

Thawing Boundaries

Hockey AU | Azriel x Reader x Rhysand

Series Masterlist Part 1 <- ✦.⁺.✦.⁺.✦ -> Part 3 - Melted Resolve

word count: 11.7k content: there's so much in this one i'm bound to miss a few [ explicit sexual content, PIV (protected, a shocker for me i know), rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), voyeuristic elements, dirty talk, degradation, biting/marking, choking, light slapping, public sex (locker room setting), threesome, dominance/submission, infidelity | forced proximity, emotional conflict, dub-con (but reader does want it i promise), injury mention, strong language, and (very light) emotional manipulation and guilt-tripping ] summary: After tension from a failed move at practice leads to a teammate's injury, you and Azriel unexpectedly meet in the locker room. As you share a heated moment, a surprise arrival heightens the stakes, leading to a steamy, forbidden encounter that leaves you questioning your choices and their consequences. author's note: AAAAAAAAA? tysm for all the love on Ice Cold Jealousy, this was so fun to write i hope yall like it >;) i might've gone too hard on the dirty talk depending on the type of person you are but idc it's hot OH and i PROMISE these wont all take place in the locker room lmfao, it's just where the plot took me. also, no dp dont get your hopes up.

On the ice, chaos reigns. The game unfolds at breakneck speed, the puck zipping from stick to stick, its path unpredictable. Players shift positions in the blink of an eye, changing possession in heartbeats. Their movements are a blur of speed and precision, leaving you struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire action.

With 15 seconds left, the Golden Spring Griffins were up 3-2. There was no need to score again — they just had to keep possession. A bunch of show-offs…

And right there was the proof.

A pass from one of their wingers to the other, cutting it mighty close to the Snowvale Sentinels’ defensive line. He rode it along the left side of the rink for about ten feet before an abrupt 180; clockwise, getting up close and personal with the defenseman who’d chased him down the whole play. The defenseman struck his stick down between the other player and the puck, expecting him to double back around.

Everyone expected him to double back around.

But there he was — Tamlin, you believed was his name — skating backward for a second, letting the momentum carry him along his path. And he finished out his clockwise turn. Turn back down the ice? Not a chance. It was the perfect opportunity for a spin-o-rama. What a silly name for such a calculated move. What he did next had the arena and fans watching from everywhere on their feet.

It was common practice to pass after a spin-o-rama, the maneuver simply meant to disorient any nearby opposition if a player was ever in a tough spot. Whoever he passed to would be expected to, as quickly as possible, either go for the shot or pass to someone who could. The downside was that this not only gave the opposing team time to figure out what was happening but to adjust accordingly as well.

So Tamlin didn’t give them that chance.

Immediately after coming out of his spin, he brought his stick back, and in a flash, thrust it forward. You could’ve sworn you heard the blade hit the ice just before the puck, and—

Red light. Goal.

Buzzer. That’s game.

A spin-o-rama, a risky maneuver as is, followed by a slapshot, one of the strongest but least accurate shots, as you’d heard Cassian remind his team countless times over the years.

It was all so fast.

You focus on his footwork throughout the turn, absorbing every detail.

Again, you watch, slower this time, and notice the precise angle of the blade.

Looking up, you see Tarquin attempting the very same move, Cassian standing in as an opposing player. You tap your phone screen, pausing the ESPN stream of last night’s game. You’d gotten your fill of it last night. Lifting the soup spoon from the pot to your lips, you’d very nearly burnt yourself after how badly you’d jumped at Cassian’s exaggerated gasp at the television. For what had to have been at least an hour following, you were subject to the full-volume gushes and shouts of every last one of the Vipers during their group FaceTime. They were playing the Griffins in a couple of weeks. Though they didn’t have a particularly bitter history, their rivalry always had a bit of an edge to it.

It made sense that during practice today, Cassian was on their asses more than usual. The priority for the next couple of days was to teach Tarquin and Rhysand the maneuver (while trying to master it himself), to then teach the others how to counter it.

Practice ended over half an hour ago, but they still had some time on the ice before Phil the Zamboni Guy came out to resurface it. He was cool, if a bit grouchy-looking.

“Fuck!”

He was fine regarding the first half of the move, but coming out of the spin, none of his slapshots made it into the net. Hell — none of them made it past Cassian.

“Again,” he said, firmly but coolly. In response, Tarquin wordlessly skated back to his starting position down ice, head lazily flopped back and arms loose by his sides.

“Where’s Rhys? Isn’t he supposed to be here too?” Tarquin groaned, shifting back into proper stance.

“Rhysie’s got a little date tonight,” you could hear the smirk in your boyfriend’s voice, followed by a sound of exaggerated, definitely insincere, enthusiasm from Tarquin.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Mor.

Karaoke tn?

Truly, you had plans. Plans to stay home and watch bad TLC shows with a large bottle of chilled wine. But really, how bad would it be? You’d be drinking either way. Karaoke is not a sober activity.

uhh

where at?

After a few moments, another buzz, a text with an address, followed by a “Pleaseeeee (y/n), it’s so fun when you come :( I need someone to debrief and shit talk with after.” You roll your eyes with a small snort. Tapping on the address link, the map opens to show you it’s a nice little spot downtown, hopefully better than the sketchy karaoke place you’d followed her to last time.

sure why n-

Your screen goes black. You sigh, realizing you’ve drained your battery watching replays and scrolling through socials during the long practice session.

Bringing your gaze back up, you notice the palpable frustration radiating from both men. You’ve never seen Tarquin so angry during practice; things usually came quite easily to him. When his next slapshot makes it past Cassian but bounces off the crossbar, you’re stunned. Even more shocking is the feral growl that echoes throughout the arena. You watch, astonished, as he violently hurls his helmet onto the ice. He skates off, fuming, before storming off down the hall. To cool down, you presume.

Cassian skates over to you, and you meet him at the players’ bench to avoid talking through the glass.

“That move is gonna give us all hell,” Cassian sighs, removing his helmet and running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

You nod sympathetically. “It looked tricky. Tarquin seemed pretty frustrated,” you say, stating the obvious. You both share a knowing smile.

“Yeah… But we’ll get it down,” he says, determination creeping into his voice. “Can’t take as long as the backhand saucer pass with Eris. Remember how many times he nearly took Az’s head off before he got it right?”

You chuckle a bit at the memory. He’d gotten the pass down fairly quickly. The issue was applying it. They’d spend about a week of practice setting up different game situations for him to practice the move.

Azriel got hit with the puck several times.

“You look good out there,” you told him with a coy smile.

“When do I not?”

“When you’re being a narcissist,” you scoff. A blatant lie; he knew you liked your men cocky.

Cassian leans closer, a roguish grin spreading across his face. “Narcissist? Please. It’s not narcissism if it’s true.” He winks, then adds in a lower voice, “Besides, I seem to recall you enjoying my… confidence quite thoroughly last night.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “And here I thought your ego couldn’t get any bigger. Guess I’ll have to find a way to take you down a peg or two later.”

Cassian leans against the boards, his grin widening. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you tease, mirroring his posture.

He relents, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You’re something else, babe, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink. “Though usually by guys who can’t keep up.”

