#this was a ceremonial sword not used in battles

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 5 PART 2

he tucked your hair behind your ear like he wasn’t balls deep yesterday.

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: SMUT. 18+. the bed literally shatters, blood(?), excessive biting, mentions of viltrumite sperm lol

a/n: it's currently 2am. sorry for any mistakes.

The guards posted outside don’t speak. They bow low as you pass, then vanish around the curve of the hall, leaving the door unguarded.

Teela waits nearby, leaning against the marble arch like she’s always belonged there. She takes one look at the both of you, your linked hands, the quiet between you, the way Mark still looks like he’s not sure how to carry himself here, and smirks.

“You need help getting out of your clothes, Commander?”

You arch a brow. “I have a willing partner.”

Mark clears his throat. “Define willing.”

Teela laughs. “I’ll check back in before the feast. Unless you want me to slip dinner trays under the door instead.”

You say nothing. But the look you give her says plenty.

She vanishes, muttering to herself with a grin.

You step to the center of the door and press your palm against the sigil carved into the heartwood. It glows briefly, recognizing your presence, and then the door swings open with a low hum.

Mark hesitates on the threshold.

The room is dimly lit, flickering with low firelight from the hearth. The bed is massive, draped in maroon velvet and layered furs. Two swords are mounted above the mantle. A map table sits to the right, still cluttered with battle reports and a single polished goblet. Along the far wall, a carved basin waits, filled with hot water, steam rising gently.

You step inside. He follows, silent.

His eyes move from the basin to the ceiling to the tapestries lining the walls, none of which are delicate. They depict war. Ceremony. One is just you, astride Swift Wind, bloodied and victorious.

He runs a hand along the edge of the metal bed frame.

“This is your room?”

“It’s always been mine.”

He turns to look at you. “And I���m staying here?”

You pause a beat. “Yes.”

Mark’s eyes hold yours. No jokes. No groans. Just that soft, flinching surprise he wears whenever someone gives him something without asking for anything back.

You smile gently. “You’ll rest well tonight.”

He steps toward you slowly. “And the feast?”

“Later.”

“How much later?”

“Enough.”

His hands rise, palms ghosting the shape of your hips, not quite touching yet.

“And we’re alone?”

“Yes.”

Mark leans in, lips grazing your neck, his voice low.

“Good. Because I’m not done proving I’m better than that fucking fish.”

You laugh , low and sharp, but your breath hitches when his teeth catch the spot on your throat that still bears the echo of his bite.

You turn into him, mouth grazing his, and everything slows.

The room is warm. Your body is warmer. And his hands, now they touch, pull you close like you’re gravity itself.

No armor now. No court. No borders.

Just him. And you.

You step out of your clothes, the cotton slipping from your body with a muted thud as it hits the padded bench beside the wall.

His throat bobs. No reply. But something in his jaw eases.

You toe off your shoes one at a time, unhurried. The sound is small, but in this room, the one where you’d once broken two ribs in a sparring match, the one where your mother taught you how to bind your own wounds, it’s enough to echo.

Behind you, fabric shifts.

You glance over your shoulder.

Mark pulls his shirt over his head, dragging it off with one hand while the other braced against the metal support beside the bed. He doesn’t toss it aside, just lets it fall from his fingertips. It hits the floor silently.

His chest is bare in the firelight. Taut from tension, lean with use. A scattering of healed gashes patterned his side. You recognize every one of them now.

You turn toward the basin, steam curling up from its edges like breath from a dragon’s mouth.

“Come on,” you say. “Water won’t stay hot forever.”

He hesitates for a second longer. Then nods once and moves to unbuckle his belt. The metal clinks softly.

You step to the edge of the bath and dip a toe into the water. Heat climbs instantly up your leg. You hiss under your breath but keep going, sliding down the carved steps until the water creeps over your thighs, your waist, the tops of your breasts.

You sink against the basin’s curved edge, the stone slick against your back. The heat unfurls into your muscles, loosening the last of the tension in your shoulders.

Behind you, Mark’s footsteps pad closer.

You don’t turn around.

You just hear the second set of steps into the water, one after another. No hesitation now. Just weight, movement, breath.

The water displaces with a gentle swell. It sloshes softly over your collarbone as Mark sits behind you. Not too close. Not far, either. His knees brushes yours under the surface. A pause. Then a deep inhale.

He exhales slowly. “You always come here after coming home?”

You open your eyes halfway, gaze tilted toward the ceiling. “Sometimes.”

“By yourself?”

“Always.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat. Not judgment. Not surprise. Just… understanding.

You turn your head.

He’s sitting against the far curve of the basin, arms braced along the rim. His dark hair is damp from the steam, clinging to his forehead. Wet skin gleams across his chest, rising and falling in a quiet rhythm.

You reach for the cloth draped over the nearby ledge, dip it in the water, and wring it out. The heat flushes your fingertips. You drag it slowly across your own collarbone, down your arm, along the line of your breast.

A trail of clean warmth follows your touch.

When you hand the cloth to him, his fingers graze yours.

Mark doesn’t move for a second.

Then he brings the cloth to his shoulder. Rubs once. Let the water run down his side.

Neither of you speak.

Steam curls between your mouths. The scent of fire, lavender, and crushed ironroot fill your lungs.

You lean your head back again. Close your eyes. Letting the heat bleed out, the aches still curled in your spine.

Water ripples quietly as Mark shifts.

The next touch isn’t an accident.

His foot brushes yours under the surface, bare skin against bare skin. The contact is light, but it travels. It echoes. He doesn’t move it away.

You open your eyes.

He’s watching you.

You reach for the cloth with fingers slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. Mark sits still, half-sunk in the steaming water, the faint scar beneath his hairline catching candlelight, his shoulders drawn with an unease he can’t quite hide. He’s used to battles, not baths like this, intimate, ceremonial, impossibly quiet except for the echo of dripping stone and your breath.

The cloth hits his skin and he flinches, not from pain, but from the way you press it to his chest with reverence. You don't speak. Words would only blunt the weight of the moment. You drag the cloth across the swell of his pec, over the ridge of his rib, down to the taut line of his abdomen. He watches you, tense, reverent, almost angry at how much he feels.

You wash him like you’d dress a wound.

Your wrist brushes his sternum and he exhales, voice rasping low. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in, firm. 

He doesn’t argue again.

You rinse the cloth, wring it slowly, then start at his shoulder. One arm, then the next, lifting each to trace the fine lines of muscle and old bruising. When you reach the inside of his wrist, his hand curls on reflex, like he’s ready to punch through something. You press your mouth to the underside of it instead, lips soft against the pulse there.

His azure eyes meet yours. “You’re making it really fucking hard not to grab you right now.”

You smile, wet cloth sliding to his thigh. “So don’t.”

His breath catches. You ease closer, water lapping at your chest, rising up around both of you. The cloth drags higher, between his legs, brushing the thick length of him now twitching under the surface. You don’t flinch. You wash him with the same deliberate care, as if his cock is just another piece of him that belongs to you.

He groans, low and wrecked, hands gripping the edge of the basin, knuckles white. “Fuck, you’re really not playing fair.”

You look up, gaze steady, and you keep going.

You drop the cloth, slow and deliberate, watching it drift on the steaming surface like it means nothing anymore. It doesn't. Not with the way his cock stiffens under the water, brushing your stomach with every subtle movement. You rise onto your knees, straddling him fully now, the heat of your body meeting him, from chest to thighs. His skin is fevered, and it’s not just the bath.

Your hands find his shoulders, broad and taut, every inch of them carved from hours of war and years of burden, and you lower yourself until your lips hover just over his neck. He tilts his head, instinctively baring it to you. A silent surrender. You take it.

The first kiss is nothing but breath and heat. A slow press of your mouth to the soft flesh beneath his ear, lingering, letting the moment stretch taut between you. He exhales, shaky, and you feel the vibration against your lips. Then you kiss again, lower this time, just beneath the sharp edge of his jaw.

