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renhanaschewtoy · 1 month ago

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Favorite Bartender

This one also got away from me OTZ I hope I did okay with Strade. Pardon my translation all I have is Google. I'll write Ren the cosplay handler when I get back from a con next week. If you're at Colossal North lmk! 💖 NSFW MDNI

There was something endearing about dive bars, there was something exclusive about them in their own right. People knew each other, there was a decorum of understanding. Regulars were their own type and new folk, out of towners, well- they usually couldn’t appreciate it fully. The Braying Mule was well and good, always rife with interesting people, but nobody could be “on” all the time. Strade knew that. In his own time, on the quiet nights he decided to be out but lay low, not on the prowl, not looking for an easy bright eyed mark, he was in this dive bar. The name didn’t even matter, the sign was so worn it had been taken down in a storm years ago- the owner just never bothered with it. Regulars kept business in order and they helped keep the place in check. Strade included himself in that roster. Granted nobody really knew him, all by his design. But he was endearing, he was liked here. Maybe it was just nice to shed away a little, wear a different mask.

And sometimes, even he had to admit, the acrid smell of the place reminded Strade of his own little projects. Pushing open the door, Strade moseyed up to the bar, giving a little nod and grin to a few other regulars who greeted him similarly or with a small wave or raise of a glass. Settling on an old worn stool, he leaned on the sticky lacquered wood and inspected the beer taps.

“You can stare at ‘em from sun up to sun down, they still haven’t gotten that funny sounding beer you keep trying to pitch.”

A teasing lilt of a voice draws his amber gaze over to your form shouldering the door behind the door open dragging a bucket of ice to dump into the bin and let the metal lid clatter shut. A grin pulls your lips as always. Ah- you. The feisty bartender who wasn’t afraid to talk shit to anybody, get their hands dirty if need be, keep the establishment and all in it in line with a way that was firm but fair. Admirable. “Ah, liebling, I didn’t know you were working tonight!” Strade mirrors your grin with a warm chuckle.

That was bullshit.

He knew your schedule.

He preferred to be here when you were here.

Though of course, sometimes he had to skip out or change it up so nobody, or you, got wise.

You give a playful roll of your eyes as you deftly pluck a stein and pull a tab with the glass tilted at the perfect practiced angle. A rich dark dark beer sits in front of him on an old cardboard coaster so worn it should likely be trash at this point. “It isn’t the one you were talking about but…you must’ve worn him down. He got a German beer.”

“You spoil me!”

“All I did was pour it.” You chuckle and lean against the back of the bar folding your arms expectantly, awaiting his verdict. Maybe it was because it was your job to serve him but Strade liked the attention you paid to him. It was different from the other patrons and regulars. You didn’t snap at him, your lips didn’t curl in a sneer at him, you didn’t wave him off. No- you paid attention, you listened, you participated. All beautiful qualities wrapped up into once very enticing package. Strade gives a little contented sigh before lifting the glass to his lips and taking a healthy swig, setting the glass down and wiping the foam from the corner his lips with his thumb.

“Hmm…it’s good. Strong.” Strade comments with a nod of approval before lifting his eyes to see you look some pleased with yourself about it. You could say all you wanted, but Strade picked up your tells. You were probably the one bothering the owner enough about getting a keg of something for him. You sweet little thing, you. “Do you know what it is?” He leans forward on his elbows with a tilt of his head as a lazy grin curls his lips. You look away and shrug.

“I dunno something something doppelbock or whatever.” You fib lamely, pretending as if you didn’t care, as if you weren’t pleased with your little stripe of success. Strade huffs a chuckle and leans back on the stool giving a hum of acknowledgement as he takes another sip. “How much do I owe you then?”

“Nah, on the house.” He knew that was coming, you always give him a few freebies here and there under the usual saying that everyone gets a free beer here and there with their regular patronage. But that usually only held after he had one or two, not just off rip. He gives you that disarming smile that makes most women swoon. It isn’t that you’re immune to it perse, rather a little more used to it. A motion of endearment to match your own. Strade watches you idly bustle around the bar, serving other customers, fetching fresh bottles, wiping down the bar- though the latter, it didn’t matter how much elbow grease you used. Occasionally he watches whatever is playing on the TVs around the joint, sipping his beer- of which you never let stay empty for too long. You always insisted it was muscle memory and your years of working but Strade noticed that he was given far better attention.

Drumming his fingers on the bar, he lazily looks to you, “It’s a slow night.” He muses thoughtfully, “Do a shot with me. It’s too lonely to alone.” His grin splits to show a flash of teeth and you chuckle, setting down a few clean pint glasses with a shake of your head as you lift a small, narrow can to your lips.

“Sorry, Strade. I don’t drink on the job.” You admit easily with a languid shrug as you take a few sip, Strade’s eyes glimpsing down to the column of your throat as it works to swallow your energy drink. He wonders what your throat might feel like in his grip, how smooth the skin would be against he callouses of his palms. How your pulse would flutter if he applied just the right amount of pressure. If he kissed that soft, unblemished skin, perhaps left marks. What did you like, he wondered? Did you prefer to be taken soft and gentle, peppered with praise and coos of endearment? Or did you like to be roughed up, bruising grips and mottled marks to decorate your skin while you’re growled filth at and degraded? It was a curious thought he entertained quite often, even so much as when he did take a victim home, sometimes he would imagine you when they were face down in the cheap foam mattress, when their hair was in his hand as he bucked his hips into their mouths…but you’d be different. You were different.

“Mmm…what a shame. You aren’t allowed to have a little fun?” Strade flutters his eyes for a moment to focus back on you, with a curious little brow arched on your face as you caught him daydreaming for but a moment. “Come on, it can be our little secret.” He teases mock conspiratorily, leaning towards you on the bar as. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Ah, I just don’t wanna risk getting messy on the clock.”

“One shot won’t fuck you up, liebling. You’re made of stronger stuff.”

“...You’re not going to let up until I do, eh?”

Strade pretends to look half heartedly apologetic but you both know he isn’t in the slightest. And to him a foot in the door is a foot in the door, sure- a shot on your shift is but an inch and he would just love to take your world. To become your world. He watches you give an exaggerated sigh of defeat and roll of your eyes before a playful smirk pulls your lips while you fish two shot glasses and begin to fill them.

Taking you, owning you, breaking you- it’s all part of the same pipe dream. As tempted as Strade is, as easy as it would be; you had family and friends, you had a wide social circle that was sure to garner attention with your disappearance. And he would be directly connected to you with this little song and dance routine he’s come to adore so. Doing such to you is a thrilling danger he can only flirt with but never act on. And that’s part of the allure of it all, of you. The shot glass is pushed in front of him, some of the liquor spilling over the rim before he picks it up and meets you half way in a cheers. “To our little secret.” He grins and you both tap your glasses on the bar twice before clinking your glass against his, downing your shot with the same practiced ease that Strade does. Strade watches you exhale through your nose before shooting him a smirk. “See? And you’re fine!” He chimes and you roll your eyes playfully before scooping up the dirty shot glasses.

Strade shuffles up beside you, easily stringing an arm around your shoulders and tucking you into his side. He smells of the beer you poured him, of lingering cigar smoke, a cologne of spice and musk that's as oddly comforting as it was masculine. “I'm…uh, just around back that way.” You mutter with a blush rising over your cheeks and pointing towards the back of the block. Strade chuckles to himself and nods, leading and preening at the feel of you leaning against him in kind. His large hand gives you shoulder an affectionate squeeze as you walk with some amicable conversation and goofing as usual, Strade's charm laid on a little thicker as he feigns a slur as if it was all your pours that impacted him so.

Hours tick and tock on by before you’re hollering last call for the bar. Strade settles up his tab and leaves you hefty tip that you, as always, try to give at least part of it back. Strade shakes his head, running a hand through his wavy chestnut hair. “You’ve earned it.” Strade insists as you pout at him before begrudgingly pocket the money. Not that you weren’t grateful but it felt excessive. Not that it mattered to him. “Hm…Let me walk you to your car.” Strade hums as he stands from the stool and fixes you with an expectant look.

“What? I’m not going to be done cleaning up here for like…another hour. I’ll be fine. I do it all the time. I’ve got my means.” You reply, waving him off as you begin to collect empty bottles and discarded napkins or coasters around the establishment. Strade’s huff is brief, but he rolls his shoulders back. Maybe he was being gluttonous after convincing you to break one little rule. “Besides, nobody but staff after we’re closed.”

“We already share one little secret, what’s one more? Surely some help and getting home sooner would be nice?” Strade urges, already beginning to upturn some barstools on other tables and onto the bar counter. Seeing you pause and chew your lip, seeing him already being able to sink his hooks in you, in any little way, is simply delightful. You play tough, you’re feisty, but clearly you like being looked after, like the attention he grants you. But you relent and give him a little smile that curls your lips, looking almost bashful. Strade gets a better look of behind the bar, be a little closer, be a little more alone with you and ultimately that’s all this was about really. Fostering trust, drawing you closer. Though it felt as if he was more in your orbit than anything but he was loathe to give up that control. This could only go so far, after all. Eventually you both finish up with your tasks about closing down the bar and you pull keys out of your pocket to lock up the doors as Strade waits behind you, hands leisurely in his pockets while he takes in the stillness of the night, or rather early morning. As if you two were the only people left alive for a moment.

“Ah, your chariot, liebling. Be safe getting home.” Strade grins as you unlock your car and he reaches for your door with a playful flourish and bow. You snicker to yourself, that ever charming grin pulling on your lips as you move to tuck into the driver's seat. He closes the door as your car rumbles to light and you give a shy little wave before pulling away which Strade returns.

Fuck does he want more. Want you. Standing there in the empty back lot he gives himself a moment to envision you again. Spattered in warm, sticky blood…begging under his hands for mercy…what kind didn't matter, tears beading your lashes, the way your eyes would roll back and flutter in agony or pleasure… Strade’s cock begins to stiffen in his pants as a shaky sigh parts his lips, lidded gaze watching your taillights disappear down the street.

×××

Perhaps he couldn't do all he wanted.

But there were some he could.

Coincidences were funny things, unexpected, sometimes happy, sometimes messy, Strade usually embraced them with his large open arms. The confidence of a man who lived and knew that he could spin just about any scenario to his favor. Tonight was a night he opted not to go to your humble bar. Sometimes, distance made the heart grow fonder after all and Strade couldn’t bear to let you make him go soft. Well…you usually had a different lingering affect but that wasn’t here nor there. There were some critical things he wanted that you simply couldn’t satisfy. Strade knew better. Nobody should shit where they eat. Strade was many things but he wasn’t stupid. So tonight was a little more routine, a little more…designed for the inclinations that you couldn’t sate. But Strade could pretend through perhaps someone who looked a smidge like you.

Oh goddammit. God, of course he would come over and say something- you made a point to make eye contact. You suck in a breath through your teeth and force a smile as you turn to look at Strade; toothy grin on his face and holding his stein close to his chest. “Hey Strade. Yeah, uh…got cut early so figured I’d have a night out.” You shrug, unable to hold his honey colored gaze for too long which seems to raise his brows, a curious twinkle in his eye as he sets his mug down on the table beside your glass as you idly poke at the straw and shift the ice around. The woman he had been chatting up wasn’t beside him but you could feel her eyes prickling at the back of your neck.

At a different bar across town, Strade was posted up a heavy glass stein laden with a dark doppelbock like you had last served him. Fortunate that the bar served something similar but not quite the same. It seemed to be the theme of the night as he chattered up an oblivious and bubbly woman, they had hair just a few shades off from your own- too (short/long) to quite fit you but Strade could make do. Their eyes were a darker tinge of (color) from your own, their smile didn’t carry that unspoken sarcasm, her clothes nearly polar opposite but that was the least of his concerns. Those certainly didn’t matter at all. “A shame you got stood up, truly. But I will say- their loss is certainly my victory.” Strade chuckles smoothly as the woman gives a titter of laughter, covering her painted lips with her hand trying to be coquettish. He leans in to murmur the final string of words that will put the nail in the coffin.

“Hey- uh…can I get a (preferred drink)? Thanks.”

Strade would know that voice anywhere. What were you doing here? Today was usually another one of your closing shifts. His attention falters as he looks over to you and catches you glimpsing at him with a rather annoyed side eye before turning your attention back to the bartender. Taking your drink you flash the bartender a grateful smile and slip your tip on the bar before quickly turning on your heel to disappear into the throngs of other people in the bar. Your lips set in a tight line as you skulked over to your friend settled up at one of the tall tables and you leaned against it with a bitter sigh.