“Oh, I think I manage just fine,” Cassian counters, a glint in his eye.

You’re about to respond when his stomach lets out an audible growl. He looks down, slightly embarrassed, and you both chuckle, the moment lightening.

Cassian says, rubbing the back of his neck, “What are you thinking for dinner tonight?”

“Oh, actually,” you start, “I’m going to karaoke with Mor. And some of her friends, I think? I’ll grab something while I’m out.”

Cassian nods, “Sounds fun. Tell Mor I said hi.”

“My phone died while I was texting her. Mind if I use yours to let her know?”

“Sure thing,” Cassian replies, reaching over the wall for his duffel.

Suddenly, the sharp sounds of blades scraping ice cuts through the air. You both turn to see Tarquin charging full speed with the puck toward center ice. His helmet’s off, hair windswept, determination etched on his features. You can’t help but admire the raw athleticism on display as he turns his back to the goal, his footwork mirroring Tamlin’s from the video.

You inhale sharply. As he initiates the spin, his blade catches the edge of the puck instead of gliding past it. In a split second, his ankle twists at a sickening angle. His body, still carrying the momentum of the spin, topples sideways. You watch in horror as Tarquin crashes onto the ice, a cry of pain echoing through the arena.

Tarquin clutches his ankle, his features twisted in distress. Cassian immediately rushes towards him. You follow, carefully stepping onto the ice, your shoes sliding slightly as you try to keep your balance. As you near, you hear Rhysand’s voice from the direction of the locker room. “What happened?” he shouts, running towards the scene.

Rhysand, more sure-footed, reaches you first. As you slip slightly on the ice, his hand finds your lower back, the other on your shoulder, steadying you as he moves swiftly by. He slides to his knees the last few feet, joining Cassian at Tarquin’s side. You follow, more cautiously, moments later.

“You gotta let me get a look at it bro,” Cassian tells him, face grim as he gently probes at Tarquin’s ankle. He moves his hand, and Cassian carefully unlaces Tarquin’s skate. The process is slow, each tug causing him to wince. His eyes, usually so bright, are now clouded with pain, making your heart ache a little at the sight. When Cassian finally eases the skate off, you all grimace. It’s silent save for the breath you suck in through your teeth. The two men kneeling over Tarquin shoot you a look, and you mouth a small “sorry”. How were you supposed to know they were trying to keep calm? It’s not like Tarquin was some fragile rookie who couldn’t handle it.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Tarquin tells them, jaw clenching and nostrils flaring a bit in pain when Cassian tries to move his ankle. “Probably just a sprain, right?”

His ankle is already swelling, an angry red color blooming across the skin. The area around the bone looks puffy and distorted.

“Yeah… Yeah, probably—help me get him to my truck,” Cassian says to Rhysand, his voice tense with worry. With Cassian supporting his legs and Rhysand at his shoulders, Tarquin cradles his ankle as they lift him. It’s a bit awkward with only one of them in skates but they manage.

As they carry him towards the exit, Tarquin calls out to you, his voice strained with pain. “(Y/N)! Can you grab my phone from my locker? 1418, combination’s 19-21-13.”

“Got it,” you reply assertively, already turned away. You call back to Cassian, “Just go, I’ll meet you there!”

You hurry down the hallway, your mind racing faster than your feet. The image of Tarquin’s swollen ankle flashes in your mind, making you cringe. How bad was it really? A sprain could mean a few weeks of recovery, but if it was fractured or worse…

As you near the locker room, you force yourself to focus. 1418, 19-21-13. You repeat the numbers in your head, determined not to forget them in your rush.

The quiet empty corridor feels eerie after the chaos on the ice. You find yourself wondering how Tarquin is holding up, if he’s in much pain. A pang of sympathy hits you — you’ve seen how passionate he is about the game, how hard he pushes himself. Memories of his intense focus during practices, the way his muscles flex as he glides across the ice, his infectious smile, the droplets of water trailing down his chest after a shower…

You quickly push those thoughts aside, feeling a mix of guilt and a confusing thrill at the unbidden images.

Reaching the locker room door, you push it open without hesitation, your eyes already scanning for locker 1418.

You spot it quickly enough, your fingers flying over the combination lock. 19-21-13. The locker swings open with a metallic creak. You rummage through the contents, pushing aside gym clothes and equipment until your hand closes around the familiar shape of a phone.

As you’re about to shut the locker and race back to your car, something catches your eye. Pinned to the inside of the door is a Polaroid — one you took at the team’s annual log cabin retreat last year. The guys are shirtless, grinning at the camera, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Cassian stands in the middle, all flexed biceps and confidence, Rhysand to his right and Tarquin on his left with matching, easygoing smiles that you’ve internally swooned at more than once. Azriel, always a bit more reserved than the others, stands slightly behind them, his eyes soft with a rare moment of unguarded joy. Helion and Eris flank the group, their expressions reflecting a mix of mischief and amusement. That was moments before they’d picked Cassian up and thrown him into the lake. You can’t help but smile, remembering the weekend’s camaraderie and the close quarters, the obstacle course that left you all covered in mud and laughing, the impromptu swimming races in the lake, and the countless moments of playful teasing. The cabin’s single bathroom had led to more than a few flustered encounters. You’d lost count of how many times you’d rounded the corner, only to collide with one of the guys fresh from the shower, hair dripping, towel barely clinging to their hips. Each of them had caught you off guard at least once over the years, leaving you to save face and will yourself not to stare.

Your reminiscing is abruptly cut short by a strained sound echoing through the room. You freeze, suddenly aware of the steady hiss of running water. How long have the showers been on? You were so focused on finding the phone, you hadn’t even noticed… Another noise like the last, this one a bit louder.

Concern creeps in as you wonder if someone else has gotten hurt. First Tarquin, now this? What is it with today? Cautiously, you move towards the showers, ears straining for any more sounds. The rush of water grows louder as you approach. Only the stall at the far end, against the back wall, is running. You notice a small gap between the curtain and the wall, and before you can stop yourself, your eyes are drawn to it.

Through the narrow space, you catch a glimpse of Azriel. His back is turned, muscles tense, shoulders slightly hunched, his head bowed. There’s a rhythmic quality to his movements that takes you a moment to comprehend. When realization dawns, you feel heat rush to your face.

You know you should leave, give him privacy, but you find yourself frozen in place. The steam seems to thicken the air around you, making it harder to breathe. Suddenly you’re acutely aware of your quickening pulse and the warmth spreading through your body.

Azriel’s back muscles ripple with each movement, the water cascading down his tanned skin, highlighting every ridge and contour. His left hand is splayed flat against the wall for support, fingers flexing slightly every now and then. The muscles in his arm contract and release, contract and release. His right hand, lower and out of view, works in a steady, practiced motion.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the interplay of muscles across his shoulders and back. His wet hair clings to his neck, droplets trailing down to join the rivulets streaming along his spine. Your gaze travels further downward, following the water’s path over the powerful curve of his glutes, the firm muscles clenching with each movement. His legs, strong and slightly apart for balance, show every shift in weight and tension, every flex and release.