He smells like steel and soap and something deeper, something him . You breathe it in like oxygen and kiss harder, your lips parting as your tongue flicks out to taste the salt clinging to his skin. He groans low, guttural, like the sound is being wrenched from somewhere deep.

“Shit,” he murmurs, voice strained, fingers twitching against your waist. He doesn’t pull you closer. Not yet. He's still trying to be respectful. Still trying to behave.

You smile, lips curving against the hollow of his throat. “You can touch me, Mark. I want to feel you.”

His hands move instantly, like he’s been holding back a dam. One slides up your spine, fingers splayed between your shoulder blades, while the other cups your ass under the water, palm firm, thumb grazing that tender spot at the base of your spine. The contact sparks through you like lightning.

You kiss lower, trailing down the thick column of his neck, licking the pulse point just beneath his ear before pressing your teeth into it, slow and deliberate. He jolts, hips rising just enough that his cock slips up along the inside of your thigh, dragging through your wetness under the water.

His breath punches out. “Fuck… fuck , baby…”

You don’t stop. You shift closer, letting your soaked cunt glide against the length of him, teasing him with the heat he’s not allowed to have yet. His whole body tightens, and his fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise. You bite him again, harder this time, just beneath the collarbone where the skin is thinnest, and he lets out a strangled groan, head falling back against the edge of the bath.

You soothe the bite with your tongue, slow licks against his skin as you murmur, “You’re trembling. Look at you. I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

“Jesus,” he grits out, eyes blown wide, pupils dark and hungry. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You tilt your head, lips brushing his ear. “Mm-mm. Not tonight. I’m getting even.”

He freezes, nostrils flaring. “For what?”

You grind your hips down, dragging your slick folds over his cock under the surface, teasing the tip right along your entrance. You feel it throb, feel his thighs flex beneath you, straining to keep still.

“For threatening a fish,” you whisper, biting his earlobe. “And for making me come before letting me get on top. You remember that?”

His laugh is broken, panting. “I remember everything. I remember how you screamed when I—”

You cut him off with your mouth on his again, not gentle now, not ceremonial. Just teeth and tongue and need. You swallow every word, every groan, every gasp, and you don’t stop kissing him until he’s clutching you like a man drowning, dragging you tighter against him, cock lined up, body trembling on the edge of losing all control.

Still, you don’t let him

Your mouth trails lower, breath hot against the column of his throat, and you suck deep, not soft, not coy, but with intent. You want to mark him, brand him, let every courtier in that throne room tonight know exactly who he belongs to. You pull hard, tongue swirling, lips sealing tight around the flesh just above his collarbone, until the skin darkens to a ripe, bruised violet. He gasps, hips bucking up under you, and you grind down in response, letting the thick weight of his cock slide through your soaked folds under the water.

“Fuck, I’m yours—just do it,” he rasps, voice wrecked, eyes half-lidded and dazed with heat.

You don’t answer. You just leave another. Lower. Slower. Teeth dragging along his skin before your lips seal again. His fingers twitch on your ass, then slide around, curling between your thighs beneath the surface. The warmth of the water does nothing to mute the electric jolt when his fingers slip between your folds, spreading you, stroking through your slick with maddening patience.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice a rasp of disbelief and want. “You’ve seriously been this wet the whole time?”

You lift your head, eyes locking with his. “Since you touched my wrist.”

He groans. The sound scrapes up from his chest like it hurts. Two fingers press against your entrance, sliding in slow, knuckle-deep, and your mouth drops open on a quiet, shuddering moan. The water laps around you both as he begins to move, curling his fingers just right, stroking that aching spot inside you like he knows it, like he’s memorized it.

Your head falls to his shoulder, lips pressed to the already-dark hickey blooming on his neck. You bite again, moaning into his skin as your cunt clenches around his fingers. Every thrust of his hand sends heat spiraling up your spine, sparks bursting behind your eyes. You grind into his palm, helpless, panting, your breath coming fast and shallow.

“More,” you gasp, voice hoarse against his ear. “Mark, please —”

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, aching circles. Not gentle. Not teasing. He’s not holding back anymore.

“I love when you beg,” he murmurs against your hair, voice low and warm. “You sound so fucking sweet like this.”

You whimper, jaw slack, hips rocking wild over his hand. Your teeth scrape his neck again, and you suck hard, leaving another bruise over the throb of his pulse. He fingers you faster, harder, water splashing now with every movement, and you feel it building, tight, brutal, a pressure at the base of your spine ready to detonate.

“You getting close, baby?” he whispers, voice low and warm, his cock heavy and twitching against your thigh.

You nod quickly, breath catching. “Please—don’t stop. Don’t stop, please…”

Your body coils tighter with every stroke of his fingers, the pressure mounting at a dizzying pace, heartbeat deafening in your ears. His hand between your thighs works with ruthless precision, two thick fingers fucking up into you again and again, wet sounds obscene in the steaming hush of the bath. His thumb circles your clit in tight, relentless spirals, slick with your arousal and warmed by the water and the heat radiating off your flushed skin.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters.

You lean into him, hips grinding down in time with his thrusts, riding the rhythm like your life depends on it. Every muscle in your body is taut, trembling, nerves crackling under your skin. You feel the burn rise, hot, high, inevitable.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, warm against your ear. “Come for me, sweetheart. Just like that. Let me feel you.”

Your whole body seizes, cunt spasming around his fingers as the pleasure rips through your core and explodes outward, blinding and wild. You cry out, raw, high, half-breath and half-animal, and before you can even think, you sink your teeth into his neck.

Hard.

He gasps, jerks beneath you, a guttural sound punched from his lungs. You bite him like you mean it, like the need to mark him has consumed everything else. Your teeth sink past skin, breaking it, hot blood welling against your tongue. The metallic taste blooms in your mouth, sharp and primal. You don’t let go. You clamp down, your moan muffled against the bruised, bleeding skin at the curve of his throat.

Your thighs squeeze around his hips as you grind through every wave of your climax, twitching with each pulse of slick that gushes over his hand. Your nails dig into his shoulders, deep enough to score welts. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t care.

He groans, cock throbbing against your belly, the scent of blood and sex thick between your bodies. His hands hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, fingers bruising into your hips, arm wrapped around your back, keeping you pinned tight to his chest.

“Fuck…” he breathes, voice low. “You bit me.” There’s a pause, then a quiet laugh against your skin. “God, you’re perfect.”

You pull back slowly, breathing hard, eyes glazed and dark. Blood paints your lips, a smear across your chin. You lick it, slow, unashamed, tongue dragging through the crimson, letting him watch every motion.

Then you meet his eyes, voice barely above a whisper. “You… you gave yourself to me. You knew what that meant, right?”

His chest heaves beneath you. You feel his cock twitch between your slick thighs, rock-hard and aching. And still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t ask for anything back.

“You’re mine now,” you say again, softer this time, dragging your fingers through his hair. “And everyone who sees your neck tonight will know. ”

He groans, head falling forward, lips pressed to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile slowly, and kiss the pulse still hammering beneath the blood. “That’s the idea.”

You feel his cock, thick and aching, resting against the soft swell of your ass, twitching with need, but he doesn’t rush. He waits. Listens. Breathes with you.

You’re still trembling, bent forward slightly in the bathwater, your hands resting on the edge of the tub, the stone warm beneath your palms. His lips press to your shoulder again, soft, lingering. He kisses the trail of your spine like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s thanking it.

“I want to be good to you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, velveted with restraint. “Let me give you everything. All of it.”

Your breath catches. You nod. “I’m yours, Mark. Do what you want.”

He huffs a quiet sound, half laugh, half groan, and shifts behind you, rising from the water just enough to tower over your body. He reaches around and takes your hand in his, guiding it over the edge as he gently nudges you to lean forward. You bend, your chest resting against the slick stone ledge, breasts flattening as water beads and rolls off your skin. Your ass lifts, thighs parting, legs spreading to invite him in, raw, vulnerable, open.