You had no right to feel this way, to feel jealous. Strade was a regular, he was a patron where you worked. You weren’t blind, you knew he was good with his words, you knew he was charming. You naturally had tripped up at his charms but felt damn good that you’d never gone ass over tea kettle for them. Maybe it was foolish to think you had chemistry. Maybe it was stupid to have a secret little self rule not to date regulars- after all there were plenty of other bars. But seeing him lean over that woman, being so close to her, that lazy little grin he often gave you, the way the woman looked up at him so enamored…it made your stomach twist in taut knots. Your friend raises a brow inquisitively that you simply shoot them a look that makes them swallow their words as you raise your glass to your lips for a sip.

“Buddy! I didn’t know you would be here! What a nice surprise.”

“A night out, well- I’d say that’s a good reward for you, hm? Be served rather than serving? I could never forgive myself if I missed an opportunity to buy you a drink myself.” Strade places a hand to his heart in playful theatrics that for a moment make you forget your sour mood and a small smile quirk your lips.

“I mean, I’d hate to interrupt your night. You seemed pretty uh…busy.” You’d cringe at the delivery of your own words, a small grimace crinkles your nose for but a moment as your shoulders stiffen. It takes all Strade has not to let smug satisfaction come over him as he hears the bitterness tinge your statement. You were jealous. Oh, he relished in that, he adored it even. You simply had a way of always just making his evenings. Elation rose in his chest as a better opportunity presented itself in you. Sure- your beautiful blood would never paint his basement but if Strade played his cards right, he was more than certain he could make you scream and cry in other ways.

“And miss such an occasion? Please. This was a boring night until you came along. As always.” Strade replies smoothly with a toothy grin, “It isn’t every night we get to be on the same side of the bar.” And with any luck he can get you all to himself. Play the right cards, say the right things, get you wrapped around his finger, or his cock- whatever worked. You return his smile, your shoulders relaxing as you look up at Strade and give a little bob of your head to relent.

“...Yeah, yeah you’re right. It could be fun.”

“Of course it’ll be fun, have you met me?” Strade gives you a little wink before being interrupted by the woman who decides she’s had enough of being sidelined.

“Uhmm…I thought we were leaving?” Her arms wind around Strade’s arm, pressing herself against him with an exaggerated pout, trying to set a tone as you simply look between Strade and the woman, as Strade simply arches a brow to her, and your friend raises their brows to their hairline, sipping their drink with rapt attention as if watching some sort of reality TV program.

“Hmm? Mein Gott, wie peinlich…” Strade mutters for but a moment, his words and tone are genuine though some irritation belies the sheepish look he forces onto his rugged features. “Just a moment, buddy.” Strade gives your shoulder that same squeeze as the nights before as he places a hand firmly on the other woman’s back and leads her away from the table. Your throat grows tight again with an irritated exhale.

The night carries on, you getting a little bolder with each drink, every shared shot as you laughed and joked, growing a more and more affectionate with each little sip of courage Strade was happy to give you. But you were smart, you didn’t want to wake up hungover and with no recollection of this night. You wanted to remember whatever it was that you got from him, be it another simple walk to your car and a night of revelry or if it was tangled up in either of your bedsheets. And Strade was all too happy to oblige, watching you flaunt your mettle in the bar but being careful all the same as not to lose your head. Strade wanted you to cut loose. Wanted you to be as untethered and wild as possible. But maybe he was getting ahead of himself. Your friend had since excused themself quietly- reading the room and sending you a knowing little wink and wave that you gleefully grinned at.

Unbeknownst to you, ever the opportunist, Strade wasn’t willing to let the other woman go either. After leading her out through the alley and cracking her head hard enough to the wall to hear the skull fracture, she was swiftly bound, gagged and deposited in his trunk. A midnight snack for a later date. So when he returned with a reddened cheek, he had an easy story to spin.

“The fuck happened to you? Christ.” You remark, instinctively reaching out to his cheek before retracting your hand.

“Ah…well, she didn’t quite take so well to being told I…wasn’t interested.” Strade remarks with a roll of his broad shoulders and he could almost see that flicker of approval in your eyes that he’d opted to spend his night with you instead.

“Feels like I should be the one buying you a drink.” You quip playfully, nudging him with your elbow, you’re careful with your contact now, you don’t want to seem too eager. And that’s fine. Strade flashes you a grin of pearly whites before slinging an arm around your shoulder again to tug you close in a side hug again.

“No, no, no, I am a man of my word, liebling. Tonight is all about showing you a good time.” Strade chuckles warmly, the timbre of his voice sending a shudder down his spine that he can feel against his built frame. His hand slips from your shoulder to the cinch of your waist this time with a firmer squeeze, possessive. And you leaned in. Like he knew you would.

“I could go for a cigarette right about now…care to join me?” Strade’s voice is low in your ear, warm breath fanning over the side of your neck as he carefully tucks a strand of (color, type) hair behind your ear before his hand slips down past your hip to slip itself into your back pocket. A large hand gropes the plush of your ass through the denim eliciting a sharp inhale from you, a rosy hue blooming over your cheeks as you bob your head and let him guide you out the back door as the crisp night air meets your exposed skin.

“I didn’t know you smoke.” You look up at him curiously as Strade tucks the two of you into the cover of an empty side alley.

“There’s much you don’t know about me yet, liebling. But I could say the same for you, no?” Strade’s eyes glance to the side before returning back to you, leaning against the brick wall so cavalier, so unaware of what Strade could do to you, all he wants to do to you.

But he would take this, there was an outlet for later.

Sweet serendipity.

Your eyes drift up as you see Strade’s frame looming over you, silhouetted by the moon. Suddenly aware of how close he is to you, that you can smell his cologne again and your breath hitches slightly before you swallow thickly. “...Stra–mmpf!” His name is barely off your tongue before his lips crash onto your own. Hungry and all consuming as Strade descends upon you, devouring you as he presses you back against the cold brick wall, pinning you to it and the bulk of his body. His teeth nip at your lower lip, demanding entry that your foggy brain is powerless but to comply to. You can taste the bitterness of beer on his tongue and he can taste the sweetness of whatever you had been ordering on his tab. Strade’s groan is swallowed as your arms lift to string around his neck, fingers carding through his hair and nails raking against his scalp. He feels your back arch, pressing your body closer to his own, Strade lets a low growl at your willing surrender as he shifts a thigh between your legs, applying pressure to your aching core. Strade’s lips leave your kiss swollen lips to let you pant and catch your breath, rivulets of spit connecting your mouths as your lidded, glassy eyes slowly lift to Strade.

“Look at you, liebling…” Strade coos almost mockingly and it makes something tighten in you abdomen as the vice grip on your hips moves you lightly as if to help you ride his thigh that pulls a ragged moan from your throat. “Mmm…needy, hm? Don’t think I didn’t see that…that look from before…” Strade mutters as he dips his head to kiss along the curve of your jaw down to your throat, teeth nipping and tongue laving at the spots to leave a litany of marks in his wake. Little mewls leave your lips as you squirm under his grip, wanting to be closer, trying to form words but your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. “...Don’t be embarrassed. I liked it…I’m flattered.” Strade purrs as he feels your hips buck against his thigh eagerly, hands fisting his wavy tresses that sends shockwaves straight to his cock that strains against the zipper.

Large hands drift to the button of your jeans, popping them open and the draw of your zipper being pulled down that makes your lashes flutter. “W-Wait…woah, St-Strade…not here, I-”

“Mmm? Why not here?” He teases, dragging the fabric down the smooth skin of your thighs that you suddenly tried to clamp shut. “No, no…” He tutts softly, prying them back apart, “Wouldn’t this be just so perfect? We are in private…and if someone were to see, well…” His tone is alight with amusement, “They could be jealous instead…that I have you.” Your nervous eyes can’t tear themselves away from the sight of Strade crouching between your legs, forcing you to lean back against the wall in nothing but your underwear that he moves about to expose your throbbing, eager sex. “Behave, liebling…I don’t do this for just anybody.” And that might be one of the truest things he’s ever said. Control was always a given, Strade to take what he wanted, perhaps you made him feel…generous. All the attention you’ve fawned upon him in your own way, how pliant you showed him you could be- and only for him, that was something that deserved to be rewarded. To melt you, make you more malleable in his hands. His tongue traces shapes and patterns along your sensitive flesh, one hand keeping your thighs apart before one disappears to nudge a finger at your entrance before easing a finger in, crooking it against that spongy spot of nerves before thrusting slowly as he spelled his own name with his tongue in a way that had you fighting against bucking your hips.

“F-Fuck…St- shit..! Strade…!” Your breath fans out in ragged pants as you watch him lave attention over a bundle of nerves paired with a thrusting digit that almost has your knees buckling. “...’m gonna…!” You keen eagerly, lashes fluttering as he feasts upon you wetly, soft sounds in the alley with your muffled moans as you bit down into your knuckle to feebly stifle your wanton sounds. Pressure builds and coils tight in your belly, flirting with the edge of euphoria until Strade bites the inside of your thigh eliciting a yelp from you. “The fuck?!” Strade stands up fast, with a dexterity and agility that didn’t match his size and stature, that had your body falter slightly against the bricks. Strade’s hand holds your chin in place as he looks down at your lips and your furrowed brow. Your pleading was so sweet, so beautiful…god- he could make you beg more. But for now…well, Strade has his ways, as always. “Strade, please…” You groan and he seems amused all the more.

“Open your mouth.”

“Wh..huh?”

“Open, liebling. I won’t ask again.” There’s an authoritative edge to his voice that has your core throbbing, leaking as you’re exposed in the alley. The thrill of it all sending lightning through your veins as you slowly part your trembling lips. Strade gives a low, rumbling hum of approval before spitting onto your tongue making heat flood your cheeks and a humiliated whine in the back of your throat. “Swallow. You should be grateful…you taste so good.” Strade watches you close your mouth, your throat bob slowly as you swallow and sigh before your breath is stolen from your lungs again in a bruising kiss, swallowing your moan greedily. Parting for air is brief as you feel large calloused hands gripping your waist to pull you further upright, shuffle you around until your front is pressed to the brick, the fat of your cheek pressed to the cold bite of brick but Strade seems to mind the pressure and strength he holds over you as you’re bent, pants now pooled around your ankles but you’re too far gone to care. You arch your back with purpose, pressing your ass back against his hardened cock with an eager obedience that Strade adored so.

“So good for me, liebling…like you were made for me…” Strade huffs as you hear the soft clink of his belt buckle coming undone, a calloused hand groping the fat of your ass before shifting your underwear to meet with your jeans below you before you feel the bulbous head of his cock press against you. The hand on your ass moves to grip your hip and keep you steady while the other trails up the beautiful curve of your spine, up the nape of your neck before his fingers tangle in your hair, the grip is firm enough to sting a little but not hurt. Strade could if he wanted to, temptation was there most certainly but he’d go slow for you. Breaking you in piece by piece with rough affections that would leave you satisfied. He could feel how eagerly you were, how badly you wanted this, and how readily you responded to his means. You whine with his fingers in your hair, pressing your hips back and urging him in. And that’s all Strade needs, to have you wrapped around him. And wrapped around him you will be. Until you are bent and broken, full and delirious; treated better than anyone one else. You were something different, something special. Untouchable but in a way immortal to Strade.

Maybe you could be something… special and more permanent.

He was already flirting with something similar in Ren back home but you…oh, what fun it could all be. Thoughts for another day.

With a sudden snap of his hips, Strade buries himself in you with a brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs and has you choking on air as your body quivers at the sudden intrusion. “Ich kann fühlen wie du dich nach mir sehnst (I can feel you aching for me)…”Strade huffs with a smug smirk curling the corners of his lips as he sets a ruthless pace, the wet sound of skin colliding with skin, his heavy sac slapping against you with each push of his hips that you reciprocated in kind as your teeth dug into your lower lip trying to keep your sounds hushed but your body betrayed you. Strade bent over your back nipping at your ear as he stilled to more shallow thrusts to torture you further, “Just imagine, Liebling…someone seeing you spread out here for me…” He lilts in that low silken tone that has your walls clenching around him, fluttering with each filthy, honeyed word that drips from his lips. “Just a perfect little cock sleeve…just for me, yes?” Punctuated by a deliberate roll of his hips that has your lashes fluttering and eyes threatening to roll back into your skull. A sharp tug to your hair leaves your mouth agape as you tighten around his dick again with a breathy groan. “...Say it.”

“Sh-shit…please! Yes, please!” You nearly sobbed, desperation and want clouding all rational thought as you begged Strade, giving him the allowance to do as he pleased with you. Soft mutterings in his mother tongue left his lips; an assortment of praise, of filth, obscenities as his thrusting became staccato before a long, low growl parted Strade’s lips, muffled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Spilling into you with rivulets of thick, viscous cum while your walls milked him greedily, your own orgasm threatening to have your knees to collapse around you but Strade was quick to move his thick arms around your middle to keep you up, keep you in place as he pumped you full of his cum until it dripped out of you obscenely, forming a small puddle on the concrete. The vacant alley was only given life by the two of you panting raggedly to catch your breaths, Strade’s grip still a vice you wouldn’t be able to break from.