The sight is intoxicating. A flush creeps up your neck, a reaction that’s as involuntary as it is intense. Azriel lets out a low, throaty sound of pleasure, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You’re rooted to the spot, every sense heightened. The steam swirls around you, seemingly thickening the air, making it harder to breathe. The sound of water rushing fills your ears, drowning out rational thought. You can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, the sheer presence of him a magnet pulling you closer.

Suddenly, Azriel’s movements still, and you notice the subtle tension in his muscles. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his profile. For a moment, you hope he hasn’t seen you, but then his eyes lock onto yours through the small gap. His gaze is intense, piercing, and you can see the realization dawning in his expression.

You feel your heart stop, your breath hitching in your throat. The room seems to shrink around you, the air heavy all of a sudden. Azriel’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Didn’t expect company,” he says, voice low and husky, cutting through the sound of the shower like a knife.

You stumble back a step, heat flooding your face. “I— Fuck, I’m sorry,” you push out, unable to tear your eyes away from him. From those eyes. He doesn’t move, just continues to watch you, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

You finally force yourself to move, turning quickly and beelining for the door. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to—” you stammer over your shoulder, your heart racing. You reach for the door handle and tug, but it doesn’t budge. Panic flares as you yank harder, but it’s stuck. You slide Tarquin’s phone into your jacket pocket to use both hands.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, trying not to think about what Azriel must be thinking of you right now.

You hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Your pulse quickens as you keep tugging on the door handle. “You don’t have to pretend it’s locked if you wanna stay in here with me, y’know,” Azriel’s voice comes from behind you, closer now.

You glance back to see him walking towards you, a towel in hand, drying his forearms and hands. The towel barely preserves his modesty, exposing everything from his muscular thighs to the sharp cut of his hip bones and a tantalizing glimpse of his V-line. He’s casual, almost nonchalant, but his eyes never leave yours, dark with amusement and something more.

“I was—” you start, but he cuts you off, raising a brow.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, voice smooth and teasing.

You manage to arch a brow as well, trying to maintain some of your dignity as you respond, “Didn’t realize you were putting on a performance.”

Azriel chuckles, a deep, rich sound. “For you, (y/n)? I’d put on a private performance anytime.”

You feel your face start to heat up again, but you keep your composure. “How generous of you.”

He grins, finally wrapping the towel around his waist, the movement slow and deliberate. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze from traveling downward. “I aim to please,” he says.

You gesture to the door with your arm. “Since you’re so helpful, how about getting this door open?”

Azriel steps closer, lightly brushing his fingers against your arm as he moves you gently aside. “Let’s see what we have here,” he murmurs, his touch making its way to your waist and lingering a moment longer than necessary.

He gives the handle a firm tug. It doesn’t budge for him either. After a few more tries, he furrows his brows at it, as if it’ll give him an answer. “You weren’t kidding…”

“Shocking, I know,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

As he continues trying the door, you can’t help but be captivated by the muscles rippling in his arms, each sinew flexing with effort. Your eyes wander to the brutal scars crisscrossing his hands, remnants of a fateful game well before your time with the team. But you can’t help but imagine how those roughened fingers would feel inside you. The thought has you biting your lip to keep from sighing.

Azriel’s movements falter, and he glances back at you, a smirk playing on his lips. You quickly divert your eyes, feeling the intensity of his gaze. His smirk widens as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. He places a hand on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing the side of your neck gently before his grip tightens, almost possessively. “Catch your attention?” His voice drops to a whisper, the rasp sending jolts of arousal through you.

“Come on, Az…” you murmur weakly, turning your head away from him. His hand moves from your shoulder to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he asks, head cocked as he leans in to whisper in your ear. “You can never keep your eyes off of me for long, you make it so obvious.”

Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your arm, sending a chill through your body. He leans in even closer, his lips almost grazing your skin. “Are you imagining what I could do for you that he can’t? Because I think about it more than I care to admit,” he continues, his voice a low rumble.

Cass.

Your mind screams his name, but your body is rooted to the spot. Cassian is waiting for you, the urgency of the situation pulling at you like a lifeline. Yet here you stand, trapped in Azriel’s intoxicating presence, the steam in the air persistent.

“You look tense, (y/n)” Azriel pulls back, his voice low and smooth, a dark melody that raises goosebumps across your skin. His hand moves to your waist, fingers tracing the curve of your hip over your skirt. “Is it because of Cass?”

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. “Azriel. I need to go. He’s waiting for me.”

Azriel’s lips curl into a knowing smile as his hand slides lower, toying with the hem of your skirt. “Is he?” he asks, his tone teasing.

Your breath catches as his fingers dip beneath the hem, just enough to tease, “Az, please,” you murmur, though the conviction in your voice is waning.

“Please what?” Azriel’s hand moves with slow, deliberate intent, his touch both tender and possessive. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop?”

Your mind is a whirlwind as his touch makes your pulse race. “Cassian,” you whisper, almost a plea.

“Cassian doesn’t have to know,” Azriel whispers, his voice dripping with reassurance, each word a gentle caress against your skin. “It’ll be our little secret. I promise.”

You should resist, should want to resist, to pull away and run to Cassian. But his hand slips up, under your skirt, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of your tights. Your body betrays you, squeezing your thighs together, a barely perceptible, breathy whine escaping you.

“We can’t,” you breathe out with a barely visible shake of your head, but you don’t push him away.

“And why not, hm?” He sounds like he’s hardly there, enraptured by the trail of his fingers when they find the waistline of your tights, slipping just beneath the hem to caress your skin directly.

You grab his wrist to stop him, and it’s only then that you tear your eyes away from his to look at the sight. His hand is under your skirt, the fabric draped over his wrist. The fabric is lifted just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your underwear if he were to lower his gaze.

Your heart pounds as you struggle to maintain your resolve. “This isn’t right,” you whisper, your voice betraying the war raging within you.

Azriel’s fingers pause. “Isn’t it?” he asks softly, his voice a soothing murmur. “It feels right, doesn’t it?”

His tone is gentle, almost coaxing. “We’re just sharing a moment,” he continues, his breath warm against your skin. “No one has to know.”

Your grip on his wrist weakens, the conflict within you intensifying with each second. His words, his touch — they’re all weaving a spell around you, pulling you closer.

Azriel senses your hesitation and presses his advantage, his hand resuming its slow, deliberate movements. “Just let go,” he whispers, his voice a dark promise. “Let me make you feel good.”

Your resolve crumbles as his touch becomes more insistent, his fingers tracing patterns of fire on your skin. The forbidden thrill of his touch, the intoxicating promise of pleasure — it’s too much to resist.

With a soft gasp, you finally give in, your back arching as your chest presses into him. “Azriel,” you breathe, but it’s different than before. This time, his name tumbles from your lips as both a surrender and a plea.

Azriel’s smile is triumphant as he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his hands roaming freely now, exploring every inch of you. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you in this heated, forbidden moment.

You know you shouldn’t be doing this. Part of your mind screams at you to stop, to push him away, but the way his hands move, the way his lips taste… It’s intoxicating. The guilt gnaws at you, but the desire is overwhelming, drowning out any sense of right or wrong when his hand slips further into the waistband of your tights, his fingers brushing against your panties. He rubs you through the fabric, and as a soft moan escapes your lips, a groan leaves his. The sensation is electric, a pleasure and forbidden thrill that makes your knees weak. You clutch at his shoulders, torn between the need to push him away and the desire to pull him closer.