His hand doesn’t leave yours.

You feel his cock slide between your folds, thick and hot, dragging through the wet mess between your legs. He lets it rest there, nestled against your entrance, his other hand splaying across your lower back.

“Still with me?” he asks, mouth brushing your shoulder.

You nod frantically. “Mark, please—”

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, baby.”

He presses in slowly, the head of his cock stretching you open, a deep burn blooming around the thickness of him. He groans, a soft, broken sound. You feel his restraint in every inch, the way he fights the urge to slam into you, to lose control. Instead, he takes his time, sinking into you with aching slowness, feeding his cock into your cunt until he’s fully seated, hips flush against your ass.

“God,” he murmurs, forehead resting between your shoulder blades. “Feels like you were made to take me. Just like this.”

You moan, arching back into him, your fingers tightening against the edge. “So full, Mark. You’re so deep—”

“I know,” he whispers, starting to move. “I know, baby.”

His hips roll into you, slow and precise, dragging his cock out of your wet heat just enough to feel the pull, then pushing back in, deeper with each thrust. It’s not brutal. It’s not punishing. It’s worshipful, his hands sliding up your sides, mapping your waist, your ribs, your breasts. He cups you tenderly, kneading soft flesh as he fucks you slow and steady, building a rhythm that melts your bones and lights your nerves on fire.

“You’re taking me so well,” he breathes, kissing the nape of your neck. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The words undo you. You push back into him, panting, desperate for more, and he gives it, thrusts deepening, hips slapping softly against your ass, cock grinding against your sweetest spot with every stroke. You’re soaked, your inner thighs slippery, the sound of your bodies meeting nothing but wet heat and quiet gasps.

His hand slips between your legs and finds your clit, and when his fingers brush over it, barely there, you writhe .

“Shh,” he soothes, even as he circles tighter. “I’ve got you. Just relax. I’m gonna take care of you.”

You whimper, fingers clawing at the ledge, your whole body rocking as he fucks into you with the kind of patience that drives you insane. He doesn’t need to be rough to wreck you, his control does more than brute strength ever could.

“You close?” he whispers, biting gently at your shoulder. “Tell me, baby. I want to hear it.”

You nod, voice cracking. “So close. Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

Your climax rises slowly but hits hard, your body twitching, pussy clenching down around his cock in pulsing waves. You sob his name, shaking, gasping as pleasure tears through you like a flood. Your muscles lock, your thighs twitch, your cunt gushes around him. But even as your body loses control, he holds you steady, hands strong at your hips, thumb still rubbing circles into your clit as he fucks you through the high.

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come,” he murmurs. “God, I love feeling you like this.”

You collapse forward onto the ledge, spent and trembling, but he’s still moving, hips jerking now, rhythm faltering.

“I’m gonna come,” he pants, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Can I? Please.”

“Yes,” you breathe, arching weakly into him. “Please, Mark— give it to me. ”

He groans, one hand fisting in your hair, the other clutching your hip as he thrusts in deep and holds, and then he’s coming, cock pulsing hard, spilling warmth into you with a broken cry. You feel every pulse, every wave of it, his cum thick and hot as it floods your aching cunt.

He stays like that for a long moment, buried inside you, arms around your waist, body pressed to yours. His breath slows. His hands soften.

Then he shifts, wrapping you in his arms from behind, kissing your shoulder as he carefully eases out of you. His cum spills down your thigh, hot against your skin, but you don’t care. You lean into him, spent and glowing, your back flush to his chest as he rocks you gently in the bathwater, whispering soft things you don’t even need to understand.

You’re held. You’re his. And there’s nothing softer, nothing safer , than the way he keeps you close after he’s filled you full.

The water has gone still.

Steam clings to your skin like silk, soft and slow. You sit with your knees drawn up, Mark’s thumb making quiet circles beneath the surface where it rests against your leg. There’s no urgency in the touch, just something steady. Present. 

“I think,” you murmur, voice low, “if we stay in here any longer, they’ll assume we drowned.”

Mark lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Better that than the court whispering about how I looked at your thighs during the meat course.”

“They’ll whisper regardless,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. Just shifts slightly, forehead still nearly touching yours, his breath mingling with yours in the warm air.

The spell between you doesn’t break so much as it exhales.

You rise first, water sliding off your skin in thick, glistening streams. You don’t hurry. The room is warm. The basin is lined with heat wards, your feet meet stone without flinching. You don’t reach for a towel right away. You let the air kiss your skin. Let him look.

Behind you, Mark stands. The splash is gentle. His breath hitches as he steps onto the carved edge of the basin.

You grab the nearest towel and start at your collarbone, dragging it down in long, practiced sweeps. When you turn, Mark is watching you, chest bare, hands slack at his sides.

You step toward the clothing laid out along the side table, ceremonial. White and red. Braided gold cords at the shoulder, your house’s sigil stamped into the waist guard. The fabric is heavy, but smooth under your fingertips. The kind of armor made to impress first, protect second.

Mark’s shirt is folded beside it, newly tailored, trimmed in muted silver embroidery. The collar is high and shaped to fit the line of his throat.

He reaches for the plainer one.

You stop him.

“Not that one.”

He raises a brow.

You hold up the other tunic, the better one, and step in. “This fits the court. And you.”

He studies it for half a beat longer, then nods once and lifts his arms. You help him pull it on, smoothing the back, your fingers ghosting down the line of his spine. You fasten the clasps with quiet efficiency. His scent, soap, warm skin, the faint heat of him, lingers under the fresh linen.

When you look up, he’s watching you.

His expression is unreadable.

You fasten your own gear without comment. The belts click into place. The split skirt falls into neat folds. You pull your sword into its sheath and settle the strap across your back. It rests comfortably against your spine, where it always belongs.

Mark steps in as you tighten the final clasp on your shoulder.

“You clean up terrifying,” he says.

You smirk. “That’s the idea.”

He reaches for your hand. You let him take it.

“You sure about this?” he asks, quieter now. “Walking in there like this. Together.”

You nod. “I didn’t bring you all this way to hide you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Not possessive. Not hungry. Just quiet. Real.

A knock sounds at the door.

You don’t flinch.

You open it to find Teela, already dressed for court, her armor gleaming, ceremonial braid wound tight over one shoulder. She nods once at you, once at Mark.

“The horn will sound in ten. Your father’s already seated.”

“Marky?” you ask.

“Arguing with Orko about which pastries float better in salt water,” she says dryly.

You close your eyes for half a second. “That’s going to end in fire.”

“Most things do.”

Mark stands at your side. Silent. Watching.

Teela lifts a brow. “You ready for this?”

You glance at Mark. His jaw is tight. His hands are steady.

“Let them see us,” you say.

Teela doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But there’s something in her face that softens, just for a beat.

The corridor is changed when you step out. Lanterns burn brighter now. Red velvet banners line the stone archways. Guards stand at intervals along the hall, not flanking you, but watching, respectfully. The silence feels deeper than before. Thicker.

You walk at Mark’s side. Not ahead. Not behind.

The horns sound.

Two long, slow notes echo down from the upper towers.

Mark’s fingers brush yours as you descend the staircase that leads to the throne hall. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to.

You reach the top step just as the great double doors begin to open.

Warm firelight spills across the stone floor.

Inside, the court is already assembled.

You step forward first.

Mark follows.

Your shoulders are straight, your head high. You feel every gaze as it lands on you, some curious, some tense. None surprised.

At the far end of the hall, your father sits on the table, broad, silent, still dressed in his war cloak. His eyes are unreadable.

They rest on you first.

Then slide to Mark.

He does not blink.

Neither does Mark.

You walk together down the long stretch of stone, boots echoing across the flagstone. The flames catch in Mark’s silver trim. Your sword hilt shines as you approach the dais.

And the moment you stop, you both bow.

Not deep. Not humble.

Just enough.