“Hhnngh!...fuck…just for you!” You manage to choke out pleadingly, trying to push your hips back but Strade halts entirely in a way that makes you whine.

“You can do better than that.”

“I d-don’t…wh…uh…” The brick digs into your palms as you try to collect your addled thoughts, of what words might appease him, “Haah~...mmm…J-Just for you, Strade.” You try as his name seems to be all that can fill the folds of your brain; his taste, his smell, the feel of him felt ingrained into you.

“That’s better…” He croons to you, however the feeling of you throbbing around his aching cock was just as torturous for Strade but he could be patient from time to time, when it counted anyway. Impulse won most of the time. “Taking me so well…” his breathing labored as you could feel him pressed to your back, hips pistoning with newfound vigor as Strade’s hand left your hair to close around your throat. No pressure is applied, simply relishing in the feeling of your erratic pulse as he fucks all coherent thought from your brain as he uses the leverage to bring your face to his in a sloppy kiss. All tongue and teeth, as if to consume you whole, that you would be devoured. “Mnnngh…hah…sucking me back in like that…such a slutty little hole…” Strade growls against your mouth as his hips slam against your ass so hard you were certain you’d be bruised by the end of it. “...fill you to the brim…” He huffs, a deep flush had risen from his throat to his cheeks, a heady look that washed over his features as sweat beaded on his brow dampening the curls that fell over his forehead.

“F-Fuck…” You breathe, slowly raising your hands to rest on his forearms, giving them a little tap, “I just…I can’t…” You were still trying to collect your thoughts and you could almost feel him smirk against your skin as you felt his breaths warm your sweat slicked skin.

“...Maybe I can interest you in a nightcap? At my place?” He hums, dislodging himself from your depths with a deep grunt as he watches you quiver and leak. You seem to take stock again, remembering where you are, as you quickly reach to tug up your underwear and jeans, pulling your shirt back down as Strade tucks himself back into his pants and adjusts his belt. You look so pretty like this, embarrassed but thrilled, debauched but dressed again- the tell tale signs of what- or rather who, happened to you, evident on the outside and inside.

“Huh? Oh, no…I don’t think so.” You breathe with a little chuckle and Strade looks at you, a dark and almost hollow look upon his face but for a minute that you seem to misinterpret. “Just cause my place is closer. C’mon.” You give him that fond, disarming smile as you dare to reach for his hand and lead him to the parking lot that has the brief uptick of annoyance assuaged from Strade entirely at your quick turnabout. He pushes a small smile on his lips before raising a hand to cup your jaw before holding the back of your skull and pressing another searing kiss to your lips.

“Give me your address and get ready for me…I just have to stop home very quickly. But I will be there.”

“If you stand me up, I’m pouring you Malort every time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, liebling. You said so yourself, you’re just for me now.” He flashes you grin that holds an underlying meaning you can’t quite ferret out, but you giddy stride to your car to do as your told for a promised nightcap.

#boyfriend to death #btd #btd strade #ykmet strade #ykmet #btd strade x reader #strade x reader #boyfriend to death strade #strade #ykmet strade x reader

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proteusolm · 2 months ago

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Okay pardon my wild horse rant, but I'm going to rant about wild horses. The debate over if feral domestic horses should be left to their own devices to "fulfill the role ancient horses did" drives me nuts. I keep seeing people claim that North America had wild horses until as recently as 6000 years ago as justification, which isn't entirely untrue, but it's entirely irrelevant to the conversation of modern day feral horses. If you actually read the eDNA studies, it is abundantly clear that this isn't when the wild horses died out where feral horses are now. The 6k figure is specific to the what were once mammoth steppe ecosystems in Alaska and the Yukon, a refuge in which many Pleistocene mammals lingered much longer than they did elsewhere. This does not indicate that the rest of North America aught to have the same species as it did in the Pleistocene. Our ecosystems are not the same as they were then. Our ecosystems were already not the same as they were then well before european contact. There isn't evidence of wild horses being present anywhere near that long in the continental US.

Regardless, horses that have been domesticated for thousands of years from Spain aren't the same thing as the wild horses which roamed North America even if they're technically the same species. If you want to reintroduce megafauna, an actual extant wild animal called the bison is right there. Trying to replace wild horses that largely died out naturally in the early Holocene (yes, I know indigenous subsistence hunting was likely a factor along with the major climactic shifts at the time. No, I don't especially consider that to be an unnatural cause.) with domestic horses is silly. That isn't the same animal, and they don't need restoring. We need to focus on conserving and rehabilitating modern ecosystems, not restoring Pleistocene fauna.

In Europe there are rewilding projects using domestic horses and cattle, but they have so thoroughly decimated their ecosystems and wiped out so much of their wildlife that they're basically building from scratch. It's a very different context to North America. We don't need to be leaving domesticated horses out on their own so people who feel romantic about the idea of the freedom of a "wild" mustang can see a foal get ripped apart by coyotes or whatever. I don't view it differently than if someone was advocating for releasing dogs into the woods to fulfill the role their wild ancestors did; We don't need to do that, wolves are right there and make a hell of a lot more sense to conserve. We shouldn't be skipping over animals that lived in an area 100 years ago in favour of ones that lived there 10,000 years ago.

#I've been learning lately that while I support rewilding efforts. People online who talk about rewilding are insufferable.#Anyway I was debating this with someone and needed to rant about it because they just weren't hearing what I was saying lol #They got mad at me for mentioning indigenous people. NA rewilding people do NOT like to think of humans as a natural part of the landscape #They seem to view the goal for rewildling to be before humans ever arrived in NA which is ridiculous and impossible #animal welfare #Conservation

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areyoudreaminof · 8 months ago

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Just For Mama: A Mother's Day One Shot.

This one goes out to all the MILFS. Just some next gen fluff for your weekend!

Feysand: Nyx (11)

Nyx lined up the brushes on the table for the sixth time. He needed them to be perfect.

The remodeled art studio certainly was perfect. He and Papa planned it for months, and Nyx drew up the plans himself. The north wall was torn down, making way for a large bay window that would let in natural sunlight from dawn to dusk with a perfect view of the mountains. Little crystal ornaments were clipped onto the windowsill, throwing prisms of rainbow light all over the room that had been painted a warm cream color. Nyx had written to Cricket and Froggy to send them from the Day Court. His cousins had sent back an array of colored crystal charms, with one large lilac colored crystal bat. Nyx hung that one right in the middle of the room.

Mama didn’t exactly need a new studio, but Nyx had wanted to do something special for Mother’s Day. It was technically a Day Court celebration, but his cousins were shocked that they didn’t celebrate it in the Night Court. “You don’t do anything for Mother’s Day?” Cricket had said with wide eyes a few years back, “At all?” But Nyx had been so taken with the idea, he went right to Papa, who agreed. So, Nyx had been doing small things for his mother every year on that spring day. Mama loved every single card he made and kept all the wooden figurines he had carved for her on her desk.

But this year, Nyx wanted to do something bigger. Aunt Nesta had given him the idea last winter, pointing out that Mama’s regular studio faced the east, which didn’t get the best lighting from the afternoon onwards. It was why she painted in the mornings. He had drawn up his sketches that very night and brought them to Papa the next morning who had the builders in his office by the early afternoon.

Papa had simply told Mama there was a plumbing problem and that the studio needed to be rebuilt. Mama bought it, though Nyx suspected she knew something was up. Nyx had presented his plans to the builder, a large green skinned orc named Neekar. “Measurements are only an inch off. I take on apprentices at twelve,” the orc grunted with satisfaction, “You can study when you come back from that camp of yours.” Papa just sighed and Nyx beamed with pride.

Nyx came to the site every single day after lessons to work on the studio. He sanded and stained small beams of wood, he hammered nails and fetched tools. Nyx watched Neekar in his team in awe as they sawed and whittled away, explaining their technique as Nyx jotted down notes.

Now, the day had finally come to bring Mama to the new studio. He gave one last look around, before he launched himself out of the room, stretching his wings in such a way to give him more momentum as he came face to face with his father and blindfolded mother.

“Is that you Nyx?” she reached for him, stretching her fingers out. Nyx laced his own through them. “It’s me. Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Anyone want to explain what’s going on?” Mama inquired with a tilt of her head as she pulled Nyx to her. He was nearly as tall as she was now, the top of his head sitting just below her chin.

“Nyx has a surprise for you, darling,” Papa said, his violet eyes glinting with mischief, “Lead the way, son.”

Nyx nodded, slowly leading Mama across the hall and stopping at the door. “You can take your blindfold off now.” he said, as he wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and opened the door.

Mama removed the blindfold with her slender tattooed fingers. Her blue eyes crinkled in joy as she saw Nyx in front of her. He just hoped she didn't see him shaking as he took her by the hand again and led her into the studio.

Mama gasped behind him and Nyx sighed in relief. Sunlight poured through the windows and filtered through the hanging crystals in cracks of multicolored light. New canvases had been stretched and propped up on easels, while clean brushes and wooden palettes sat ready to be used.

Mama turned around, stunned at the new studio. “Did you do this for me?” Mama asked in wonder, her eyes round and her mouth agape.

“I drew the plans and Papa helped.” Nyx replied bashfully, leading Mama to the frame that held the sketches he had done in the dead of night. Mama touched the glass with tears in her eyes.

“I just called the builders,” Papa corrected, “Nyx was in here every day after his lessons doing something. He made this room all on his own.”

“The master builder said he could take me on as an apprentice next year,” Nyx blurted but Mama cut him off as she pulled him in for a bone crushing hug. He wrapped his arms around her then, closing his eyes as she rocked him ever so gently. At the camps, some of the other boys gave him hell over his mother; that she was High Lady, that she was human once, that Nyx loved her so much. One of the first drag out brawls he had gotten into was with a particularly snide boy back at Windhaven who insulted her. Nyx split the boy's lip and broke his nose.

“I love you, sweet boy.” Mama whispered in his ear, before kissing him on the forehead.

“Love you too, Mama. Happy Mother’s Day” Nyx murmured against her neck, squeezing her harder.

Mama pulled away as she cupped his face in her hands. “An architect’s apprentice at twelve? I think you might be the most accomplished heir the Night Court has seen.” Her blue eyes twinkled as she laughed.

“I can’t argue with that,” Papa sighed as Nyx felt his cheeks and neck go red. “You can build yourself a house up at Windhaven.”

“I might,” Nyx grumbled, “and my sofas won’t have dried barf on them.”

“And that my darling, is how you’re going to unite Illyria, ” Mama teased, “With your talent, wisdom and cleanliness.”

Papa drew them both into his arms, “If Nyx can pull this off on one of Helion’s made up holidays, I’d hate to see what he has up his sleeve for Solstice.”

“Just you wait,” Nyx smirked, “I might add a whole new wing to the house.”

______________________________________________________________________________

That night, Feyre watched the moon rise in the windows of her new studio, stars and galaxies blinked in the moonlight that washed across the peaks of the mountains. Feyre stroked the slabs of wood on the windowsill. Nyx created this, she thought with wonder and pride, he built this with his own hands.

He did, he had the idea months ago. Rhys said in her mind as his arms snaked around her waist from behind.

Feyre rested her head back on Rhys's chest, "We've done alright by him, I think."

Rhys hummed in agreement as he turned her to face him, "We really did."

Elucien: Cricket (9), Froggy (5)

It was times like this where Cricket wished she had gotten fire powers.

She could technically turn the stove on by herself, she was nine , but she always had to have someone help her in the kitchen, since the stove had to be lit with a match and she was too short to not have to stand on a chair. “Supervision.” Papa called it. That’s why he was here, over her shoulder, watching Cricket stir the porridge in the small pot.

“Perfect,” Papa murmured, “let’s add the cinnamon shall we?”

Cricket sprinkled the small shaker of cinnamon sugar over the porridge, taking care not to put too much. Even though Mama ate her porridge sweet, there were still strawberries and blueberries to add, and there was warm raisin bread that her little sister was buttering on the table.

The soft pink light of dawn and the sea breeze filtered into the kitchen. It was Mother’s Day in the Day Court, a celebration of motherhood. Grandfather swore they had always celebrated it, but Papa told Cricket that it only became a holiday when Grandmother came to live at court. Either way, Cricket and Froggy had brought Mama breakfast in bed for as long as they could remember. They’d spend the day at the beach, then have a big dinner with Grandfather and Grandmother on the balcony under the stars.