You gasp, his name a breathless whisper on your lips. He responds with a low, satisfied hum, his fingers working, pushing you further into your haze. His touch is both gentle and demanding, sending shocks of pleasure through your body. You feel his warm breath against your neck as his lips trail down, leaving a blazing path in their wake. Your body craves more, hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm against his hand. He doesn’t stop, each stroke deliberate and intoxicating. Your breaths come faster, and you tangle your fingers into his still-dripping hair, pulling him back up for a frenzied kiss.

Desperation takes over as you both rush to tear off your clothes. Your jacket falls to the floor with a distant thud, Tarquin’s phone still in the pocket. The sound barely registers in your mind, consumed as you are by the urgent need to feel Azriel’s skin on yours. His hands move with practiced ease, pulling your shirt up and off, your lips hardly separating. His fingers work deftly at the clasp of your bra, and with a single motion, it comes undone, falling away to reveal your bare skin.

As you kick off your shoes, his lips are already back on your neck, biting, licking, aching for a taste. You step backward, the backs of your thighs brushing against the wall as he tugs down your skirt and tights in one forceful, fluid motion, the urgency in his actions mirrored by your own racing heartbeat. Each step backward leaves a piece of clothing discarded. He pauses, his eyes dark with desire as he takes you in, then his fingers resume their exploration, sliding beneath your panties to rub you directly. You gasp, arching further into his touch, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same intensity as his fingers. He pulls back his hand, peeling away and discarding the last bit of cloth. He lifts you then, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. As you both step towards the shower, you hear the soft thud of Azriel’s towel hitting the floor. He guides you closer, the anticipation building with each step. The spray of water hits your skin, and for a moment you're confused.

Azriel’s voice, low and reassuring, cuts through the hiss of the water. “Some privacy,” he murmurs against your lips, a sly smile playing on his face. “In case we get rescued.”

The water cascades over you both. You cling to him, lost in the sensation, the guilt and doubt taking a backseat. His hands roam freely, caressing every inch of your body with a possessive tenderness. His lips trail down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His fingers find your clit again, circling in slowly, teasingly. You moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.

“You feel so good around my fingers,” Azriel growls against your lips. “So tight and wet for me.”

Your breaths are nothing more than shallow gasps, each one punctuated by the delicious friction of his fingers. “Az,” you moan, trying to keep your voice low. “I need more.”

He smirks, his lips brushing against your ear. “Oh, are you going to beg for it?” A deep hum. “I want to hear those sweet little moans louder, baby, can you do that for me?”

You can’t help but comply, your moans finally growing from whispered gasps as his fingers move faster, curl harder. “Fuck— Yes, Azriel, right there,” you choke out, the last remnant of common sense in you still minding your volume.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “You’re so fucking perfect like this, falling apart on my hand.” His thumb steadily circles your throbbing clit.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders for something to anchor yourself with as the pleasure builds. “Please Az,” you whimper, your voice trembling with need. “I’m so close,” you tell him, a hint of disbelief in your tone.

“Come for me, angel,” he commands, a glint in his eyes. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

Your body tenses, the pleasure cresting, and you let out a strangled cry, a hand over your mouth stifling it. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, and his name spills from your lips, a breathless chant, as he continues to touch you, prolonging the pleasure.

“That was… wow…” you pant as you come down from your high.

“Good,” he says, his fingers slowing but not stopping. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can respond, he moves his hand from your breast to your mouth, holding his fingers up to your lips. “Suck,” is all he says. And you do. You take his fingers in, swirling your tongue around them, coating them in your saliva. “You look so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, looking down at you with slightly parted lips. “So perfect.”

He pulls out of you, but just as you’re about to whine around his fingers at the loss, you see him bring them to his own mouth, and you whine at that instead. He groans and his eyes roll back when he tastes you, and the sight sends a rush of need to your core. “Azriel,” you mumble around his fingers, the word muffled.

“Shh, angel,” he soothes, his voice a low rumble. “Just let me take care of you.” His fingers leave your mouth, trailing down your body. Both of his hands come to rest on your hips, squeezing the flesh there. He turns you suddenly, pulling your back flush against his front, and his arms wrap around you. One hand slides between your legs, resuming its torment, while the other moves to cover your mouth.

“Quiet now,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t want anyone walking by outside to hear us, right?”

You nod, hardly processing what he’d said. Your concentration is set on the feel of his toned abdominal muscles pressed against your back.

“You said Cass was waiting for you, right?” he whispers in your ear, the sensation without being able to see him being all the more delicious, but your eyes widen at his words. You let out a frustrated groan, much louder than the noises you made before, though it’s muffled by his hand. “Doesn’t seem like you care too much anymore… What if he comes looking for you? Hm? What then? Gotta keep quiet for me, okay?” You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “For all we know, he could be right outside the door, worried sick about his sweet little (y/n).”

Your heart races at his words, fear and excitement coursing through you. Azriel’s fingers move faster, his hand stifling your moans. “Imagine the look on his face if he found you like this,” he continues. “So needy, so desperate for my touch.”

You shiver, his words igniting a forbidden thrill within you, far surpassing the teasing and casual touches Cassian permitted them all. “Please…” It’s so muffled behind his hand, but he hears you perfectly.

“Please what?” he murmurs, his fingers continuing to thrust in and out of you. “Please make you come again? Or please stop before Cassian catches us?”

Your mind is a whirlwind, the thought of Cassian finding you like this both terrifying and exhilarating. Azriel loosens his hand long enough to hear your response. “Make me come,” you finally whisper, your voice trembling with need. “Please, Azriel.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his fingers moving with relentless precision. “I want to feel you come for me again.”

You’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm, every nerve ending alight with sensation. The only sounds in the room are the running water, your ragged breaths, and the wet, slick sounds of his fingers working in and out of you at a punishing speed. Just as you’re about to reach the peak, you hear it — a faint squeak of a sneaker on the tiled floor.

Your eyes snap open, panic mingling with the pleasure. Azriel falters for a beat, barely half a second, but doesn’t stop, his hand tightening over your mouth. “Shh,” he whispers right into your ear, his voice dark and heavy with authority. “Don’t make a sound.”

You’re caught in a delicious torment, the fear of being seen only heightening your arousal. The footsteps grow louder, and closer, and then, abruptly, the curtain is yanked open.

Rhysand stands there, eyes wide with shock, then with something else as his eyes rake over your body. His eyes meet yours, then shift to Azriel behind you, his hand still buried between your legs, still moving in and out. A smile creeps onto Rhysand’s face and he crosses his arms, leaning against the wall with a short breath of a laugh.

“Does Cass know you’ve got her here like this?” He juts his chin at you.

Azriel smirks, his fingers still working inside you. “What do you think?”

Rhysand chuckles, his eyes roaming over your body with a detached curiosity. “You think he’ll have you skate lines for this?” he muses. His gaze travels up and down your form, lingering on the places where Azriel’s hands are touching you, but his face remains a mask of calm. Yet you notice his knuckles turning white where he’s squeezing his hands into tight fists.