You feel the court shift.

Not in rejection.

In recognition.

They know who you are.

And now, they know who stands with you.

The high table is a polished slab of shadowglass, carved from the same obsidian that lines the mountain's core. Ancient, sacred, impossibly smooth under your palms. The center of Eternian rule.

You sit at its heart now, draped in the white and gold of your house, sword strapped to your back even at the feast. Not ceremony. Principle. You’ve never once sat at this table without a blade.

To your right, Marky kicks his legs under the chair, humming softly to himself as he peels back the skin of a roasted cinderfruit with both hands. He’s sticky already, honey root glaze on his knuckles, juice at the corner of his mouth, but glowing. Relaxed. The room doesn’t touch him.

To your left, Mark hasn’t touched his food.

He’s dressed properly, with his hair still slightly damp from the bath. His tunic fits like a second skin, sleeves pulled tight to his forearms, collar pinned with your family’s sigil. The mark of your house. On him.

He hasn't mentioned it. But he knows it's there. You saw the look.

He sits straight. Tension in the shoulders. Eyes calm, but scanning, every arch, every armored noble two tables down, every servant’s footfall. Watching for threats without looking like he’s watching.

Across from you, Randor sits flanked by generals and distant bloodlines. His armor gleams beneath a fur-lined mantle, and a blade rests at his right side like punctuation. He hasn’t moved since you entered.

He’s watching Mark like he’s made of glass and gunpowder.

No one speaks right away.

The feast has begun in name only, platters passed, goblets filled, but the full course waits on your father’s signal.

A signal that hasn’t come.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, elbow on the armrest, fingers tapping once against the silver of his sword.

His voice cuts through the low hum of court chatter with perfect clarity.

“The boy,” he says, eyes on Marky, “is not yours.”

You feel the ripple before you hear it, half a dozen heads turn at once, a few hands still mid-pour, others frozen over bread baskets or knife hilts. Even the fire seems to pause.

You don’t look away.

“He is under my protection,” you say, evenly. “By my claim.”

Randor's gaze flicks to you. “I did not ask what the law says.”

The scrape of a chair leg from somewhere down the hall. Someone shifting. Tensing.

You lay your palm flat on the table.

“Then I don’t understand the question.”

Mark speaks before your father can.

“He’s mine.”

His voice is low. Controlled. Every syllable is deliberate.

Randor’s eyes shift back. “And hers?”

Mark’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t raise his voice. “If she wants him to be.”

Marky, oblivious, takes a bite of candied root and raises a hand like he’s been called on in school.

“She helped me,” he says, still chewing. “And also, she yells at my dad sometimes when he forgets breakfast.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“And she smells better than he does.”

You stare straight ahead.

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose.

The court begins to murmur.

A half-smile flickers at the corner of Teela’s mouth, three seats down.

Randor says nothing.

The server beside him shifts uncomfortably. The wine jug in his hand trembles slightly, a single drop of violet spilling onto the tablecloth before he steadies himself.

Your father leans back, just slightly. “The offer of betrothal came from Mer-Man. With tribute. With land promises. With unification terms. You rejected them all.”

“I did.”

“You answered alone.”

“I did.”

“You consulted no one.”

“I didn’t need to.”

A pause.

His voice dips lower. “You did not reject Mer-Man outwardly until after he called you in the middle of the night... and saw the Viltrumite in your bed.”

He doesn’t look at Mark when he says it. He looks at you.

But you don’t hesitate.

“I rejected Mer-Man the moment I realized he wanted to own me.”

You place your goblet down with quiet precision.

“And the moment I realized Mark didn’t.”

Randor raises an eyebrow. “You barely know him.”

“I don’t need to.”

The words don’t echo. They settle. Heavy.

You reach for your knife and begin slicing through the seared meat on your plate, not as a performance. As an act of control. Your motions are steady. Precise.

Randor finally turns to Mark.

His voice sharpens. “And what did you offer her?”

Mark doesn’t flinch.

“Nothing.”

Randor lifts his chin.

Mark keeps going. “I didn’t offer her anything. I didn’t come here to take. I came because she chose me. I’m staying because she still does.”

You go still beside him.

Your hand tightens slightly on the knife.

Randor tilts his head. “You think that’s enough?”

Mark doesn’t look away. “I think she decides what’s enough.”

Marky leans over your arm and whispers (way too loud), “ He said that to her in bed once. ”

The air dies.

Mark slowly turns his head. “Marky—”

“I heard it! You were so loud! And I wasn’t even eavesdropping, I just went to ask for snacks.”

Teela snorts behind her goblet.

A noble coughs.

You press two fingers to your brow, dragging them down slowly as you exhale.

Marky continues cheerfully, “He also bit her. A lot. ”

“Marky,” you say, quietly.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He pops another slice of honeyfruit in his mouth. “But it was romantic.”

You finally look at your father. He’s still staring across the table. But something has changed. The weight in his shoulders has shifted. The blade at his side stills. He reaches slowly for his goblet, brings it to his lips, and takes a single sip. Then he looks at you. Then at Mark. Then at Marky. And finally back to you. He doesn’t speak. But the nod he gives is small. Deliberate.

And final.

The room exhales.

The feast has stretched into something looser, warmer. Roasted meats are half-carved now, bones exposed beneath golden skin and charred herbs. Platters of glazed roots glisten with melted honey and clove. The air in the great hall thickens with heat, wine, and the faint smoke from the long stone hearth burning along the back wall.

Cups clink. Silver glimmers. The nobles of your court ease back in their chairs, their laughter low and measured, but still wary, still watching.

Mark’s still seated to you, posture relaxed in appearance, but his shoulders haven’t dipped even once. He’s taken sips from his goblet, offered a few polite nods to curious generals and envoys, but his body stays angled just slightly toward yours, like a silent anchor.

To your other side, Marky is now stacking fruit peels into a lopsided tower, humming something half-remembered from a Viltrumite shuttle console. His tunic is rumpled, one sleeve half-pushed up to the elbow. There’s berry juice on his lip and something in his hair you don’t have the heart to wipe off yet.

The doors at the far end open wide.

The double-panel entrance doesn’t creak. It glides. High court hinges don’t dare embarrass royalty.

Two new figures cross the threshold, the hall subtly shifting in response.

Prince Adam, towering in full ceremonial dress, armor polished to a mirror shine, shoulder pads carved with the crest of your house, white cape adorned in gold. His blond hair is tied back in a warrior’s knot, but his expression is utterly readable. A bit composed, slightly annoyed, a little winded.

And beside him, Queen Marlena.

She glows.

Her robes are deep golden trimmed with pale red, sleeves sheer near the wrists, embroidered with jewels from Castle Grayskull. Her hair, long and pinned high with a crescent band, has a single strand trailing over her collarbone.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her gaze sweeps the room once, taking in the court. Then she sees you. And Mark. She doesn’t pause. She walks, right down the middle of the hall, ignoring the two servants who rush to greet her, ignoring Adam’s muttered “Mother, you’re late.”

Her eyes are fixed on the high table. On the space between you and Mark. On where your knee is touching his under the table. On the way his arm rests just slightly behind your chair, casual, unspoken, but present.

Then her gaze drops.

And lands on the side of Mark’s neck. You feel the moment she spots it.

The bite mark is faint now, mostly healed, despite only occurring hours ago. But visible. Right under the angle of his neck, peeking past the high collar you forgot to re-adjust after the bath. Red, slightly swollen. Claimed.

Marlena’s lips part just slightly.

And then she beams.

“Oh finally, ” she breathes, sweeping around the table before anyone can stop her.

“Mother,” you say under your breath.

But she’s already behind you.

She rests one hand lightly on your shoulder, rings cool through the thin fabric of your dress tunic, and leans in to kiss your temple. Her scent is cinnamon, ink, and old roses.

Then she turns, kisses Mark’s cheek , uninvited, like he’s already family.

Mark freezes.

Doesn’t flinch.