“I think the porridge is done.” Cricket announced. With a wave of his hand, Papa put out the flame on the stove. Mama was still asleep, unusual, since she liked to get up with the sun. But there was some sort of party last night, and they got home late, so Grandmother stayed with them, since she didn’t like late parties. Cricket vaguely remembered a kiss on the forehead when she was dead asleep.

“What time did you get home?” Cricket asked.

“Too late,” Papa replied, “Grandfather got into some sort of dance competition with some of the scholars, it was absolutely horrifying, but we couldn’t take our eyes off of it.”

“Did he win?” Cricket tried to picture Grandfather dancing inside a circle with the scholars.

“No, the astronomers beat him.” Cricket snorted and swallowed her belly laugh.

“Leave it to cool while we cut the berries,” Papa whispered, “Everything alright, Froggy.?”

“Yes.” Froggy answered softly as she set down the butter knife. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, pushing her golden hair back from her face. “I haven't filled the vase with water yet.”

“Let me do that,” Papa said as he kissed each of them. He took the crystal vase to the sink, filling it with water. Quickly, the girls gathered up the large bouquet of orange and apple blossoms they had picked yesterday. They had raced in the groves to see who could get the most flowers, scaling each tree like monkeys. Cricket had won, but just barely. A bowl of ripe oranges and apples sat on the table, another present for Mama.

Froggy put the absurdly large bouquet into the vase, while Cricket arranged the last bits of fruit into the large porridge bowl. Papa set down a small velvet box on the tray, the sisters giggled as they caught each other's eye. Papa lifted the tray and the girls held back their giggles as they entered Mama and Papa’s room.

Mama slept soundly, her curly hair braided across the silk pillowcase. Cricket opened the curtains, letting the now golden dawn light brighten the room. Froggy crawled gently on the bed, while Cricket flopped down face first.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they squealed as Mama opened her eyes and arms. The girls scurried into her embrace, latching on and kissing her face all over. Mama just laughed and kissed them back. Papa set the tray down across Mama’s lap and stole his own kiss as Cricket and Froggy snuggled on each side of her. She touched the white and pink blooms with awe.

“Oh, how beautiful! Did you girls pick these yourselves?”

“Yep,” Cricket nodded, “we picked lots of fruit too.”

“We can make orange juice and apple pie!” Froggy added breathlessly.

“Maybe we can make some juice for our picnic at the beach today?” Mama added.

“I’ve already got the pitchers out,” Papa laughed as he stretched out next to Cricket, wrapping his arm around her back to touch Mama’s hair.

“And what’s this?”

Cricket and Froggy shot up with excitement as Mama opened up the small velvet box. The little golden chain inside had two delicate charms that wound together; a small honeysuckle and a wisteria blossom, the flowers associated with both of them. Cricket with her wild honeysuckle scent, and Froggy, a soft and delicate wisteria fragrance. They held their breath as tears filled Mama’s eyes.

“Are you gonna put it on?” Froggy whispered nervously. Cricket swallowed her own anxiety.

“I’m never going to take it off,” Mama promised as she took out the delicate chain reverently. “Let me,” Papa said, as he rose to latch the chain around her neck.

“Thank you,” Mama breathed, kissing them both and wrapping each arm around them. “I love you both so much.”

“Love you too, Mama.” Froggy whispered. “We love you the most.” Cricket added.

Cricket and Froggy sank into her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of honey and jasmine, of the sea breeze that wafted through the wood and sandstone room, just as it always had. They smelled the familiar scent of Papa as he managed to embrace all three of them, of the sun on their faces, or warm mornings just like this, and cool nights at home.

“I think,” Mama announced, “it is a perfect day for swimming and a picnic.”

“It certainly is,” Papa agreed, “I wonder who can get ready first?”

Cricket and Froggy squealed and scrambled off the bed as they raced for their rooms. “No winnowing, Cricket!” Froggy shrieked as her sister laughed maniacally.

Elain finally rose from the sheets and crossed the room, meeting Lucien halfway. She closed her eyes, as she embraced him, savoring the laughs of her girls across the small house they had lived in for years. The laughs that had echoed across her visions as she fought her way across a frozen wasteland and lake. Visions of red and golden hair that gave her the strength she thought she didn’t have as she destroyed a sorcerer's box and made her way back to Lucien.

Her daughter’s had been her dream once, and now they were her reality. A messy and loving reality.

She rose up on her toes, kissing her mate. “We should have a Father’s Day, I think.”

“Don’t give my father any more excuses to blow smoke up his own ass,” Lucien laughed.

“No, we’ll just blow smoke up your ass.” she leaned in again-

“Will you two stop kissing for once?” Cricket hollered from across the hallway. “You have one more minute to get ready!” Froggy shrieked from somewhere in the house.

“Ready?” Lucien asked.

“For my family, always.”

Nessian: Oriana (4)

Oriana kicked her feet and flapped her wings along as she hummed. The picture looked very good, she thought. She colored in the lines she drew, a picture of her, Mama, Papa and her poofy kitten, Pudding. She made sure to put the House in there too, Mama said it was part of the family.

“Mrow?”

She turned to Pudding, his round face was cocked with confusion. Oriana sighed as she explained the picture again.

“It’s Mother’s Day so I made Mama a book. That’s you and me, and Mama and Papa. I didn’t have green for your eyes though.”

A green colored pencil appeared on the rug next to her. “Thank you, House!” she chirped to the House, who flickered a light in reply. Quickly, she filled in the eyes of her cat in the picture, finally satisfied with the result as Pudding pawed and rolled the rest of the pencils around the floor.

“Mama is going to love your book,” Papa said, as he lowered himself down on the carpet next to her.

“I know,” Oriana replied. She had been practicing her letters and she could write very well now. She wrote Mama a book about a Valkyrie helping a nice dragon and defeating an evil wizard. Aunt Gwyn helped thread ribbon to the pages. All that was left was to finish up the cover with a picture of her family.

“Are we gonna eat at Sevanda’’s still?” Oriana asked, putting her book on the table, next to that wrapped box of new training leathers for Mama. “Can we get fried squid rings?”

Papa made a gagging noise, “You can get fried squid rings, sweetheart. Mama is on her way back from the library, why don’t we get changed for the symphony?” He placed a kiss on her nose and Oriana kissed him right back on his before she ran back to her room, Pudding trailing behind her.

The House had opened her wardrobe and suddenly, it seemed to Oriana that she had a lot more dresses that she remembered.

She and Mama went to the symphony all the time after school and training. They watched the musicians rehearse during the day, but this was the first time Oriana got to see them perform with all the fancy grown ups. If Mama is going to wear her silver dress, Oriana thought, maybe she would wear silver too. But Mama loved it when she wore red, and she also wanted to wear her Valkyrie ribbon. Taking a deep breath, she dove into her wardrobe.

_________________________________________________________

“I’m ready!” Oriana chirped as she bounced into Papa’s view. She had decided on her favorite red dress, purple socks, and her sparkly sandals. She held the ribbon in her hand that she wanted to tie around her head. Her cousin Cricket always kept her red hair short, so Oriana cut hers to her chin the same way.

Papa scooped her up and twirled her, “You look beautiful, Ori. Why don’t we take the socks off, it’s not cold outside or inside the Symphony.” He set her down, unhooking Oriana’s shoes as she bounced on one foot.

“Okay,” Oriana chirped, “can I wear my ribbon?”

“Of course you can, would you like me to put it on?”

“Not too tight,” Oriana demanded as Papa tied the ribbon around her dark hair.

“Never, sweetheart.” Softly, Mama’s voice carried in from the hall with another voice, Aunt Gwyn and Papa gave her a grin. “Are you ready to go surprise Mama?”

“Let’s go!” Oriana squealed as she flapped her wings, hurling herself towards the hallway. She used her wings to propel her steps, as she threw open the door. She didn’t think, just flew right into Mama’s arms.

“Happy Mama’s Day!” Oriana exclaimed with a giggle, “Surprise! We’re going to the symphony!”

Mama just laughed as she bounced Oriana on her hip, “Surprise indeed!”

Aunt Gwyn placed a small stack of books on the little table by the door, “I won’t keep you any longer, Happy Mother’s Day.” she beamed brightly at Nesta before smacking a kiss on Oriana’s cheek.

“Aunt Gwyn, are you gonna have a baby?” Oriana asked.

“Oriana!” Mama chided, her face turning red as an apple.

Aunt Gwyn laughed, her pretty blue eyes sparkling, “Maybe one day.”

“Well, could you have one now so I have someone to play with? Nyx went to the camps and Cricket and Froggy are at the Day Court. So, I want a baby cousin to play with.’ Oriana clasped her hands together tight and bounced on her feet. “Please.”

“Don’t you have friends at school and your art class?” Aunt Gwyn giggled.

“Yes, I got lots of friends but I want another cousin.” Oriana thought for a moment. “A girl or a boy. Just a cousin who's fun.”

“Well, when Uncle Az and I have a baby you’ll be the first cousin to know.”

“You’re having a baby?” Papa asked as he walked into the room.

“Yeah, Aunt Gwyn’s gonna have a baby so I can have another cousin,” Oriana announced, “But not right now.”

Mama and Aunt Gwyn just started laughing.

___________________________________________

Oriana got her fried squid rings at Sevanda’s and she got extra whipped cream on her strawberry cake. They ate on the balcony and watched and waved at people walking down the street. At the symphony, an old High Fae female told Oriana she looked like a princess, “She’s my princess,” Papa had said proudly. Oriana watched the symphony reverently on Mama’s lap, bouncing along to the drums and tubas and she had only gotten tired during the flight up to the House.

Now, in the dim light of her bedroom, Oriana scrambled up onto her bed, book in hand. “This is for you.” she puffed as she snuggled next to Mama. “It’s a book! Aunt Gwyn helped me tie it, but I wrote it all by myself.” “That’s me and you and Papa.” Oriana pointed at the figures in the drawing on the cover. “I put silver for my eyes and your eyes, cause we have silver eyes. And I used black and red for my wings!” Oriana pointed to the blob shape, “There’s Pudding,” she said, affirming her cat’s presence, “and here’s The House.”

Nesta set the picture down reverently on the bedside table. Grabbing Oriana into a hug, she inhaled the sweet scent of mountain juniper. “I love it so much.” Nesta said softly, kissing Oriana’s face all over. “I’m going to show everyone in the library.”

Oriana rubbed her eyes, the lights from her flower and star lights began to fuzz in vision as Mama’s song and arms cradled her to sleep.

“Night, night, Mama.” she mumbled as she stepped into her dreams.

Nesta listened to the soft rhythm of her daughter’s breath as she held her, a ritual she completed every single night since Oriana was born.

The very idea of motherhood had terrified her, her own mother took residence in the back of her mind, whispering doubt into her ear. The first time Nesta had felt her child move, a sheer sense of terror washed over her; would she be another incarnation of her mother? Would she place all expectations of grandeur on the chest of her child with no thought for breath?

But, the moment Madja had placed Oriana on her chest, her mother was banished from her mind. Instead, a door opened in her heart, revealing a vast and wondrous sky of love for her daughter. Her name, Oriana, an old Illyrian name, sounded like a song, and it was one that Nesta sang every day. She and Cassian had made this beautiful little girl; with Nesta’s blue gray eyes and dark hair that matched Cassian’s, but still had that baby fine texture that made it impossible to stay tidy for long.

Yet, she was completely her own person, a curious and creative child who loved music and stories. Nesta delighted in every moment, even if she did want to take refuge in the deepest pit of the library some days.

The House had dimmed the lights softly, as Nesta stroked Oriana’s face, studying her Illyrian brow and Archeron nose, of the rosebud lips and cheeks that dimpled when she smiled, which thank the Mother, was every single day. Soft wings that curled at the top in a way that Cassian’s didn’t. Did his mother have wings like this, Nesta had often wondered, was this something Oriana carried of a grandmother that would have surely loved her?

The door creaked as Cassian almost silently crept inside. “I missed storytime, didn’t I?” He lowered himself softly on the other side of the bed, wrapping their little girl and Nesta into his own arms.

Nesta closed her eyes as she drifted off, at peace in the tangled arms of her family.

TAGLIST: @asnowfern @born-to-riot @bunburyahoy @belabellissima @c-e-d-dreamer @conebrain @cowboylament @cursebrkr @damedechance @dawneternal @foundress0fnothing @goddess-aelin @kataravimes-of-the-shire @iftheshoef1tz @lucienarcheron @moodymelanist @moonpatroclus @cauldronblssd @octobers-veryown @queercontrarian @sassyhobbits @tunaababee @thesistersarcheron @separatist-apologist @secret-third-thing @chunkypossum @the-lonelybarricade @thelovelymadone @xtaketwox @popjunkie42 @yanny-77 @wilde-knight @luciensdefenseattorney @reverie-tales @velidewrites @lamija-v @laxibbeb @witch-and-her-witcher @itsthedoodle @missfckingfortune @rosanna-writer @mossytrashcan

#acotar #next gen oc #next generation #feysand #feyre x rhysand #elucien #elain x lucien #nessian #nesta x cassian #i heart milfs #nyx #nyx archeron #background gwynriel #feyre archeron #rhysand #nesta archeron #cassian acotar #elain archeron #lucien vanserra

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 2 years ago

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Masterlist

The Hunger Games

Finnick Odair

You’re Losing Me

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s “You’re Losing Me.” How Finnick loses the best thing he’s ever had.