“Probably. And you’d probably be right there next to me just for seeing her like this,” Azriel replies nonchalantly, only a hint of the raspiness he spoke to you with before remains. “But I think it’s worth it.”

Rhysand nods, his eyes darkening with a predatory gleam. “She’s quite the sight isn’t she?” he says, as if you weren’t even there, as if you were nothing more than a piece of art to be admired and discussed. His gaze meets yours, and you see the raw hunger lurking beneath his cool exterior. It excites you, makes your muscles clench around Azriel’s fingers.

Azriel hums in agreement, fingers curling inside you, drawing a muffled moan from your lips. “Cass is lucky to have her.”

Rhysand's eyes remain fixed on you, a predatory gleam in their depths. He doesn't say anything more, just watches intently as Azriel continues his ministrations. You cling to Azriel's arms, your nails digging into his skin, the need to come overwhelming you.

"That's it, angel," Azriel murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "Get yours, go ahead."

You can see Rhysand hardening in his pants, his cool demeanor betraying nothing but his body telling a different story. The sight only heightens your arousal, pushing you closer to the edge.

With a final, desperate cry, you shatter around Azriel's fingers, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. He holds you through it, his fingers never stopping until you're trembling and spent.

As you come down from your high, Rhysand steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "Mind if I join?" he asks, but his question is directed at you, not Azriel.

You hesitate, the conflict clear in your eyes. Azriel tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at him. "It's okay," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "You want this, don't you?"

You swallow hard, then nod slowly. Rhysand's eyes darken with satisfaction as he begins to strip, his movements unhurried.

Azriel’s fingers finally slip out of you, and he gently guides you to lean back against the shower wall and he kneels before you, bringing one of your legs over his shoulder. The warm water cascades over you both, heightening the intimacy. Between your thighs, eyes locked on yours, he starts to kiss a trail up your inner thigh. “You’ve been such a good girl for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “You ready to be good for Rhys too?”

Rhysand, now fully undressed, steps into the stall with a lazy confident stride. He lowers himself beside Azriel, his eyes devouring the sight of you. You can’t help but look away from the sight of both of them admiring your most intimate parts. “Look at you ,” Rhysand says, his voice dripping with approval, and you whine in embarrassment as he spreads your sex. “So beautiful.”

Azriel’s mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue flicking out to taste you, and you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair. Rhysand stands, his hands cupping your breasts with a thumb circling your nipple, eliciting a soft moan from you. “So fucking good,” he murmurs, leaning in to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

His lips are even softer than you imagined, his hands both tender and firm, exactly as you’d fantasized. Azriel’s tongue works with expert precision, each stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. Rhysand’s hand trails down your body, his fingers joining Azriel’s mouth between your legs, and the combination of their touches drives you wild.

“Does that feel good, angel?” Azriel asks, his voice vibrating against your core.

You nod, unable to say anything more than a quiet ‘uh-huh’. Rhysand’s lips travel to your neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin there. Your heart shoots up into your throat, hoping they thought about leaving you free of any marks. “You look so perfect like this,” he whispers, his breath hot against your neck. “Tell us what you need, darling,” Rhysand says softly, gently.

“Both of you,” you manage to gasp out, your voice trembling. “I need both of you.”

Azriel’s laugh is low and wicked as he pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with amusement, chin slick with your wetness. “Hear that, Rhys? She can’t get enough — she’s fuckin’ begging for it.”

Rhysand’s fingers trail slowly over your skin, away from your most sensitive, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I know, so needy,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Poor Cassian. Does he know what a slut you are for us? How you’re dripping and ready the second we touch you?”

Azriel’s hands move to your hips, gripping them firmly. “I bet he’s pacing right now, worried sick about his sweet little (y/n),” he taunts, his breath fanning over your pulsing cunt. “And here you are, begging for us to fuck you. Does that make you wet, (y/n)? Knowing he’s waiting?”

You whimper, the heat of their words igniting your shame. “I don’t— It— No,” your eyes turn glassy with tears. You should leave, should somehow get through that door and run to Cassian and confess everything, beg for his forgiveness, and pray he doesn’t leave you for betraying his trust. But the need, the raw desire coursing through you, Azriel’s face between your legs, keeps you rooted to the spot. Before you can wonder how Rhysand even got in, he speaks up, his voice dripping with amusement. “Look at you, stuttering and trembling. You can’t even admit it to yourself, can you? That being a good, filthy little slut behind his back turns you on.”

Azriel chuckles against your core, the vibrations sending shivers through you. “He’s right, isn’t he, angel? Answer him,” he commands, tongue and fingers working in tandem. Then Rhysand’s lips suck and bite at your breast, his hand squeezing at the other. It all pushes you to the brink of your sanity. You can’t deny it anymore. The very thought of betraying Cassian while being worshipped by his two best friends, their words and touch stripping away your hesitance, is intoxicating. The way their voices tease and command, the way their hands and mouths worship your body — every sensation, every whisper, is a direct line to your deepest desires.

With a moan, you finally give in, your voice barely more than a breathless murmur as a single tear falls from your eye. “Yes… God, yes, it turns me on so much…” Your admission hangs heavy in the air for a few moments. Azriel’s eyes gleam with a dark satisfaction, and Rhysand’s smirk widens as if he’s just won some grand prize. The air around you crackles with their shared triumph, and they each seem to revel in having been able to extract the confession from you.

Rhysand’s fingers continue to slide over your skin, his touch commanding and sure, and Azriel shrugs your leg off his shoulder as he stands and steps aside. “Want to feel her, Rhys? She’s perfect.” He doesn’t hesitate for a moment, pushing his middle and ring fingers into you, a groan escaping him at the feel of you.

“Damn… I can’t wait to stuff you full, (y/n). Do you want that? Want us both to fuck you so good, don’t you?”

You must have whined out your boyfriend’s name, because Azriel’s voice adds, “You know we won’t tell if you don’t. Cassian doesn’t need to know about this, right?” His hand comes up to move a wet strand of hair from your face and stays on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing your skin soothingly.

Rhysand’s fingers pump into you deeply now. Their faces are both so close to yours and it takes everything in you to continue to listen to what they’re saying. “That’s right, darling. It’s our little secret, just the three of us.”

“You’re doing so well, angel,” Azriel praises. “Just let Rhys take care of you. We’re here for you.”

“Cassian doesn’t need to know. It’s just us.”

“No one else needs to be involved. It’s our little secret.”

Their voices are thick with charm. It’s meant to soothe, to let you know this is a safe space where your desires are understood and indulged. You find yourself lost in their promises, in their intoxicating reassurance. It all creates a heady mix of emotions, drawing you deeper into the experience and further away from any thoughts of right or wrong.

Suddenly, Rhysand lifts your leg, hooking your knee into the crook of his arm. You gasp in surprise, hands grasping for any point of contact with them to keep yourself from falling. One grabs Rhysand’s bicep, the other lands on Azriel’s shoulder. His voice grows more urgent as he teases your slit with the head of his cock, his breath hot and demanding. “Remember, this is all for you. It’s just us making sure you get everything you want. Okay?”