But he freezes .

“Oh,” she says brightly, “she bit you.”

He chokes on his wine.

You reach for his goblet and lower it from his mouth, gently. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m helping,” Marlena says, waving a hand. “You don’t mark someone unless it’s real. Which is a relief, honestly, I was starting to think you’d die unclaimed. You were such a prude at nineteen, I had to explain what a bite was.”

“ Mother. ”

She winks at you. “I’m just saying. Good teeth. That’s important.”

Across the table, one of the elder advisors sputters into his drink. Mark clears his throat, eyes darting to Randor. Your father doesn’t react. Just carves a slow slice of meat from his roast, watching quietly.

Marlena turns back to you, her voice lower now but still radiant. “You have never once let anyone into your quarters. Not even Teela. And now you bring home a partner and a son?”

Marky, hearing his name, pipes up between bites. “I’m not really her son but she kind of adopted me and gave me a sword and also let me braid her hair once.”

Marlena melts. “Oh I adore you.”

Mark mutters softly under his breath. “I’m going to fly into the sun.”

“She claimed you,” Marlena says, hands on her hips. “You think I’m not going to celebrate that? She came home with someone worth leaving marks on.”

“He left some too,” Marky adds, completely unbothered. “She had one on her neck. She showed Teela. It was like—” He makes a rough shape with his sticky fingers. “right here. ”

Adam finally sits down beside Randor, burying his face in both hands. “Why did I come back for this?”

Marlena sighs contentedly and finally takes her seat on Randor’s other side.

Randor hasn’t said a word.

But you catch the flicker of something in his expression as he looks between his wife, his daughter, and the Viltrumite now quietly drinking from his refilled goblet. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile.

 But something like it.

Mark leans over, voice low in your ear. “So your family just… says things. ”

“This is restraint,” you whisper back. “You should see a solstice feast.”

His fingers brush yours under the table.

And for once, nothing needs to be said.

Mark is drawn into a conversation near the firepit, Duncan, one of the captains from your war council, and the old bladekeeper from Grayskull. You see the way he holds himself, loose-limbed, but attentive. Regal without posturing. He’s speaking little, but listening. He’s doing what he always does in a new territory, absorbing .

You leave him to it.

Because Marlena hooks her arm into yours the moment the toast ends and says, “Walk with me.”

Teela falls in on your other side without needing to be asked. She’s already sipping a half-glass of wine, eyes gleaming. Her braid is slightly unraveled from laughing too hard earlier. Her armor still smells faintly of hearth smoke and ceremonial oil.

You follow your mother through the tall rear arch of the great hall, past the etched doors of the dining wing, and into one of the side parlors overlooking the garden terrace. The space is dimly lit with amber lanterns and hung in deep blue velvet, with silver constellation maps stitched across the walls, your mother’s favorite room, once. The windows are open. The air is crisp with mountain wind and lavender.

She doesn’t sit right away. She pours three glasses from the old pitcher on the window sill, the one she hides behind the plants, more wine, warm and laced with wild honey and a spice you can’t quite name.

She passes you a glass.

Then Teela.

Then takes hers and flops with the poise of a monarch onto the cushioned bench beneath the window.

“Well,” she says, gaze sliding toward you over the rim of her glass, “you certainly didn’t pick a boring one.”

Teela snorts. “She never does.”

You lean against the stone sill. “He’s not like the others.”

Marlena raises an eyebrow. “Because he’s a ruler? Or because he’d bite back?”

You roll your eyes. “Because he doesn’t need anything from me. Not rank. Not strategy. Not glory. He’s seen all of that already. And it doesn’t matter to him.”

Teela swirls her drink idly. “And because he looked like he was ready to murder a sea prince with his bare hands when he found out about Mer-Man’s proposal.”

Marlena’s gaze sharpens. “Oh?”

You give Teela a warning look.

Too late.

Teela smirks and leans in conspiratorially. “It was during a call. Middle of the night. She’d just finished getting bruises, bites, the whole thing, and Mer-Man still had the nerve to bring up the proposal. Mark woke up shirtless, saw him on the screen, and didn’t even pretend to behave. She was covered in marks. It wasn’t subtle.”

Marlena clutches her chest, eyes gleaming. “I always said she needed someone who could handle her. Didn’t think he’d bite, but I’m not complaining.”

Teela throws her head back and laughs.

“They didn’t even leave her quarters,” Teela continues smugly. “He fucked her into the mattress so loud half the ship heard. I heard Ursaal offered to reroute power just to drown it out.”

Your cheeks go hot, but you hold Marlena’s gaze. “It wasn’t the first time. But… it was different.”

Marlena tilts her head, watching you. “Different how?”

You swallow. “He was slower. Like he was trying to prove something. Like I was already his.”

Marlena’s face softens, just a little. “And you let him.”

You nod. “I wanted to.”

She sits with that. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Just takes a small sip of her wine, gaze drifting to the open window where the mountain wind stirs the edge of the curtain.

“That’s rare. Especially for someone like you.”

You glance down at your glass.

“I didn’t think I’d want something soft,” you admit. “But it isn’t soft, not really. He’s not gentle in the ways people think. He’s steady. And he doesn’t flinch.”

“Even when your father tried to stare him out of existence,” Teela adds. “Or when Marky loudly described your sex life in front of the royal table.”

You groan. “He handled it better than I did.”

Marlena leans forward. “He didn’t flinch when I kissed his cheek, either. Or when I said you bit him. Or when Marky announced the exact sound you made.”

“ Mother .”

She smiles. “He wasn’t embarrassed. Just… amused. And proud.”

You nod slowly. “He’s an emperor. He carries that in everything. But he never makes it feel like I have to kneel for it.”

Marlena taps her fingers once against the rim of her glass. “Then you’ve chosen someone worthy.”

“He chose me too.”

She smiles again, smaller this time. More real.

“Good,” she says. “Because I’ve waited a long time to see that look on your face.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The one that says I’ve met someone who scares me in the best way. ”

You huff quietly.

Teela bumps your shoulder. “You’ve never looked more like a warleader and less like a wall. I like it.”

There’s a comfortable pause then. The air softens.

The firelight glows low in the brazier. The sound of laughter from the hall still drifts faintly through the stone, but in here it’s just the three of you, warrior, queen, and commander. Talking about love like it’s battle. And worth fighting for.

The feast is winding down, but the court hasn't thinned. If anything, the room feels denser now, richer. Full-bellied nobles loosen collars and polish off the last of their wine while the music hums lower and steadier, like the heartbeat of an animal finally at rest. Plates are cleared, boots are kicked off beneath benches, and stories begin to circulate. War stories. Love stories. The kind told in warm spaces after danger has passed.

You’ve returned to the high table. The mantle you’d shed during the contest is now draped over your shoulders once more, and your posture is straight, but not stiff. Mark’s presence beside you is steadying. His thumb strokes idly against the side of your knee beneath the table where no one else can see. 

Marky sits pressed to your other side, nose wrinkled from the fruit he’s still determined to finish. His fingers are sticky, and he keeps using the inside of his tunic to wipe them.

Randor notices.

You watch it happen, how your father’s gaze lands on the boy, then drifts to the stain on his collar, the faint flecks of syrup on his cheek. You brace yourself.

But he doesn’t correct him.

Instead, Randor leans back in his chair and sets his goblet aside, fingertips brushing the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his belt.

He speaks without raising his voice.

“You killed Thragg.”

Mark doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

“Did you plan it?”

“No.”

“Did you hesitate?”

“No.”

A pause stretches between them.

Randor looks him over like he’s still deciding something. Not testing anymore. Measuring.

“You fought him after he butchered your father,” Randor says. “After he declared your relation to Argall a threat.”

Mark’s eyes don’t flinch. “I fought him because he was a monster .”

Randor grunts. “That, too.”

He picks up his goblet again but doesn’t drink from it. He turns it once in his hand, gaze distant.

“You know what he did to this world. To mine.”