Haymitch Abernathy

Capitol Punishment Masterlist

A story in which Haymitch’s lover is a plaything for the Capitol

I'm Sorry

Moments of Haymitch having to mentor his ex-girlfriend

Percy Jackson and the Olympians/Heroes of Olympus

Luke Castellan

Follow Me

Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Delicate

"Is it chill that you're in my head? / Cause I know that it’s delicate"

Competing With Gods

When Apollo is sent to camp as a punishment, he sets his sights on Luke's girlfriend.

The Way I Loved You

"But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain / And it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name / So in love that you act insane"

The Final Quest

How a quest with the love of Luke's life turned him away from the gods

Asshole Instructor

Luke has been an asshole but he can't help it until he realizes the girl he likes could be gone any minute

Mine

"You are the best thing that's ever been mine"

Apollo

Immortal Danger

Apollo marries a half-blood without realizing how dangerous it can be

Immortal Danger II

Despite an extravagant wedding, Apollo is still confronted by those who want to end his marriage

John Wick

Forced Love Masterlist

Arranged marriages aren't uncommon in the crime world but John Wick never expected to be forced into one with his boss' daughter.

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

Undercover in a Skin Tight Skirt

The BAU Chief isn’t fond of sending his scantily clad wife in as bait

That Skirt

Smutty follow up to Undercover in a Skin Tight Skirt

I Can’t Leave

When the reader is forced into hiding, she’s desperate to inform her fiancé and his son

Move On

Rossi tells Aaron he should move on

Moving on to You

Aaron finally tells his longtime crush about his feelings when he almost loses her (Sequel to Move On)

Sparring Matches

The BAU undergoes PT evaluations, that includes sparring matches. And in the ring will be the secret couple, tipping off the rest of the team

Home Sweet Home

Sometimes going home isn’t always a good thing. Especially when your hometown is obsessed with marriage and you have a secret boyfriend.

Spencer Reid

Erotomania

Spencer’s girlfriend has a stalker

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon

Sandor Clegane/Robb Stark

Between a Wolf and a Hound I

Sandor Clegane was never naïve enough to think he could marry the king's daughter but it doesn't make it any easier to see her married off.

Between a Wolf and a Hound II

The new Lady of the North tries to cope with the fact that she is now married and has a responsibility to her husband.

Robb Stark

The Godswood

When the newest Lady of the North is chased into the woods, the lords of the north search for Robb Stark's wife

Cregan Stark

Wrong Person (College AU!)

Aemond's girlfriend has a group project with the man he hates the most, Cregan Stark.

Grey’s Anatomy

Mark Sloan

Haunted

Mark finally finds where his wife has been hiding

Twilight

Carlisle Cullen

Sorry to Meet You

The moral dilemma of the patriarch of the Cullen clan finally meeting his mate after 350 years

Attack on Titan

Levi Ackerman

Amnesia

When the Levi Squad goes out on a mission with a few rookies, accidents happen

Favoritism

Captain Levi wouldn't let his feelings for a scout under him get in the way of his professionalism, right?

Reiner Braun

Guard

When Reiner returns from his ten year long mission, he is assigned to protect the the woman he could never have.

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wpmorse · 1 month ago

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One of my side projects is a ASOIAF/Discworld crossover. The main premise is, due to the events of A Thief of Time and Night's Watch, Ankh-Morpork and the surrounding is transported to Westeros roughly replacing Saltpans, approximately when Robert and the court are heading north to Winterfell. Due to their location, Ankh Morpork is forced to become part of the war of Five Kings out of self defense. Due to Ankh Morpork having a different flavor of narativium, a 300+ year technological edge and... wizards, I expected things to be interesting.

For the most part this hasn't gone anywhere beyond me throwing ideas at the wall when I'm inspired. One of the bits I enjoyed the most was a scene with Arya and Rincewind after Rincewind accidentally saves her from the Brotherhood Without Banners and the Hound. It appeals to me for two reasons. The first is because so many fans go on about all of Arya's cool teachers, it appealed to me that she get one with a notably different philosophy than the others. The second is, as any Discworld fan can tell you, sticking Rincewind with someone gung-ho and heroic is comedy gold.

I'm afraid I rushed this scene too much, but it could be worse. Recently I've started to base my vision of Rincewind on Neil from the Young Ones mainly because Nigel Planer uses the voice for him in the audiobooks.

Anyway, here's the scene.

* * *

They had been walking through the forest for the entire day. They’d kept away from trails and didn’t see anyone. Still, Arya wasn’t sure if they were getting anywhere at all. All of the moss on the trees faced north, but she was sure she had seen several of the trees they had passed before, and then before that.

“Are we there yet?“ She asked again.

Her companion stopped and gave a loud exasperated sigh. He turned slowly and stared down at her. Arya stared back until he looked away. "Calm as still water," she thought to herself, smugly.

He was a tall skinny man with a thin, scraggly, beard. When she first met him, two days ago, she thought she had run into another red priest, like Thoros, in his faded red robe. But Thoros didn’t wear a strange pointed, wide-brimmed hat which looked even more threadbare than his robes, with the word “ WIZZARD” sewn in large faded letters. It made him look more like a mummer. Or at least a mummer who had been lost in the woods for many years.

He frowned. "How the gods should I know?" He asked.

Arya could not believe what she heard. “We're lost, aren’t we?” she said.

“ We are not!” He shouted.

“Then where are we going?” Arya demanded.

The man shrugged and started walking. “I don’t know about this ‘we’ business, but I’m going away from here,” he said pointing at the ground.

“That’s stupid!“ she shouted.

“No, it’s not. It’s away from danger!” He shouted back.

“And what if we just end up in more danger?” Arya asked.

The man turned again looking down at her with an infuriatingly knowing smile.”When we find it, we can run away from it too" he explained.

Aria wanted to punch him but she stopped herself as an idea struck her. “If we’re not going anywhere, can we go to Riverrun?” She asked.

"What’s in Riverrun?“ He asked.

“My…“ Arya paused. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him about her mother and Robb. She hadn’t told him her name yet and had gone back to calling herself Weasel, for fear of giving herself away once again. She didn’t think he would try to hold her for ransom, as the Brotherhood had planned, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

“The Warden of the Riverlands and the king in the North,“ she said

The man gave her a crooked look. "So… There’s an army there?“ He asked

"Oh yes, lots,“ she said, excited.

The man shrugged. "Well then,“ he said, "Let's keep away from there. You don't want to mess with armies. Too much of a chance they'll try to kill you.“

Arya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You're craven!" She shouted.

"I am not! Craving only leads to more trouble! I don’t crave anything'. He paused, remembering something. “Well, except for boredom, that is, and," he sighed wistfully, “ potatoes."

“What’s a potato?“ Arya asked.

The man gave her a pained look. He turned and looked up at the sky and said something under his breath. Arya couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like whimpering. “ Look, no one's asking you to follow me, “ he said, changing the subject. “ If you don’ t like where we’ re going, you can leave anytime you want."

Arya said nothing. She didn’t know why she was following the man, ever since she had run straight into him escaping from the Brotherhood, but he had got her past the Brotherhood's outer guard and, she shuddered, the Hound, and so far they avoided any other people out to get her. She was safe around him, even if she found his whining annoying.

She hadn’t asked him his name yet. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to get close to anyone, after losing Gendry, Hot Pie, Syro and... her father. Still, she should try to learn as much as she could about him. “Is a wizzard anything like a hedge wizard?” She asked.

He looked at her surprised. “You’re the first person who’s known how to read since I’ve arrived in this gods forsaken mud hole,” he said.

Arya gulped realizing she’d given away an advantage. "Well, is it?“ She asked. The wizard drew himself to his full lanky height. “Oh no, we wizards are something much better. We look into the higher magics.”

“Can you show me some?“ Arya asked.

The wizard coughed. “Not right now.“ He said. “My powers can’t be wasted on simple parlor tricks, especially when we might need them for something serious later. "

Arya said nothing. Let him keep his stupid secrets she didn’t need him.

#illustration #watercolor #asoiaf #discworld #crossover fanart #crossover #arya stark #rincewind #fanfiction

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wh0relibrarian · 1 year ago

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pretty thing

full fic based on this

just a few headcanons while I start working on a longer piece (I’m back home for the holidays and the idea of Sukuna being from the deep south has me frothing at the mouth)

content ahead: southern sukuna au, black coded!reader, just slight innuendos, reader is in her early 20s and sukuna is in his 30s, not reallyyy canon at all!! so don’t expect accurate information on his past, also, not his true form. don’t hate me!

word count: 913

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Southern!Sukuna who was born and raised in the deep south by a loving, yet distant mother. His father was never in the picture, but it’s okay, because Sukuna quickly learned that it would be his job to take care of his mother and little brother. This was no problem for him.

Southern!Sukuna who has always been a hard worker. Eventually, he’d come to run his own construction company. He’d been working his way up the ladder since he was eighteen. Now in his thirties he believes he should start doing something other than work. Maybe linger around a bar or two, see what “Tinder” is all about.

Southern!Sukuna who goes away on a business trip, never being the one to fly, but it was necessary for an upcoming project he had up north. One thing about Sukuna, he’ll always rep his home state. He’ll always have a shirt with the (insert a southern state) flag on it, if not a matching hat, it’ll be one from Bass Pro Shops. His entire body is tattooed from neck to ankle. He’s been getting them for years and they make his complexion look like silk. He takes incredibly good care of his skin, he has to in his line of work.

Southern!Sukuna who sees you eyeing him from his peripheral vision. You tried to be subtle, looking away as soon as his eyes would meet yours, but he caught you each time. You just couldn’t help yourself, the man was beautiful. You couldn’t help think what on earth a fucking cowboy was doing on this side of the country. Sure, you were going back to your hometown for the winter but there’s no way his reasoning was the same. He was visibly older, and no man with family up north looks that redneck. You had to know more about him, but oh god, you’d never actually approach him.

Southern!Sukuna who walks up behind you while you wait for your bag to drop from baggage claim, as was he. It startled you, mainly because you swore he was just waving at someone waiting for him outside, you thought he was gone already; so when you feel a light tap on your shoulder, you expect it to be your mother who was supposed to be waiting for you in the parking lot. When you turn around and see a 5 '8 man (short king, but taller than me) looking down at you with wide eyes you can’t help but jump back. He didn’t mean to startle you, he just wanted to know what a pretty thing like you was doing in his neck of the woods.

“I ain’t mean to scare you, sweetheart,” he reaches out his right hand from his pocket to give you a handshake, you reciprocate of course, still in awe that he’s speaking to you. “Was just wonderin’ what a pretty thing like you was doin’ in my neck of the woods.” His southern drawl was thick, and smooth. The way his words reverberated off his tongue sent heat waves straight to your cunt.

Southern!Sukuna asks for your number, just so he can check on his favorite city girl throughout the holiday. After a short conversation, he learned that you were really only here for family. No relationship, no notable friendships, simply spending the next four weeks in what seemed like an all expense paid nature getaway. He didn’t want you to be lonely, claiming that he’d check on you every now and then to see how you were doing, maybe take you out at some point if you were up to it. You still couldn’t believe the exchange, he invaded your personal space with the most intoxicating scent— some type of deep musk he clearly used to cover the underlying smell of cigarettes.

Southern!Sukuna who thought about you for days. You were unlike anything he’d laid eyes on. The first thing that stuck out was your hair. Thick and curly, not falling below your ears, but in the most gorgeous afro he’d ever seen. The ends were pink and he couldn’t help but think you both were meant to be, since his entire head was a light pink shade. Your skin looked so smooth, you smelled like clean laundry and strawberries. Maybe some type of sugary substance too. He pondered on all of these things for days, just aching for you to text him how bored you were, how you wanted to spend some time with him.

Southern!Sukuna who damn near fell out when he got a notification on his phone.

(111) 222-3333

Hey :) it’s the girl you met at the airport. I just realized I never got your name? I never told you mine either, lol, I’m ____.

You anticipated his response, thinking for a second that maybe you said too much. Surely an older guy like him doesn’t want to text like this. But then—

(444) 555-6666

Hey, sweetheart. Such a pretty name. Sorry for not properly introducing myself before, I’m Sukuna.