It’s silent save for the spray of water around you all, and their eyes bore into yours expectantly. They were waiting. If you really didn’t want to do this, this was the moment to give the word. But the intensity of their gaze, the heated promises in their voices, and the way their bodies are pressed so close to yours make it nearly impossible to think clearly. The urgency in Rhysand’s voice and the steady reassurance from Azriel leave you trembling in anticipation. The pressure of their touches, the pleasure, the guilt, the need.

A soft, trembling “Yes” escapes your lips, barely audible, but it’s enough. Rhysand’s eyes light up with satisfaction, and he immediately begins to position himself more firmly, his movements confident and assured.

Azriel’s hand continues to soothe your neck, his thumb stroking gently as he leans in closer. “That’s it,” he sighs absently.

But you reach out and grab Rhysand by the wrist, stopping him. Their expressions shift to confusion; surprise and concern evident on their faces. You pause, a note of urgency in your voice. “Condom,” you manage to say, clearly and firmly.

Their features seem to relax a bit at that. They exchange a glance, and Azriel nods slightly before stepping away to fetch condoms from his locker.

Rhysand takes the opportunity to lean in closer, a genuine softness in his eyes as he looks at you. He gently places a hand on your cheek, his expression turning serious. “(Y/n), if you’re having any second thoughts, you can tell us. We can stop right here if you’re not completely sure, if you’re not comfortable.”

He pauses, giving you a moment to respond, his gaze unwavering and sincere. “We want you to feel good and to be sure about what you’re doing. If you want us to stop, we’ll stop. No questions asked.”

You distantly hear Azriel throw a locker shut. “Rhys… If I didn’t want this, you wouldn’t still have my leg over your arm.”

Rhysand gives a soft smile. “Alright, then.” He leans in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. It felt more intimate than the situation warranted. “Just making sure.”

Azriel returns holding a string of condom wrappers, and steps back into the shower, pulling the curtain shut behind him. Rhysand takes a foil square from him, opening it slowly. Azriel’s hands roam your body, his touch both grounding and electrifying. “We’re going to take our time with you,” he whispers, his breath against your ear. “Make sure you feel every second.”

You look down, watching Rhysand line himself back up, and your breath hitches. He’s big, the thickness of him daunting. The sight sends a thrill of anticipation through you, albeit with a touch of apprehension. He digs his fingers into your hips, the tip of his cock pushing up against your entrance. “Just relax, it’s alright,” he soothes you as he begins to push in, stretching you in ways that leave you breathless. The initial sensation is intense, pleasure and a slight burn as your body adjusts to his size. Every inch that presses into you feels like pure ecstasy. Your fingers tighten on each of them, your eyes wide and not once leaving Rhysand’s.

Azriel’s hand slides from your waist to your lower back, his touch featherlight but reassuring. As Rhysand pushes deeper, Azriel’s fingers trace the sensitive curve of your spine. He leans in, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “He’s big, isn’t he?” His other hand cups your breast, rolling and pinching your nipple. The dual sensation of Rhysand slowly filling you and Azriel’s gentle, yet firm, touch on your body makes your head spin. Azriel’s lips find the curve of your neck once again, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. The tenderness has you throwing your head back with a sigh.

“Mhm,” you moan slightly with a soft nod. Azriel, still toying with your nipple, gently grabs your chin and guides you to look back at Rhysand.

“Tell him, angel. Tell him how you love being split open by his cock, he wants to hear it.”

You whine, timid, as you look him in the eyes again, the violet deep enough to drown in. “You feel so good,” you manage to whisper, voice trembling. “I love how big you are, how you stretch me.”

But Azriel’s grip on your chin tightened. “Is that what I said?” His tone was domineering.

You swallow a gasp as Rhysand settles all the way in. “I love… being split open by your cock, Rhys,” your breathing coming in pants. “So good…”

You watch his lips curl into a smug grin. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pulling out until only the tip was in, then gently pushing himself back into you. But Azriel isn’t done.

“Now tell him you need more, beg him for it.” You can tell he’s got a devilish grin on his face by the sound of his voice.

“Please, Rhys, I need more,” you keen. “I need you to fuck me harder.”

Rhysand’s eyes darken with lust, his nails digging into your hips. “That’s it, beg for it,” he growls, beginning to pick up speed. His thrusts become more powerful, sending waves of pleasure through you.

“Harder, Rhys,” you plead, your voice quivering. “I need you to fuck me harder, please don’t hold back, I need it so, so bad—Fuck!” Your brows knit together in pleasure.

Azriel moves behind you, his strong hands sliding under your thighs. With a swift motion, he hoists you up, your legs hooked over his arms, the hold forcing your legs as far apart as they’ll go. Rhysand takes the opportunity to explore your body with his hands, one wrapping loosely around your throat and the other gently tangling in your hair.

“You feel so fucking good around me,” Rhysand grunts, his breath puffing against your lips. “So tight, so perfect.”

Azriel’s grip on your thighs is firm, his fingers digging into your flesh as he supports your weight. “Doing so well for us, angel,” he whispers, along with other soothing words of affirmation.

Rhysand’s pace quickens, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. His hand around your throat tightens just enough to make you gasp, his eyes locked onto yours. “You fucking like this, don’t you?” he growls. “Being used by us, being our perfect little slut.”

“Yes, God,” you moan, your voice breathless and full of need. “I love it, Rhys, you fuck me so good.” You feel Azriel’s grip tighten and Rhysand’s hips stutter at your words.

“He fucks you good, angel?” Azriel breathes out. When you nod, Rhysand sees him whisper into your ear, the relentless stream of water muffles his words, rendering them inaudible to him.

You shake your head adamantly, the glazed-over look clearing from your eyes. “No, Cassian’s the best,” your voice is steady despite the pleasure coursing through your core with every pump in and out. “No one fucks me like he does.”

Rhysand's thrusts slow but grow more deliberate, hitting deeper with every motion. He moves his hand from around your neck only to roughly grab your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Is that so?” he murmurs, brows raised slightly. He thrusts harder, his eyes never leaving yours, determined to make you doubt your own words.

Azriel readjusts his grip on your thighs, and you can feel his hard length pressing against your ass. “Does Cassian treat you like you deserve? Like the whore you are?” Azriel asks, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. “Does he know how to make you tremble like this?”

Your eyes water, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan. “He… he knows me better than anyone,” you manage to say, though your conviction wavers with each thrust and touch.

Rhysand smirks, his grip tightening on your hips as he increases his pace. “We’ll see,” he growls, leaning in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue dominating yours.

Azriel’s mouth trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. “We’re going to make you feel so good, angel,” he whispers for both of you to hear. “So good that you’ll forget all about him.”

Rhysand’s fingers dig into your flesh, his thrusts becoming more intense. “Tell us how it feels,” he demands, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell us who’s making you feel this way.”

Your mind is a whirlwind of sensations, the relentless pleasure making it hard to think. “It… it feels…” you gasp, unable to form coherent thoughts as Azriel’s lips and Rhysand’s thrusts overwhelm your senses.

“Tell us,” Rhysand growls, jackhammering into you, a thumb playing with your clit. “Who makes you feel this way?”