“I read the reports,” Mark says. “And the casualty records. It wasn’t war. It was a purge.”

That lands.

Randor’s jaw flexes. “He would’ve broken our gates. I stood at the Northern Gates and watched his Thraxan children cut the sky open. We didn’t have the numbers. We didn’t have you. ”

Mark doesn’t respond.

But beside you, his fingers curl more firmly into your knee, grounding himself.

“I lost half my legion in three days,” Randor continues. “And I was preparing to send the other half to die when the transmission came through. That the former Emperor’s son had killed the previous Grant Regent.”

Mark’s voice, when it comes, is steady. But there’s something coiled beneath it. “I didn’t kill him for your world. I did it because he killed my father. He wouldn’t stop there.”

Randor nods once.

“And you’ve been trying to stop ever since.”

Mark tilts his head. “Trying.”

There’s another pause, thick with history.

Then, quietly, Randor says, “Good.”

It’s not flowery. It’s not grand.

But for your father, it might as well be a crown.

Mark doesn’t look away.

He just says, “Thank you.”

Beside you, Marky shifts.

He’s still got fruit on his fingers. Still has stickiness in his hair and one shoe off. But he’s leaning forward now, clearly trying to understand the weight in the room, even if the words feel too big.

Randor notices that, too.

He glances toward the boy, and this time, really sees him.

His eyes track the curl of Marky’s hands where they fidget against the edge of the table. The sharp bones in his elbows. The twitch of his nose as he sniffs again. And then, something flickers. Not softness. Not yet. But memory.

You catch it.

Randor speaks, this time to Marky.

“Do you know what he did?”

Marky blinks. “Who?”

“Your father.”

Marky pauses. Then says slowly, “He… made the bad Viltrumite go away. The one who hurt everybody.”

Randor hums. “He did more than that.”

Marky straightens a little. “I know.”

“He stands with people.”

Marky looks at Mark. Then back at your father. “I think he does that a lot.”

That earns something from Randor. A shift in his expression. His mouth twitches at the corners, not quite a smile, but not sternness either.

“You know how to fight?” Randor asks.

Marky nods fast. “I’m learning. She’s teaching me.” He points at you. “And Orko says I have to start with ‘stupid balance stuff’ but I want a sword.”

Randor raises an eyebrow. “Do you now.”

Marky puffs his chest. “Yeah. I’m good with sticks.”

“I’m sure you are.”

You’re watching your father like he’s made of glass, but something’s changed. His posture has eased. His voice has lost its edge. He gestures to one of the nearby guards and murmurs something. A moment later, the man returns, with a practice blade.

Marky gasps. “Is that—?!”

“It’s blunted,” Randor says. “You’ll bruise yourself before you cut anything. But it’s the same weight as a real one. Try not to drop it.”

Marky all but leaps from the chair, takes it with both hands, and swings it once in a wide, awkward arc that nearly hits the table. You lunge, catch it before it makes contact.

He freezes. “Sorry.”

Randor chuckles. A quiet, gruff sound. “You’ll learn. Maybe don’t aim at the roast.”

You glance at Mark.

His eyes haven’t left the two of them.

He looks… different.

Not relaxed. Not surprised.

But like something is unclenching in his chest. Like a hand he didn’t know had been gripping his heart is finally letting go.

Randor leans back in his seat again and say, to no one in particular, “We’re not an easy family to walk into. But you’re already bleeding for it. I can respect that.”

Mark holds his gaze. “I’m not walking out.”

Your father nods. That’s all. But the table feels different now.

Later, Marky retreats with Teela down the hall, grinning, swinging his blunted training sword through the open air with over-exaggerated and child-like yells. She paces near him, correcting his stance every third swing with mock-serious scolding. Orko hovers nearby, offering unsolicited advice between bouts of laughter.

It should be peaceful.

But Randor hasn’t moved.

He leans forward slowly, fingers tapping once, twice, against the arm of his carved stone chair. His gaze is unreadable. Focused. Not unkind. But sharp .

He watches Mark for a long breath, then shifts his gaze to you. Then back to Mark.

And then, without the slightest tremor, he says, “Have you discussed children yet?”

The question lands like a thrown blade, no shout, no warning, just the clean arc of it slicing the air between you.

Mark goes still.

You blink.

“Excuse me?” Mark says, not sharply, but with a weight behind the words. Like he’s already scanning the angles of the room again. Like he’s not sure whether this is a trap or a test.

Randor doesn’t flinch. “You’re at her side. You wear her claim, and she wears yours, even if the court can’t see it, they know. You’ve been inside her. So I’ll ask plainly. Have you spoken of children?”

You inhale slowly.

Mark shifts beside you. His posture hasn’t changed, but you can feel the tension rolling under his skin, subtle as tectonic pressure.

“We haven’t known each other long,” he says carefully.

“But you’ve bled for her,” Randor says. “You’ve slept beside her. You’ve stood before her suitor and called her your equal.”

“That’s not the same as—”

“It’s closer than most get.”

Mark’s hand tightens on your thigh again. Not to control. To ground.

Your voice is quiet but firm. “Father, this isn’t the time.”

“It’s exactly the time,” Randor says, and now his voice carries more weight. “You think I’m speaking as a parent? I’m speaking as a noble. As a bloodline guardian. As someone who’s watched empires fall when their heirs were born weak, or unchosen.”

Mark’s mouth hardens into a line. “We’ve never spoken about it,” he says again. Slower this time.

“And yet,” Randor replies, “you’ve shared her body. Without restraint. You’ve claimed her. You’ve allowed her to claim you.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

Randor looks at you now. Not with scorn. With solemnity.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“I didn’t think it was needed,” you say, chin lifting. “He’s never tried to control me. Never asked for lineage. We’re still learning each other.”

Randor nods once. Then leans back, resting a calloused hand over the pommel of his ceremonial blade.

“Then let him learn this.”

His voice is quieter now. More measured.

“Eternian royal bloodlines don’t propagate by accident. Not ours. Not the true lines. Our bodies are warded, whether we feel it or not. Our wombs only open under very specific conditions, strength, consent, intent.”

Mark furrows his brow. “Intent?”

Randor doesn’t blink. “You cannot get her with child unless she wants it. Not with her body , with her will. The magic bound to her lineage is older than the stars we chart. There is no accident. Only agreement. Spoken or not.”

Mark is silent for several seconds.

His fingers, still at your thigh, have gone still.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Honest.

“We’ve… been together. Physically. Unprotected.”

Randor’s expression doesn’t change. “And yet she’s not carrying. Is she?”

Mark looks at you. His jaw clenches once, then relaxes.

You shake your head. “No.”

Randor exhales, leans forward slightly. “That’s not coincidence. That’s design. Your seed is strong. But it’s not enough.”

A long silence follows.

Mark doesn’t move. You can feel him digesting it, not panicked. But shifted. Like something’s clicked open beneath his ribcage and now he’s standing in a hallway he didn’t know existed.

Then, softly. “That would’ve been good to know.”

You almost laugh.

“I wasn’t hiding it,” you murmur.

“No,” he says. “You just didn’t think it mattered.”

“I thought if it did happen,” you say, slower now, more careful, “I would already be ready.”

Mark turns his head to look at you. Really look at you. And there’s a weight in his gaze now. A tight thread of emotion wrapped around it like a cord pulled taut.

“You are, ” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

Randor watches the two of you. His posture doesn’t shift. But there’s something behind his eyes now. A faint glow. Maybe approval. Maybe something else.

Mark turns back to him.

“I don’t take that responsibility lightly,” he says.

“Good,” Randor replies. “Because if you ever do father an heir here, it won’t be a choice you walk away from. It will bind you. To her. To us. To this world.”

Mark doesn’t look away.

“I know.”

And in that moment, so do you.

Across the hall, Marky lets out a victorious yell, holding the practice sword above his head like a banner. He grins so hard his whole face scrunches.

Randor watches him.