#📕 my books #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen #jjk men #sukuna smut #black reader #x black fem reader #jjk sukuna #i love southern sukuna #like omg #him in a cowboy hat #sukuna x black reader

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shrillow · 1 day ago

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Winter Flowers

sylus x reader; dragon!sylus; human sacrifice!reader

synopsis: the dragon protecting your valley demands a mate to join him in his lair. Certain events compel you to volunteer yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you on the mountain.

"For as long as this bite remains," he whispers, "you shall be mine."

In the mountain that overlooks your valley, lives a dragon.

Its age is unknown to you. For generations, your people exist in the shadow of the creature, while it guards the valley against raiders and armies alike. As children, the elders taught you to regard the dragon as a force of nature, capable of both preservation and great destruction. Grisly warnings are whispered to you in the dead of night, when sneaking out to the north woods proved an irresistible temptation to the youth. Yet, to you, the dragon is never more than an obscure presence in the background of your life.

After all, decades have gone and passed since the last pillagers stepped foot into the valley. A thousand years of peace have allowed wildflowers to unfurl across the gentle hills you wander. The frolic of deer and sound of birdsong fill the valley every spring. And you and your village follow the ebb and flow of its delicate ecosystem. Even now, on the cusp of the harvest, everyone gathers in the grey dawn to reap the bursting golden fields.

All of it, the elders are quick to remind you, is due to the benevolence of the valley’s guardian, and the deal your ancestors struck with it centuries ago.

And in return for this bucolic existence? A human mate every one hundred years.

A small price to pay for you to tend to your father’s sheep alone, without fear of plunder or kidnapping. To meander through the foothills beside the animals, with the village hound in tow, and read about giants under the shade of a tree.

You’ve never known anything else except for the green expanse before you. Your people do not leave the valley, and why would they? When they have everything here. How could you want for anything, after being raised in the gentle cradle of these fields?

But when you stop at the valley’s end marked by the splitting river and a field of lupins, where the sheep do not care to roam further, a disquiet roots inside your heart.

You cannot name the feeling. It’s in a language the elders never taught you.

The wind shifts. The sheep grow restless with the fading light.

“Come away now,” you beckon the sheep, “lest you want to be eaten by wolves.”

While the villagers spend their hours in the fields at this time of year, you’re still out in the pastures. You spend weeks at a time with the flock, until one of your brothers comes up from the village to take over. It’s solitary work. But you’re a solitary person.

You can still feel the heat of the earth when you wake up the next morning. Winter is still a couple months away. The lambs haven’t finished weaning.

One day is no different from the last. You rise to eat and feed the dog. You take your crook and rove through the flock, counting.

“Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . . ”

You arrive at the same number as last time. The sheep must have taken yesterday’s threat to heart.

You take the herd further into the valley, though you’re still a day and half’s walk from the village. Across your northern vision, a line like torn paper cuts into the sky. The mountains loom before the verdant plains like an impenetrable wall. Hills of pine blanket the base of those jagged peaks. You think you can see your village, small wisps of smoke rising in the distance.

When night falls, you settle in a familiar glade, where the earth forms a natural barrier against harsher weather. Tonight, you can sleep under the stars. The sheep huddle close, and the hound prowls the dark. They may fear the wolves but you don’t.

“Wolves no longer venture into the valley.” Your father’s voice carried into the quiet evening. You were fourteen. You knew much of sheering but little of shepherding. Your father hopes to pass these pastures to his sons, but he still teaches you.

“Why?” you remember asking.

“Because we’re here,” he says. At the time, you didn’t think that was much of a reason. A girl who's just come of age isn’t much of a threat. And your father? Though he carried an axe on his belt, you’ve never seen him hurt a fly.

When the morning sun runs her fingers across your cheek, you wake to the smell of blood.

You leap to your feet. You feel around in the grass for your crook and rush to the herd. You call your dog but there’s no answering bark. The sheep have formed a tight and restless circle. They bleat as you pass them, struggling to get away from the stench.

You have to climb over a small rise before you see it.

Ten ewes lie dead at the bottom of the hill.

Their throats were torn open. Their entrails spill on the ground. They were clearly feasted on.

You hear your name in the wind and you look around frantically until you see him, your brother, rushing down the fields on a horse towards you.

You meet him halfway, but before he can open his mouth, you shout, “Something happened to the sheep last night!” You drag him over the hill where he can look down at the bloody scene. Your brother’s face turns white.

He grabs your arm suddenly. “You must return to the village.” You’ve never seen your brother so grave.

“The dragon,” he whispers, “came down from the mountain yesterday.”

Your mouth falls open.

That could only mean one thing.

You turn your attention back to the dead sheep. “This is no coincidence,” you insist, “The elders need to know.”

“Wolves got to these sheep,” your brother says.

Your face twists into a frown. “They were obviously killed by—”

“You don’t know that,” he retorts. He turns away to pace, wiping his face with a shaking hand. You look away. It’s been a long time since you saw your brother this shaken.

“Take the horse,” he instructs you, “and tell no one of this. Not even Father. Okay?” He makes you swear it.

You swallow your protests and make your way through the fields. A shape bounds towards you and you sigh in relief as you recognize your hound. At least he remains unscathed.

As you pull yourself into the saddle, you hear a sound like shattering glass.

The earth trembles. You see black mist rising from the north, like a murmuration of starlings. It writhes in the air until it disappears within the shadow of the mountains.

When you return to your village, you find the south fields empty of villagers. Tools and wagons heavy with unthreshed wheat stand idle.

Droves of villagers are making their way towards the village center. You weave through them, trying to find the rest of your family when someone calls your name.

You spin around just as your sister throws herself at you.

“It was here,” she says breathlessly. She’s shaking. You think she’s about to faint so you grab her. You see in her eyes pure terror. “The elders have called a gathering.”

She tugs you into the stream of people until you shuffle inside the mead hall. Even infants and young children are brought. The elders sit in a circle, their aged faces sallow and grim as they address each other.

“We cannot concede to the beast’s demand,” Elder Jenna’s voice resounds through the hall, “Barely fifty years have passed since we last had to sacrifice one of our daughters.”

Elder Josephine shushes the crowd that murmur their support for Jenna. “The pact did not specify once every century.”

“But the precedent has always been thus, Elder Josephine,” Jenna counters, “Has it not since our forebears settled the land?”

“I’ll admit that our histories do not have record of the dragon demanding a new mate so early,” the older woman concedes. The hall once again echoes with several hundred voices, but when the elder rises from her chair, all are silenced.

“So who here,” Elder Josephine addresses the village, “is willing to forgo the ceremony?”

Everyone stiffens. Neighbors glance at each other, girls your age share haunted looks.

A thousand years of peace.

Not even Jenna speaks up.

In the end, no one wants to bear the burden of breaking such a legacy. Not for principle. Not for a daughter.

As is the custom, lots are drawn.

Mothers, married women, and girls who haven’t had their first blood, are exempt. That leaves ten eligible maidens to draw a stone.

The entire village descends into mourning. The harvest is put on hold, and the usual festive ribbons folks spent weeks making are stripped from doorways and light posts. Until all color is leached from the village.

The families with eligible daughters receive heartfelt condolences, including your parents. But not many, for you are their only eligible daughter among three boys and a married sister. Other families are not so lucky.

Your mother does not share the sentiment.

“Such plans I had for you,” she mutters. “All to be threatened by that beast? The forebears mock me.”

You wince when you feel her jasper ring scrape against the back of your neck while wrangling your hair into a braid.

At last, she finishes and leaves for your sister’s house to help her with the newborn, before undoing your mother’s work.

You rouse your brothers, check in on your father who sleeps much longer these days, and make sure that you have ample amount of wood to burn later tonight.

Then, you slip into the morning mist and disappear.

No one ever hunts in the north woods. No one would dare, so close to the mountain. As children, you and the others would play a game of who could stand the closest to the treeline. Your friend, Tara, is the unseated champion of this little contest. You remember watching her stride to the forest’s edge until branches and foliage seemed to stretch toward her, embracing her. You feared the woods would swallow her hole.

You find her now at the edge of these same woods, collecting flowers.

“They say the climb is the hardest part,” Tara says as you approach. She gathers arnica and yarrow in her basket, before casting her gaze up the mountain, which looms like the wrinkled face of a sleeping giant. In a few weeks, a fresh mantle of snow will cover the peak and glitter under the winter sun. For now, there’s only a light dusting of white.

“I’m not scared,” she says. You give her a look and she flashes you a coy smile. “What? Not everyone can claim they bedded down with a dragon.”

“Only you would joke about something like this,” you say, elbowing her side. Any other time, you would have laughed. But everyone knows that the chosen never return to the valley. The reason is self-explanatory.

You read somewhere that being chosen as a dragon’s mate was seen as a sacred honor. You don’t know exactly when that sentiment changed.

You stare into the depths of the forest. As a child, you could never get as close to them as Tara.

“What do you think is on the other side of the mountain?” you ask.

“I don’t know . . . Death and destruction?” she suggests. Wormwood and nettle join her collection. “Cannibals and thieves? I haven’t really thought about it.”

You think about the dead ewes in the field. Description of that morbid scene is at the tip of your tongue.

But when you glance at your friend, the words once again fail you. Why do they fail you? Tara deserves to know what kind of monster really lurks in that mountain.

Compliancy makes cowards of us all.

“The book Jenna gave me,” you say instead, “it talked about something called an ocean. Water, as far as the eye can see.”

Tara laughs. "Now that's something I'd like to see. What other fantasies have you got in that head of yours?"

That night, you dream that the forest drags Tara into its darkness. You dream of running after her, only for the trees to weave into an impenetrable wall, preventing you inside.

The ceremony is a simple affair, without speeches or spectacles. You, Tara, and eight other girls each pull a stone from a hemp sack. You roll your stone in your hand, cool and river-soaked smooth.

Nine black stones. One white stone.

The entire village is in attendance. For most, this is the first ceremony they’ve witnessed. The elders watch you girls closely. Jenna’s hands are tightly clasped around her pendant, her expression a storm cloud. Elder Josephine’s gaze is relaxed in quiet assessment.

Your mother looks as if she’ll crack someone’s bones any minute. Your father and brothers appear ill. Tara’s family is on their knees in prayer.

When Elder Jenna asks you to reveal your stones, you close your eyes and unfold your fingers.

Several girls cry out. You hear a tidal of murmurs ripple throughout the village. Your mother’s gasp is what causes you to open your eyes.

A black stone.

You let yourself breathe and turn to Tara with a half-smile—

You drop your stone. The world narrows to a pin prick.

Nestled in Tara’s palm, a white stone.

“Now that all that fuss is over,” says your mother, “it’s time we announce your engagement.”

You look up sharply.

“That boy Andrew has asked to marry you. I said yes.”

You recognize his name. His family owns the largest fields in the valley. You grew up together. He’d taught you how to thresh wheat, had sucked the blood from your finger when you’d cut yourself on a stalk.

“I can’t marry him.”

“His father is the wealthiest landowner in the valley. His are the fields from which we eat. And yet, you can’t marry his son?” Her voice hisses with mockery. “Pray tell, daughter.”

A dozen reasons bubble in your throat, but they would be reeds to her fiery tongue. And so, you shrink into your chair, avoiding the smug curl of your mother’s lips.

“You will wed him next spring, and you will be grateful that a boy like him has chosen someone like you.”

You sprint to Tara’s home before the sun’s golden fingers touch the valley’s floor.

You barge through the door and announce, “We must leave this place.” You stride toward Tara’s room. “Before you depart for the mountain, and I for the marriage bed.”

It takes a moment for you to realize that Tara isn’t inside, though her herbs lay scattered across the table. Puzzled, you make your way around the hut to find your friend hunched over and heaving behind the cottage.

You rush to her side. “Tara!” You hold back her long hair while she coughs up the remaining contents of her stomach. When she quiets, you guide her back into the house, sitting her down close to the firepit, before retreating to the kitchen to make up some rudimentary concoction Tara once taught you for upset stomachs.

“Remind me, is it goldenseal or bloodroot for the stomach?” you ask her.

“Nothing I have is going to remedy this ailment,” Tara says ruefully, “I’m with child.”

You spin around. “Why didn’t you say anything before the ceremony?”

“I didn’t know.”

“We must tell the elders,” you insist, “We can draw lots again—”

“You know the other girls and their families would riot if we did that,” she says. “And they’ll think I planned this.”

“The dragon demands a maiden,” you remind her, “It would kill you and the baby!” You watch tears form in your friend’s eyes. You take her hand and brush her tears away with your scarf. “If you won’t tell the elders, then we must leave the valley.”

Tara’s eyes widened. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere that dragon or my mother can’t reach us,” you say, “She’s marrying me off come spring. If we leave now, we'll be out of the mountains before the first snow.”