Azriel’s breath is hot against your ear, his voice a seductive murmur. “Just admit it to yourself, (y/n).”

You’re teetering on the brink, the overwhelming sensations pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “You… you’re…” you stammer, the words caught in your throat.

“Say it,” Rhysand commands, his voice rough with need.

Azriel’s lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear, his teeth grazing your skin.

Finally, your orgasm breaks, and you cry out, your body convulsing with the force of it. “Cassian!” you scream, the name ripped from your lips as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Tears stream from your eyes now, whether from the contrition or the sheer bliss, you didn’t know.

Rhysand's eyes flare with anger. His thrusts become more erratic and forceful, his jaw clenched in frustration. The force of his thrusts now left the previous ones forgotten. “Cassian?” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “Was Cassian the one to make you come just now?” Without a word, he grabs you from Azriel. You wrap your legs around him. Without missing a beat, he pulls out almost entirely, leaving you gasping for breath. He slams back into you with a renewed, relentless force. The raw intensity of his thrusts makes you whimper, your body trembling from the overstimulation. His eyes lock onto yours, filled with a fierce determination to make you forget everything but him.

“I don’t want you saying his name while I’m inside you, while I’m the one fucking you dumb,” Rhysand demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Look at you… A crying mess.” He pulls you down onto him with every upward thrust. “Say my name,” he demands, his tone both seductive and demanding. “I don’t care if it isn’t true, while I’m fucking you, you make me believe I’m the only one you want.”

You gasp and moan as his words cut through your tears. “Rhysand… Rhysand, you’re the one,” you whimper, barely able to form coherent thoughts. “I need you… so much.”

Behind you, Azriel’s eyes gleam with a predatory interest as he watches the intense scene unfold. His hand drifts down his body, fingers brushing against his neglected cock. He strokes himself slowly, savoring the sight of you being claimed by Rhysand, the way your body responds so eagerly to every thrust.

“Prove that I’m fucking you so stupid that all you can think about is my name. Can you do that for me? Can you forget about Cassian and make me the only one who matters?”

You nod fervently, your voice breaking. You shout a mantra of “Yes’s,” your body arching in response to his powerful thrusts. “Want you to come…”

Rhysand’s lips curl into a dark, satisfied grin as he listens to your desperate pleas. “Good girl,” he murmurs, movements growing more urgent, breathing growing heavier. “Scream my name while I come inside you,” he commands, his voice strained.

Your body is trembling from the intensity, every nerve alight with overstimulation. “Rhysand! Rhysand!” you cry out, each plea mingled with breathless moans and cries of ecstasy. “Please, don’t stop! I need more, need you to come!”

With a low, guttural sound, Rhysand finally reaches his climax. His thrusts become sharp and erratic, each one punctuated by a shudder as he fills you completely. His grip on your hips is relentless, his body convulsing with the force of his release. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re perfect. So good for me…”

As he pulls back, panting heavily, Azriel steps forward with a smirk of his own. His gaze is unwavering, and his presence feels almost predatory. He takes you by the waist, guiding you down gently. Your legs feel like jelly, barely able to support your weight, and you stumble slightly as you catch yourself against the cold tiles of the wall.

“Wait, just a sec…” you manage to murmur, still trying to catch your breath. But Azriel isn’t having any of it. His hands are firm and decisive as he presses you against the wall chest-first, pulling your hips back, and pushing your back into an arch.

“No,” Azriel’s voice is a low, fierce growl, his eyes burning with unrestrained hunger. He steps closer, his movements assertive and commanding, an almost primal need radiating from him. As he presses you against the cold tiles, your legs buckle slightly under the weight of his presence. His hands grip your waist with unyielding strength, holding you firmly in place. “No more waiting,” he murmurs, his voice rough and laced with desire. “I found you first. I’ve been waiting my turn, watching, and now I get my time with you. You’re not getting a moment’s rest.”

Your mind is a hazy whirl of pleasure and confusion, struggling to focus on anything. The remnants of your coherence slipped away at some point while you were in Rhysand’s arms — those strong arms — leaving you a trembling mess against the cold wall. You can barely think.

“(Y/n),” he says sharply, getting your attention, or what was left of it. “I’m going to take you, right here, hard and deep, and make sure that every time this pussy gets fucked, you wish it was me doing it. Do you understand?”

Your head nods instinctively, but your voice comes out as a breathy murmur, “Y-yes… want it… need you…” Your words barely form.

Rhysand, still catching his breath, watches with a smirk. “She’s completely lost in it, Az,” he teases, stepping up next to you to run a hand over your wet hair. “I fucked you so good. That’s what you said, right?” He chuckles lowly.

Azriel’s eyes darken as he cuts him a look, jealous when he sees Rhysand running his hand through your hair. “You did. And now you’re done,” Azriel growls, pushing his hand off of you. You whine, missing the comforting touch. He grips your hips firmly and thrusts all the way into you, eliciting a loud shriek from your lips. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to his considerable size before he sets a powerful, unrelenting rhythm, each motion drawing a helpless gasp from your lips. Your legs shake and threaten to give out, but Azriel’s strong hold keeps you steady.

“So fucked out you can’t even think, hm, darling?” Rhysand says in mock sympathy.

“Good,” Azriel mutters into your ear. “Brainless and begging for my cock.”

Without warning, Rhysand drops to his knees between you and the wall, his tongue tracing a line from your thigh to where Azriel is pounding into you. He wraps his arms around you, hands squeezing your thighs and ass, the sensation makes you gasp, your body jolting as Rhysand’s mouth latches onto your clit, his tongue swirling with expert precision. Azriel's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts merciless. “Do you think about us when you're with him? Do you wish it was our hands on you, our cocks filling you up?”

Your answer is a high-pitched moan, your mind too foggy to form words. Azriel’s hand slides up to your throat, gripping firmly but not cutting off your air. “Don’t just moan like a dumb fucking whore,” he growls, the other hand slapping your cheek lightly a few times to get your attention. He doesn’t stop plowing into you for a moment. “Answer me.”

“Yes! Yes, I think about you,” you gasp out, your voice trembling. “I want you… both of you… so bad.”

Rhysand chuckles against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, his tongue flicking your clit mercilessly. “Y’know, Cass’s probably gonna be a fuckin’ mess if he finds out what you’ve been up to, especially since he’s just sitting around waiting for you at the hospital,” he whispers, his voice laced with playful menace. “Just imagine how he’d react…”

Your response is a pitiful whine, tears mixing with sweat as you weakly call out, “Cassian… Cassian… I love him…” Your voice breaks with each syllable, the raw emotion evident in your cries.

You feel Rhysand’s smirk widen against you as he looks up and meets Azriel’s eyes. “Yeah, you love him so much that you’re here with us, right, darling?”

Azriel’s thrusts don’t falter as he grabs you by the shoulders for leverage. “We know you love him, baby. Now take this fucking cock.” And he slams into you with a force that pulls sob after sob out of you. His grip on your shoulders tightens, then shifts. One arm slides up, wrapping a firm, massive bicep around your neck, pulling you back into a headlock, his control over you absolute. Each thrust of his massive cock seems to reach even deeper into you at this angle. “You love being used by us, don’t you? Just a little slut for our cocks.”