Then looks at you.

“You’ll make a fine mother,” he says.

You blink once, stunned.

He adds, almost offhandedly, “And he’s already doing better than most children who’ve entered this family.”

Mark lets out a quiet breath. The tension in his frame begins to shift, not vanishing, but redistributing. Like a man who has stood in battle posture for too long and is finally allowing himself to sit.

You reach for his hand. Take it fully in yours.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

The echo of your father’s words still hangs in the air like the weight of an unsheathed sword. No longer swinging, but present. Tangible. His silence afterward says everything. Randor has given his piece, and from here, the judgment lies with you.

You sit still beside Mark at the table. His fingers remain laced through yours, thumb brushing idly against your knuckle, but he hasn’t spoken in minutes. Neither have you. You can feel the thoughts behind his quiet. His mind is always working, calculating weight and consequence, even when his face remains unreadable. You don’t have to ask what’s circling in his chest. The idea of children was a line you hadn’t reached yet. Not like this.

Marlena watches from her place beside Randor, eyes dark and thoughtful. She hasn't spoken either. But you’ve felt her gaze pass between you both several times, full of something that isn’t judgment. Just knowing.

Then she rises.

Not hurriedly. Not stiffly. Just enough to draw attention without disturbing the court’s rhythm. She moves behind your chairs and lays one hand lightly on your shoulder. Then the other on Mark’s.

“Walk with me,” she says, not asking.

You and Mark both rise without a word.

You follow her through the side arch of the feast hall, out into the smaller eastern passage where the wall lanterns glow soft and amber against velvet-lined stone. The crowd fades behind you. The court sounds dim. Only the echo of your boots and the rustle of her gown remain.

She leads you past the memorial alcoves, past the skull-shaped shrine to Sorceress Zoar, and through a carved moonstone archway into a narrow garden court hidden between the palace wings.

It’s beautiful here, secluded and starlit. High stone walls wrap the space in warmth, thick with jasmine vines and glowing moss. Thin silver threads stretch between the hanging lanterns above, catching glints of starlight like a spider’s weaving. The air smells like memory. Like something preserved.

Marlena stops in the center, where a low marble bench curves around a fountain carved with mountain lilies and sword hilts. She doesn’t sit. She turns to face you both.

Her hands rest calmly over her stomach, fingers lightly interlaced.

“I know that wasn’t easy,” she says.

Mark meets her gaze, steady. “No.”

She nods once. “He doesn’t know another way.”

Mark doesn’t respond. You shift slightly beside him, arms still loose at your sides, your eyes trained on your mother’s face, waiting.

Marlena breathes in slowly, then looks at you.

“You’re strong,” she says. “But I know that doesn’t mean you never hesitate.”

You blink once. “I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation already.”

“No,” Marlena replies. “Because in your heart, you haven’t caught up with your body.”

Mark stiffens beside you just slightly. Not out of guilt. Out of recognition.

Marlena looks at him now. “You’re careful. I see it in everything you do. You don’t speak unless you mean it. You don’t promise unless you’ve already decided you’ll keep it.”

Mark nods once, slowly. “That’s true.”

“You’ve been inside her,” she says calmly. “And yet you flinched when the word children was used.”

He doesn’t look away. “Because that’s not something I ever assumed I was allowed to want again.”

The silence after that is soft. Not strained. Marlena lets it settle.

She steps forward, closer to the two of you, her eyes kind and bright.

“I didn’t bring you here to pressure you,” she says, more gently now. “I brought you here to say this. You’re not expected to decide anything tonight. Not about lineage. Not about blood. Not about building a dynasty.”

Your breath catches slightly.

Mark exhales slowly beside you.

Marlena’s voice lowers. “My husband was raised to believe that time is wasted if it isn’t used to build. But I came from somewhere else. I know time means something different when the heart is still catching up.”

She steps closer and places one hand on your arm, the other over Mark’s.

“You’re still learning him,” she says to you.

Then, turning to Mark. “And she’s still deciding if she can give you everything. Not because she doesn’t want to. But because she’s never known what it feels like to not be taken.”

That strikes something deep. You feel Mark shift again, this time closer to you, not protectively, but purposefully. Like gravity.

Marlena smiles faintly.

“You’re not rushing. You’re recognizing. And that’s something I want to protect.”

You finally speak. “He means more to me than I know how to say.”

She smiles at that. “Then don’t say it yet. Let it grow.”

Mark speaks quietly. “It is growing.”

Marlena nods. “Then let it. Without pressure. Without the weight of old expectations.”

She squeezes both your arms gently, then steps back.

“I just wanted you both to hear that from someone who knows what it is to build love from the ground up. Not from the top of a throne.”

You let out a quiet breath.

And Mark, beside you, takes your hand again.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

Marlena steps away from the circle of stone. “Now go rest. And don’t spend the whole night thinking about what hasn’t happened yet.”

You nod.

She smiles over her shoulder, soft and sure.

“Let the stars work on it for you.”

The walk back to the hall is slower.

The hush of the garden still lingers in your skin, a warmth deeper than firelight, quieter than ceremony. The stone beneath your boots is cool again, no longer vibrating with music. The walls of the corridor flicker with dying torches, and the further you walk, the more the sounds of the feast seem like a memory rather than a celebration. There’s laughter still, but faint. The clatter of goblets being gathered. The low murmur of staff beginning the long task of cleaning up after royalty.

When you reach the entrance to the great hall, you see him in the center of it all. Marky.

He’s running.

Not toward the food, or the practice sword still leaning by the throne.

Straight toward his father.

Mark barely has time to register the blur of movement before a small body slams into his waist.

“There you are!” Marky yells, voice cracking with the remnants of too much joy and not enough sleep.

Mark catches him easily, arms circling around him with that unthinking grace only a parent has. One hand cups the back of Marky’s head, the other settles just beneath his shoulder blades.

Marky mumbles something into Mark’s chest, something about how he beat Teela, how Orko said he had “good form,” whatever that means, but it tapers off mid-sentence.

You step up beside them and see it. His eyes are drooping, one hand fisting in the front of Mark’s tunic like an anchor. His limbs go soft, his weight settling deeper against his father’s chest.

Mark shifts his stance to carry him more easily. You watch as his expression changes, not dramatically, not publicly, but in the subtle way it always does when he’s holding his son. His brow eases. His shoulders lower. And for a second, the edge of the Empire fades from his face.

You reach to brush a strand of sticky hair from Marky’s temple.

“He’s done,” you say softly.

Mark nods. “Should’ve crashed an hour ago.”

“Should we take him?”

Mark adjusts his hold, one hand sliding beneath Marky’s knees, lifting him fully off the ground. The boy doesn’t even stir. His head lolls against Mark’s shoulder.

“I’ll carry him,” Mark murmurs. “He’ll sleep better that way.”

You walk together, slow, deliberate steps echoing through the tall chamber, past the emptied thrones and the last few nobles still lingering over the final dregs of wine. One of the guards nods to you silently as you pass. Another bows to Mark.

The path to the guest chambers is quieter still.

Lit with soft, low lamps and gilded sconces, the walls are painted in warmer tones than the public halls, designed for comfort, not grandeur. You know the way easily. The door to Marky’s quarters has already been unlocked, the bed turned down, and a small tray of spiced milk and sweetroot rests on the bedside table, no doubt Marlena’s doing.

Mark steps through the door first.

You follow.

The chamber is smaller than yours but still regal. High windows, soft linens, hand-carved toy rack in the corner filled with toys he barely touched today. Mark kneels beside the bed and eases Marky down with the kind of practiced precision that only comes with love.

The boy stirs once, murmurs something incoherent, possibly “bite the fish guy,” and then drifts again, utterly gone.

Mark pulls the blanket up to his chest and tucks it over his shoulders, then adjusts the thin scarf tied around his wrist, making sure the knot doesn’t pull.

He stays crouched there for a moment longer.

Just looking at him.

You step closer.