But Tara is shaking her head. “No.”

Your grip on her hand tightens. “What?”

“I want my child to be raised here.” She looks at you pleadingly. “You know the world beyond this place is dangerous. Our village has not seen violence in a thousand years.” Tara’s hand curls into a fist above her stomach. “Maybe . . . maybe the dragon will let me stay? Maybe I can at least give birth before I have to join it . . . ”

It was a far flung hope. In your village’s collective memory, no concessions have been made since the forging of that archaic agreement between the dragon and your ancestors. You know nothing of a dragon’s mating cycles, but you doubt the creature would accept the arrival of its mate to be delayed. Nor would sending someone up with a message be feasible, so close to winter.

“Please, Tara,” you beg, “leave this valley with me. It can’t be any worse than becoming the dragon’s mate.”

Where was your friend who braved the edge of the north woods? Where was your friend who said she wasn’t afraid of the dragon?

You wait for her to emerge from the forest unscathed.

But you are met with only Tara’s silence.

You are not yet five summers old when Elder Jenna takes you to the old chapel and reads to you the meagre books that have survived since the time of your forebears. From their own memoirs, she recounts vast oceans and deserts; monstrous creatures and fae guides; legendary kings and prodigal magicians.

“The elders believe that these are only folklores our forebears collected during their travels,” Jenna tells you while you lay your young head in her lap while she reads. “But I think these stories are real.”

“All of them?” you’d asked.

She shares a smile with you. Her garnet pendant glimmers in the candlelight. “There’s a world out there, bright one. We’ve let ourselves forget about it.”

Now, years later, you follow the sheep in a daze. The fall sun beats down on the back of your neck as you sit with the faded pages from these journals. Whatever comfort they once provided you has ebbed away and eroded the surface of something far more sinister than any fable. An unspeakable truth. Now an unavoidable certainty.

The same sheep graze in the same spots. The same lilies and gentians are trampled beneath your familiar feet. You and a hundred generations of shepherds have worn a path through the same meadows and grassy plains. Even after your father entrusted the sheep to your care, you never strayed from it.

Could you call any place home besides this valley? Could any other lovely fields or alpine views feel half as comforting as the ones before you?

Can you starve in all this beauty, hungry child?

Anyone who becomes the dragon’s mate is gone forever. Anyone who leaves the valley never returns.

You think of Tara, whose fear is not leaving but rather, never being able to go back.

You remember how you were too scared to approach the north woods, how you always lost in those games. You were henceforth known as the craven one, the one in need of the comfort of books and familiar things.

But that isn’t why you were never able to compete with Tara and the rest.

You were afraid that if given the choice, you would choose to never return.

In the morning, your mother drags you out of bed by your hair.

“You volunteered?!” she screams, “After all I have done for you? Selfish girl!” She throws you into the main room in front of your father and brothers. Disoriented from sleep, you struggle to rise, but your mother simply kicks you back. You stumble into the fireplace and pain engulfs your arm. You scramble away but the damage is already done.

Your father makes himself scarce. Your brothers cower in the corner as your mother approaches you. There is nothing but malice in her eyes. “If you want to be the dragon’s whore, then so be it.”

It’s the last thing your mother ever says to you.

You and Tara sit on top of the remains of a crumbling stone wall, cloud-watching.

She’s the first to break the silence.

“I thought we’d grow old here.”

You squeeze her fingers with your good hand. “We shared a childhood,” you say, “the forebears granted us that at least.”

Tara looks at you with shining eyes. “I hate this. We should have run away.”

You shake your head. “This is where you belong. I shouldn’t have tried to take that from you.”

“But what about you?” Tara entreats.

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your gaze inevitably turns to the mountain. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Your brother returns from the pastures.

“You were right.” He’s standing with his shoulders hunched, there’s a paranoid look in his eyes. “I want to give you something.”

You follow him to one of the outposts, where spare tools and food are stored. Gingerly, he reaches inside to pull out his hunting spear.

“They always told us that the dragon promised to never harm one of our own,” he recalls. After a moment, he hands the weapon to you. “It lied.”

You stare at the spear. It’s a simple thing, with a steel tip fastened to the end of an ash wood shaft. It was your mother’s weapon, crafted with her own hands, before gifting it to your brother.

You toss it back to him. “What do you expect me to do with it?”

“Whatever you have to,” he says, “Whatever it takes to come back home.”

You’re silent. Clouds chase after the sun’s slow descent behind the hills. Neighbors return to their huts, to rise again before the wheat rots on the stem.

And above it all, a dragon waits.

You take the spear from your brother.

The night before you are to leave, Elder Josephine asks you to visit the chapel.

It’s a crumbling, teetering thing on the outskirts of the village. It’s not used for prayer or holding ceremonies. The only things inside are the relics of your forebears, the first men and women who settled the valley.

You find the elder standing before a row of chests at the back of the building. Her brooch flashes a brilliant red in the candlelight, fractals of color spill across the stone walls like blood splatterings

“Before tomorrow, I must ask you,” she utters gravely, “are you truly willing to become the dragon’s mate, to forsake the valley, climb the mountain, and never return?”

You think of Tara and the child in her belly. You think of dead sheep and spring weddings.

Your breath is steady when you say, “I do.”

A moment passes, before, “Then approach, daughter of the valley.”

Your sister tightens the straps of your cloak, checks the buckles of your back, and combs away the strands of hair that refuse to conform to the braid.

“They say the climb is the hardest part,” she says.

“I know.”

Behind her, you watch your niece pick at the grass while the dog curls its protective body around her. The sun has barely made it over the eastern rise.

Your sister surveys her work. She glances at your bandaged arm but quickly looks away. Nine years your senior, you weren’t very close to your sister. But you share the same mother, and so too, the same wounds.

“Wolves and bears don’t trespass into the dragon’s territory, so you shouldn’t worry about attracting them. The food should last the entire journey, but I know you like to indulge.” Her mouth is pinched into a smile. “So don’t blame me if you run out.”

Her eyes glisten dangerously. You open your arms and your sister collapses into them.

“Thank you,” you say.

You hold her until your clothes soak up the last of her tears. A quiet part of you is grateful that you can carry her with you in this small way.

A crowd waits for you. But your father and brothers are the only ones you search for among the somber faces. Their hugs are the hardest to let go from. Your mother is predictably absent. You wipe their tears and tell your brothers to look after your father.

Tara is the last one in the parade of villagers you pass on your way to the north forest. She smells like morning rainfall and fresh laundry when you hug her. The scent pierces your lungs, and you think that if you let go, you’ll be lost forever.

“Come back to us when you make it out,” she murmurs into your ear.

You hide your smile into her shoulder. Only Tara would make such an impossible demand.

“I will,” you say, because only you would make such an impossible promise.

Like so many years ago, you find yourself standing before the north forest, and closer than you’ve ever been before.

Just as you step into the trees, you root around the damp earth until you come across something long and heavy.

You allow yourself a moment to admire the spear, turning it around in your hands. Then, you begin to walk until your unremarkable little village disappears behind a dense green shroud.

For days, you trudge through a thick layer of underbrush, using the spear as a walking stick. Nights in the forest are the darkest you’ve ever known. You’re used to the boundless canopy of stars stretching from one end of the valley to the other and beyond. Oftentimes, with Tara, you would sleep out in the fields on summer evenings and spin tales from constellations.

When you peer at the sky now, you only see shadows upon shadows, concealing the stars from you.

The sun struggles to pierce the thick woods in the mornings, forcing you to continue your journey largely by feel. You don’t have to worry about direction, you just follow where the ground tilts up.

Your aching feet are at least a distraction from your raw and itching arm. Every morning you wrap it in fresh linens, washing and drying your old wraps when you make camp. You dab a bit of the salve Tara made for you on the worst of your burn, but the blisters are slow to heal.

You hope the dragon doesn’t mind his mate pre-roasted.

By the end of the week, a chill accompanies the air. You notice a clearing up ahead of you, where a bit of rock juts out. You clamor your way to the outcropping and soak in the view before you.

Your valley has always been beautiful. Beyond the wheat fields, miles of wildflowers bloom in a shocking array of colors every spring. The sheep come down from the south hills and flood the terrain. But up here, your valley looks so small, tucked away in the folds of a vast mountain range. Your village is a blemish against the greenery. The outposts scattered across the grazing fields mere freckles.

You glance behind you, taking in the rest of your journey.

A jagged, unfriendly cliff face stares back at you in challenge.

You tighten your bandages, and begin to climb.

Tara and your sister were right. The climb might kill you before the dragon does.

You nurse your bleeding hands, try to warm them against your bowl of food. You’re starving, but you only eat enough to keep the hunger pains at bay.

The harvest would be over by now. Almost two weeks since you hugged your best friend. Since your sister fixed the hole in your cloak for the climb. Since your father doused your burned arm in water and bandaged it. At least here, this solitude is familiar.

You avoid thinking of Tara and your family too often. You reserve your mind only for the dragon.

One thing about this climb that you appreciate: you can see the stars again.

Are you looking at the stars, Tara?

That night you dream of fire. You dream that Tara births a creature with wings and horns. You dream of your mother’s rage, burning red in her eyes. You dream of a spear, resting in the blood-stained snow.

There’s more things you don’t know about the dragon than you do.

The spring of your sister’s wedding, you asked Elder Josephine: “Why does the dragon need a mate?”

You work with her on your sister’s veil. Famed for her needlework, Elder Josephine has sewn the veils of all the girls in the valley. Showing some talent for the craft, you’re placed under her tutelage.

“That is the price for its protection,” she answers, eyes never leaving her careful embroidery.

You contemplate her answer, before suggesting, “Do you think the dragon is lonely?”

For the longest time she doesn’t answer.

Eventually, she turns to you and says, “The last girl who was chosen asked the same thing.” She pats the brooch over her heart. “Perhaps the creature feels something akin to loneliness. But who’s to say? This is something not even the forebears knew.”

You and Elder Josephine continue to embroider lilies and heathers into your sister’s veil. You do not speak of the dragon again.

While you and the elder are admiring the finished product of your hard work, Elder Josephine says to you, “For your veil, sweet child, daffodils.”

You never have the chance to ask her why.

Years later, and your only veil is the frost that clings to you in the early mornings as you ascend higher and higher into the clouds. The air is thin and bitter cold.

You find . . . winter flowers, sprouting in rebellion against the frost.

No spring wedding for you. No daffodils or handsome groom. Only the climb.

You’re lost.

Cavernous rock faces rise up on all sides, caging you in an icy labyrinth. You don’t know where you took a wrong turn, you’ve been wandering for days.

You assume the dragon’s den would be obvious. But the mountain is huge, and you’ve stumbled into all sorts of caverns and caves, with no dragon in sight.

Harvest has surely passed, yet you’ve failed to find the dragon’s lair. Would it punish you? Would it punish the village?

You forgo camp to scour the mountain passages. Deep crags cast long, gloomy shadows as dusk creeps toward night. You’ve lit a torch just to watch where your feet tread.

You follow a narrow crevice and nearly plummet to your death when you emerge before a sheer drop. You land on your backside in your attempt to scramble to a safer distance from the ledge.

And then you see it, cast in brilliant orange and violet hues, the largest expanse of water you’ve ever seen.

It sparkles like a field of diamonds, melting into the fuzzy horizon. But then you see strange shapes in the distance. Unnatural structures reaching into the sky, and flickering lights dotting them, growing in number as the night assumes its domain. Until you can’t see anything at all.

A low growl resounds behind you.

Ocean forgotten, you slowly look up to find yellow eyes staring back.

A wolf. Flesh-tearing and huntress-cunning.

It lunges.

You’re fourteen, in the pastures with your father. The summer heat makes it nearly impossible to sleep.

The flock don’t share your suffering, for they lie restfully, spread out in small packs across the field.

You think every living thing in this valley will be getting a good night’s rest except for you, until you hear a whine pierce the night air before it’s abruptly cut off.

You sit up. The sheep are already startled awake. Your father has not.

You hear one of the sheep squeal—the sound of animal terror is unmistakable.

You reach for your father’s axe and head down into the valley.

On the edge of the forest, you find it: a wolf is feasting on a carcass. It looks up at you between the tall grass, its muzzle bloody and dripping.

It has no fear of you.

You are shocked at the speed at which it sprints toward you. You’re knocked to the ground. It presses its massive body on top of you and opens its jaws, aiming for your throat.

You raise your axe and the wolf’s jaws snap around the shaft. Your arm reverberates with the impact. The sound of teeth biting into wood rattles your skull. As it tears the weapon from your grip, you find a rock with your other hand and strike it into the beast’s face with all your strength.

It howls. The weight of its body disappears and you stagger to your feet, groping the ground frantically for the axe.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the wolf circle you. Blood trails from an empty eye socket.