“Yes… I love it…” you manage to gasp out, your voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel’s hand comes down sharply on your ass, the sting making you cry out. “That’s right. Scream for me. Let Cassian hear how much you love this.”

He grabs your jaw, forcing you to look back at him. “Look at you, a dumb little whore, taking it so well. You like being fucked like this? Like a toy?”

“Yes… like a toy… your toy…” you whimper, your body trembling.

“Tell me how much you love it, angel. Beg for more. Beg for my cock,” he commands, his voice dripping with dominance.

“Please… Azriel… more… I need more…” you plead, tears streaming down your face.

“I bet Cassian couldn’t fuck you like this. Even when he thinks he’s being rough, he’s too gentle, isn’t he? A pretty little cocksleeve like you needs it rough, huh? Need to be reminded you’re just a hole for us to use,” Azriel growls.

“You’re nothing but a cock-hungry slut, aren’t you? Just a little plaything for us,” he continues, his words sending waves of shame and arousal through you.

Sometimes, you could swear you felt Rhysand’s tongue reach further as if he was tasting you on Azriel’s cock. The sensation is mind-blowing, pushing you deeper, if possible, into submission. Rhysand's tongue continues its relentless torment, occasionally delving deeper, tasting every thrust Azriel gives you. It's overwhelming, the combination of Azriel's cock and Rhysand's tongue driving you to the brink of insanity.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Azriel grunts, his arm tightening around your neck, making you gasp for air. “I can feel you clenching around me. You love this, don’t you? Love being filled up, love being our dirty little secret.”

“Yes… Fuck yes, Az,” you whimper, your voice raw and desperate. “I love it… love our secret.”

Rhysand chuckles darkly, his hot breath teasing your sensitive skin. “Desperate, dripping, and fucked out of your mind for us. What would they all say…?”

Azriel's hand slides from your jaw to your breasts, roughly squeezing and pinching your nipples, adding to the exquisite mix of pain and pleasure. “I want to hear you beg for it, angel. Beg for me to fuck you harder.”

“Please… Az… fuck me harder… use me,” you plead, each word broken by gasps and moans.

He holds you up effortlessly, his strength and dominance undeniable. “I want you to scream my name,” he commands, his voice low and rough. “Scream it so loud that Cassian hears it in his fucking dreams.”

“Azriel! Azriel!” you scream, your body trembling uncontrollably as he drives you closer to the edge.

“That’s it, you’re doing so good. Show me how much this tight fucking hole loves when I fuck it,” Azriel growls.

“I’m just your — fuck — your worthless slut… your cum dump, both of you…” you whimper, the words spilling from your lips without thought. “I’ll take everything you want to give me…”

Azriel’s and Rhysand’s eyes widen in shock, both momentarily stunned by your shameless, complete submission. The brief pause is charged with a dark thrill, their expressions those of surprise and deepened desire.

Rhysand recovers first, a dark smile stretching across his face as he leans over to look up at Azriel. “You hear that, Az? You hear what she’s calling herself?” His voice is dripping with mockery and appreciation. “Tell us again, darling, I love hearing it. How much do you like being used like this?” He leans back into you, his tongue flicking over your clit with renewed intensity.

“Love it so much…! Just want to be filled and used… Want to make you feel good…”

Azriel let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “Making me feel so good, angel, you’re perfect… Gonna use you up, nothing else matters but you taking what we give you, do you understand?”

You cry out a string of “yes’s!” the muscles in your body begin to shake uncontrollably. Your ears ring, the sound melding with the pounding of your heart.

Azriel’s hands slide back down to your hips, and he pulls you closer with each powerful thrust, altering the angle to hit deeper. The shift sends a jolt of intense pleasure through you, causing your body to spasm with every stroke. You gasp, feeling every ridge and vein of his cock with heightened sensitivity.

Rhysand pauses his relentless flicking of your clit, his mouth hovering just above your sensitive skin. He takes a moment to savor the sight of you trembling and gasping, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “That’s all us,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.

Azriel’s breathing grows ragged. “Just let go and take it all. Your body’s ours to use however we want right now, huh?” The depth of Azriel’s movements, coupled with Rhysand’s teasing touch, pushes you to the edge yet again. You cry out, all desperate moans and incoherent babble. Rhysand’s tongue returns to its torment, tasting you come undone on his tongue, leaving you gasping and clinging to whatever coherence you have left. The ringing in your ears doesn’t subside until they finally relent.

Azriel’s breaths come in heavy, ragged gasps as he slows his thrusts, satisfaction in his eyes. “You took us so well,” he murmurs, and he sounds almost as spent as you did. You both collapse against the cool tiles, bodies still intertwined, the sound of the water cascading around you. You reach out and turn the water off, the sudden silence only broken by the soft pants of breath.

Rhysand steps out for a moment and returns with a couple of towels from his locker. He hands one to Azriel, who begins to dry you off with a tender, almost reverent touch. Rhysand grins, wrapping his towel around his waist. "You kept up pretty well," he quips, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You smirk, taking the towel Azriel offers you. "I think you two just like to show off," you tease, patting yourself dry. "Always trying to one-up each other and forgetting about everyone else."

Azriel chuckles, shaking his head as he dries his hair. "Can you blame us?" he replies. "We have a reputation to maintain."

Rhysand steps closer, his eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and desire. "And what about you?" he murmurs, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. "You’re quite the little fox yourself."

You raise an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at your lips. "Takes one to know one," you retort, enjoying the way their eyes light up at your sass.

Suddenly, you look at him with curiosity. “Wait, Rhys, what are you even doing here? How did you get in?”

Rhysand smirks, a little sheepishly. "I left my wallet and came back to get it."

Azriel chuckles. "Through the door? We were stuck in here."

Rhysand shrugs. "Oh, that door has been acting up ever since Eris jammed it last month." A look of understanding dawns on Azriel’s face.

Just then, the phone abandoned in your jacket pocket rings, jolting you all.

Fuck.

You rush over to grab it. Your heart races as you see Cassian's name on Tarquin's phone. You answer the call, trying to steady your breath. "Cassian?”

"Hey, babe, what's taking so long? Are you on your way?"

You hesitate, then reply, "We got stuck in the locker room."

"...We...?"

"Yeah, Rhys and Az are here too."

You can hear the suspicion and jealousy creeping into Cassian's voice. "How long have you been in there? Why didn’t you call?”

“My phone is dead, remember? And I don’t know Tarquin’s password to make a call,” you explain quickly.

There’s a pause before Cassian speaks again, his tone tight. “I'll send Mor to help you out.”

You sigh, relief and anxiety mingling. "Thanks, Cass. Love you."

"Love you, too."

As you end the call, you glance back at Rhysand and Azriel, who are both watching you with a mix of concern and amusement. "Looks like Mor is on her way to rescue us," you say, trying to lighten the mood, though you can’t help but worry about your hair still being wet. She’d notice that right away.

"Better get dressed then," Azriel smirks. "Wouldn't want her to catch us like this." Rhysand chuckles, shaking his head, and you smile, the tension easing a bit.

"Definitely not..."

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