From its remaining eyes, there’s only hunger.

It lunges at you one last time. It’s slower. You can anticipate its speed.

You pull back your axe and swing.

A wolf lies dead with your spear through its chest.

You crawl on your knees, searching for the torch you dropped. The light has withered to a mere flame. But just as you reach for it, a shadow descends upon you.

Without thinking, you thrust the torch outward, only for it to be caught mid-swing.

A clawed hand and scarlet eyes emerge from the darkness.

“Impressive,” a voice says, before the fire burns out completely.

A snap of fingers brings the hearth to life.

You blink tears from your eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden light.

A male face stares at you from across the fire. Humanoid. The rest of him is less so. Down his neck and across his shoulders grow black, twisting scale ridges, like armor. Two spindly horns sprout from his head, and a spiked, segmented tail stretches out behind him into the shadows.

And perhaps the strangest detail of his monstrous physique: tendrils of red lines like blood trails creeping towards a concave dip in his sternum. They end a few inches away from the cavity, as if in ambush.

He catches you staring at him and he smiles. “Admiring the scenery?”

You swallow. “Were you watching me the whole time?”

“I was,” he admits. His voice carries an unnatural rumbling sound.

“Why?”

The dragon shrugs. “I was curious. And it would be a rare opportunity for me to save a damsel in distress.”

You scoff. “Not a damsel.”

“No?” His red eyes glow. “They sent you up here to fend for yourself.” His tail brushes against the cavern’s floor. A few coins go scattering.

“You were the one who asked for a mate,” you remind him.

His smile twitches. “I did, didn’t I? Well—” He props his arm up and leans his head against a clawed hand. “—allow me to take full responsibility.”

You glance around the cave. Your spear leans against the wall between you two. In small alcoves, candlelight flickers, lighting up the mountains of gold and priceless treasures. Indeed, the dragon is in no need of riches. You wonder how he acquired all this . . . where he acquired it.

The cavern seems to be part of a larger tunnel system. You notice corridors and crevices leading away from the chamber, paths of gold disappearing into the dark.

The sound of the dragon’s breathing is amplified in the vast cave.

“So what now?” you ask.

“Hmm?” He arches a brow. He assesses you with a predatory intelligence. You feel like an insect under his gaze.

“How does this work?” you clarify, “Do we just . . . you know.”

Understanding hits him and he releases a deep-chested laugh. It startles you. The tip of his tail flicks out, like a horse swatting away flies.

“Do you expect me to pounce on you any minute?” he chuckles. “Don’t flatter yourself, kitten.”

You glower at him. “Then what am I here for?”

“Relax,” he drawls, “There’ll be time for that later. For now, maybe I just want a night of good conversation.”

“You must not have many conversations if you consider this the good kind.”

He scoffs. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

You look away. For a moment, you forgot that you were in the company of a monster. The one from your elders’ stories. Protector of the valley. Dragon in the mountain. You think of the ones who came before you, the one’s who’ll come after.

How many times has he had the same conversation? Do you sit in the same spot as the others, sharing warmth from the same fire?

“I know that look,” says the dragon. Though he speaks to you, he’s looking into the fire. He releases a long sigh before rising from the ground.

Your heart lurches, and you spring to your feet as well.

“Spooked?” He grins at you, but it's colder than the others. You’re sure he can hear the desperate beating of your heart. You can barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You suppress the urge to flinch when he reaches for you.

“I’ll make this quick then.”

His claws catch the light as they swipe across your shoulder. You cry out more in surprise than pain. You stare at the cut he made; it’s no more than a flesh wound.

Your eyes turn back to him, and watch as he licks his claw, tasting your blood.

Your breath catches.

When he swallows, a light ripples across the red lines on his chest. He groans as if in discomfort, but the glow fades as quickly as it appeared.

“There,” he murmurs.

“What?” You stare down at yourself. You realize you’re shaking.

A rustling sound. You look up to see the dragon slink into the darkness, disappearing further into the cave.

“Wait!” you shout after him, “The elders said—they told us—!”

“That I was going to ravish you?” Rippling shadows are your only warning before he’s right in front of you. Heat emits from his body, encompassing you like a warm blanket, better than any fire. “Did your elders say that I would take you to my bed and have my wicked way with you?” He chuckles. His hand trails down your face. Amazed, you feel his claws recede into his skin, leaving only very human fingers to follow the line of your jaw.

You inhale sharply as he grabs your chin and roughly tilts your head up. His eyes shine, as brilliant as a blood moon.

“Or maybe,” he whispers, “You’re one of those.” He leans forward until his cheek brushes yours. “Maybe you want to be ravished by a dragon.”

You feel light-headed. You fear that if you speak you’ll melt into a puddle, or worse, that he’ll laugh at your stuttering attempt at words.

“My forebears promised you a mate,” you manage to say with a steady voice, “Does taking my blood fulfill this promise?”

He considers you for a long moment. You feel his tail brush your leg and you shudder.

“It’s enough,” he says simply.

You don’t know what that means. “So, we’re mated?”

He laughs again, there’s genuine amusement in it. “No, we’re not.”

You frown at him. What game was he playing? You were prepared to face down a predator. You were prepared, even, for cruelty. You thought you knew what the dragon wanted but now you’re not sure.

The dragon certainly didn’t appear . . . in need of a mate. You know what the rams were like when the ewes were in heat, how the male dogs would rut frantically on anything that moved if no females were around to relieve him.

The dragon is nothing like the wild, heat-drunk animal you were expecting. At least, not right now.

“You know,” he begins, voice absent of the sultry tones from before, “the others would have run away by now.”

The admission confuses you.

“Do you really want to know what it means to be a dragon’s mate?” he asks.

“If you promise to let me go after,” you say, “ . . . then yes.”

He regards you with suspicion. An unnatural light emanates from his eyes, reminding you of his power. You would be a fool to raise a weapon against him.

“I’ll need to take more than just your blood,” he tells you at last.

“Do what you must.” You don’t sound confident, but the dragon mercifully doesn’t mention it.

His hands come around your body, one at the small of your back, the other behind your neck. His tail curls around your leg. You suddenly find yourself held secure in his embrace.

The dragon dips his head into the crook of your neck, you feel his breath there, and you understand.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he bites down. His teeth puncture the skin, flooding your throat with a hot, yet numbing pain.

He groans into it. His muscles tense around you, as if expecting that you will resist.

You're struck with the thought that you might be the first person he’s bitten like this.

You quickly perish the notion. Surely he’s claimed a mate before?

His teeth slowly retract from you. Instinctually, his tongue laps at your wound until you can’t feel any pain at all. When you touch the mark, your fingers come away clean.

His focus is solely on you. His gaze is strangely open—vulnerable in a way a predator’s shouldn’t be.

Surely you can’t be the first.

“For as long as this bite remains,” he whispers, “you shall be mine.”

His tail wraps around your body . . . petting you. You start to think it has a mind of its own, but when one of the spines catches on your burned arm, you hiss.

He releases you immediately. His eyes dart all across your body until it lands on your soiled bandages. You’ve forgotten about the injury until now.

“What’s this?” He slowly peels back the wrappings to reveal the welts and blisters that mar your skin. They shine in the fire light, ugly and angry from days of poor care.

“It’s recent,” he states, voice sharpening. There’s a threat of violence to his words.

“It was an accident.” The lie is out your mouth before you can think.

You feel his gaze upon your arm, burning like any fire. You can’t decipher his expression. All you know is that he’s displeased—very displeased.

Then, without a word, he retracts one of his claws and drags it across his other palm. Blood pebbles to the surface.

“What are you—?”

The dragon raises his hand and lets droplets of blood run down your arm. You try to jerk away but he holds you fast.

Your skin starts to tingle, but just as you think he’s harmed you, the blisters start to fade. Your flesh begins to smooth over, replacing the dead and discolored skin.

“It’ll leave a scar,” he says when he’s done.

“. . . Thank you.” You raise your arm to the light. Indeed, the skin is raised and knotted, but the burn looks to be years, rather than days, old. It's incredible.

He’s still frowning when your attention drifts back to him.

“You’re a poor liar,” he says, making you stiffen up once again. His hand ghosts across the mating bite. “Do not attempt it again.”

You hold your breath and nod.

“You should get some rest.” The dragon snaps his fingers and more fires appear down a corridor. “My rut will be upon me in a few days. You’ll have plenty of chances to change your mind before then.”

You ignore that last sentence, choosing instead to ask, “What should I call you?” The silence that follows makes you frown.

“Call me whatever you want,” he answers, “but don’t expect me to respond.”

You see the signs of the rut over the next week.

It’s subtle at first. Until it’s not.

Irritability over the smallest things. Restlessness that has you worried he’s going to cause some damage. He runs his hands across his face and neck as if trying to soothe himself. There’s now a constant flush to his skin, radiating a mild feverish heat.

You expect him to give into his urges immediately. Instead, you watch him isolate himself further in the caves.

You don’t understand. Are you not a proper mate for him?

He hides himself from you. When you enter the main chamber, he makes himself scarce. He doesn’t let you touch him.

He hunts. A lot.

He returns every few hours with a new kill. Deer. Boar. Moose. Even bears.

“No sheep?” You watch him closely.

He gives you a strange look. “Too fatty for my liking.”

From the increasingly large stores of food, it becomes apparent that the dragon will be incapable of hunting when his rut truly hits.

Every once in a while, the mating bite burns. It’s hottest when you’re trying to sleep. Over in the next cave, you hear the dragon pace.

Frustrated and bored, you get up and make your way to his chamber.

“Ataraxys,” you say.

He stops his pacing and turns to you, face scrunched in bewilderment. “What?”

“Mandrikor,” you offer, “maybe Rhadamanth?”

He scoffs. “These names couldn’t get more ridiculous if you tried.”

“How about Onychinus?”

“I spoke too soon.” He sighs.

You share a beat of silence. In one corner of the room is a bed—or rather a nest. Blankets, pillows, and furs are tossed haphazardly into a gigantic pile. Along the walls are shelves carved into the stone, full of books.

You study the dragon. His condition only seems to be worsening, yet he hasn’t come for you. You stopped wondering that he’ll order you to lie with him and instead assumed that he’ll just hunt you down and take you where he finds you.

Neither scenario happens.

You never expected him to be gentle like the boys from your village, timid and sweet as they were. He’s a dragon after all, with all the natural instincts to mate like one. You prepared yourself as much as you can, you even tried to be . . . enticing.

You find his abstinence to be a wholly different kind of beast.

Tonight, however, he seems more pliant to your company. When you reach for him, he doesn’t pull away. The dim candlelight carves his face into hard, unyielding edges. Even as his eyes soften when you touch him.

You’re about to spin out another list of names when he says, “You can still change your mind. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

His tone is unbothered, but his mark burns hotter than ever.

“What about this?” You brush away your hair to expose your neck.

He looks away. “It’s just a bite. It’ll fade with time.”

So much for dragons mating for life.

“You need a mate,” you remind him, “isn’t that what you always ask for?”

You swallow your hurt when he frees himself from your touch. “I don’t need you,” he growls, “I never have.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your anger surprises both of you. “I watch you. You prowl around frustrated and in pain. For hours you avoid me and the mark burns.”

The dragon flinches when you mention the bite.

��Am I so unappealing?” you press him, “Is that why you deny yourself?”

He closes his eyes as if in agony. He likely is. “You need to leave before you regret this,” he pants, “before you can’t stop me.”

You weigh your options. The dragon is holding onto the remaining threads of self-control, and yet, you are not afraid.

“If you’re still giving me a choice, then I have time to change my mind.” You reach for him. “Right now, I want to be here with you.”

It’s probably the pre-rut that makes him acquiesce. Regardless, he accepts your touch and does not pull away from it again.

An almost unbearable heat envelops you. You try to turn over and find that you can’t.

The dragon lies above you, trapping you beneath his massive hybrid body. Neither of you are wearing clothes.

His cock is red and weeping between you two. Like the rest of him, black ridges run along his length. You wonder if they’re just as sensitive.

The dragon’s face is pressed against your throat, mouthing at your mating bite. Tiny moans escape his throat as he gently rocks against you, spreading your legs even wider.

He still hasn’t taken you.

“Dragon,” you moan. You run a hand through his hair, silver and thick like a wolf’s pelt. Your fingers brush the base of his horns and you hear him gasp and feel his hips snap against you.

When his eyes meet yours, however, there is only pain.

“This will not be pleasant for you,” he rasps, “once we begin, I will not be able to stop.”

You study his flushed body, his ragged breaths, and solemn eyes. You try to find the violent, rabid creature the elders warned you about, but all you’re met with is a question.

One last chance to back out.

You close the distance between you two, and whisper, “Then don’t.”

to be continued . . .

Can also be read on ao3!

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