“He’s lucky,” you murmur.

Mark doesn’t look up. “So am I.”

You crouch beside him, your shoulder brushing his. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Mark says, voice so low it could break, “He never asks where she is.”

You glance at him.

He’s not crying. But there’s something far behind his eyes, distant but alive.

You reach over and cover his hand with yours.

“He doesn’t need her anymore,” you say. “He has you. ”

Mark looks at you finally.

Really looks.

There’s a stillness in him now. A depth to the quiet. Not hesitation. Just presence.

“I wasn’t ready for a family,” he says. “And then I got one.”

You squeeze his fingers gently. “You still have one.”

He nods.

Then rises slowly.

You both take one last look at Marky, now fully sprawled, one hand across his face like he fought his pillow and lost, before turning toward the door.

You follow Mark out into the hall, letting the door ease shut behind you with a soft click.

The corridor is silent.

And now, for the first time all night, you and Mark are alone.

There’s no need for words. Not when the air between you has thickened with something far more electric than conversation.

Mark’s hand brushes yours, tentative, like he wants to take it but isn’t sure if it’s allowed. He’s been like that all evening, watchful, respectful, but simmering just beneath the surface. Ever since Teela teased you at dinner. Ever since you showed her the faint bite on your collarbone and smiled too smugly when she asked what caused it.

He’s been quiet ever since.

You glance up at him as you round the final bend. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, but his jaw is clenched, and the muscles in his neck keep ticking, little tells he can’t quite hide. You stop just outside your chamber door, stepping into the soft shadowed alcove beside the arch. He stops too, a heartbeat behind, his body warm beside yours.

Then he speaks lowly. “So… earlier.”

You smile, turning toward him. “Mmhmm?”

“Teela,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips. “The things you said.”

“I told the truth.” You let your fingers ghost over his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric. “You didn’t like that?”

He catches your wrist, not to stop you, just to hold. His thumb brushes slow circles across your pulse. “No. I did. I just…” He swallows. “You talk about it like it’s yours. Like I’m yours.”

“You are.”

That freezes him. His breath hitches. Then he takes a step closer, his body bracketing yours in the alcove, one hand braced beside your head. He never cages you in. He always leaves space. But the weight of him, his presence , wraps around you gently.

“You know I’d never hurt you,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with a gentle touch. “But when you said you liked the way I bit you… it made me want to see how far you'd let me go.”

Your breath catches, lips parting. “I’d let you.”

He exhales slowly, like that answer undoes something deep in his chest. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks again, his voice is all control threaded with heat.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He kisses you. Slow at first, deliberate. His lips are soft but certain, tongue coaxing yours open, his free hand sliding up your side to cradle your cheek. The kind of kiss that makes you ache, that pulls a sound from deep in your throat before you can swallow it down.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, his voice barely above a whisper. “Open the door.”

You fumble with the seal, breathless. The door unlocks with a soft click and Mark follows you inside, closing it behind him with a quiet thud.

But he doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t strip you down or throw you on the bed.

Instead, he comes up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. His lips linger where your pulse jumps, his hands splayed low on your belly.

“You’ve been driving me insane since this morning,” he mutters, breath warm against your neck. 

You press back into him, feel his growing arousal through his tunic. “What are you going to do now?”

His breath catches. His hands tighten, then loosen again as he trails one up to cup your breast, the other down to your thigh.

“I’m going to take my time.” Another kiss. Lower. Slower. 

The firelight flickers across the furs and silks, casting shadows. His fingers find the clasp at your neck, undoing it with quiet reverence.

“Stay,” he says softly, nuzzling the shell of your ear. “I want you here. I want to feel you under me.”

You melt into him.

He guides you to the bed with adoration, but your hands find his belt first.

You stop him.

Fingers curl around his waistband, tugging his tunic from where it clings to his hips, the metal clasps parting with quiet clicks beneath your touch. He watches you, breath shallow, lips parted, but he doesn’t ask questions. He never does when you sink to your knees like this.

The floor beneath you is cool, but his heat rolls over you as you settle between his legs. You look up, eyes catching his, and see that flicker in his expression, devotion laced with disbelief. Like no matter how many times you kneel for him, it still ruins him. Still humbles him.

You don’t smile.

You don’t tease.

You lower your head and take his cock into your mouth with a single, fluid motion.

Mark chokes on a groan, hands flying to your hair, fingers tangling instinctively in the strands. “Oh fuck —baby, wait—” His hips jerk forward, cock thick and hot against your tongue as you swallow him down to the base. No hesitation. No warm-up. You want this. And he can feel it.

Your lips seal around him, cheeks hollowing as your throat flexes to take him deeper. He’s big. He always is, but you take him anyway, your mouth straining, jaw aching, breath shallow through your nose as your throat tightens around the thick, pulsing length of him. You gag once, then hold it, eyes fluttering as you look up.

He’s staring down at you, stunned, jaw clenched tight.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. “Look at you…”

You hum, tongue swirling around him as you draw back just an inch, then push forward again, deeper, until your nose is pressed to his skin. He’s shaking, his hand on your head tightening just a little, not to force, but to anchor. You let him hold you there, soft gags vibrating around him as your throat clenches and your eyes water, saliva dripping to your chin.

He strokes your cheek gently with his thumb, awed even now. “That’s it. Good girl… fuck, you’re so good.”

You moan at the praise, hands coming to rest on his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscles there as you begin to move, slow, dragging sucks as you pull back, lips wet and swollen, tongue lapping at his crown before you sink down again. It’s not messy. Not rushed. Every time you take him deep, you hold it longer. Your throat adjusts, opens for him. You let yourself go soft around himo, bedient, relaxed, unhurried. Your eyes never leave his.

He bites his lip hard. “You want me to fuck your mouth, don’t you?”

You nod, cock still buried down your throat, eyes shining.

His hand tightens just a little more. “You want me to use you?” His voice breaks. “ Like this? ”

You pull back slowly, saliva stretching between your lips and his cock, then nod again. Whisper-soft. “Please.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been punched. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. Just stay right there.”

Then he starts to move.

Not rough. Not punishing. Just a slow, steady rock of his hips as he pushes in and pulls back, the heat of his praise still flowing from his mouth. “You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth… You’re taking it so well… Fuck, look at your eyes—look how desperate you are.”

Each stroke is deliberate, his cock sliding over your tongue, easing into your throat, retreating just enough to let you breathe before he pushes back in again. You keep your jaw slack, let your tongue curve under him, let him control the pace. And he does it all so gently , even as his breath begins to shake, even as his thighs flex under your grip.

His thumb brushes over your lip, pressing into the slick corner of your mouth as you drool around him. “You’re so fucking perfect. You know that?”

You close your eyes and moan .

He groans, hips twitching once, then stopping entirely. He pulls out with a wet sound, glistening and flushed, jaw clenched so tight the muscle there twitches.

“Stop,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’m not— I’m not coming yet. You do that again, and I’ll lose it.”

You sit back on your heels, panting, spit shining your lips and chin, heart pounding as you look up at him, chest heaving. You’re dizzy from it. Ruined and needy. His cock is slick and twitching, hovering close to your mouth, and all you want is to keep going.

He cups your face, both hands cradling your cheeks, thumbs brushing your wet skin. “Still okay?”

You nod. Mute. Hungry.

“Fuck. You’re perfect,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, then brushing a kiss over your eyelid, then your temple. “But not yet. I’m not coming yet. Not like this.”

You blink up at him, dazed.

“I need to feel you,” he says. “ All of you. Need to be inside of you.”

And when he helps you rise, gently pulling you to your feet, he kisses you like you didn’t just let him fuck your throat, like you’re loved.

And you know, with every breath, he’s about to prove exactly how much.

He doesn't let go of your hand as he helps you rise. His touch is gentle, fingertips brushing the spit from your chin, smoothing damp hair away from your cheeks, but his eyes are ravenous. Controlled hunger. His chest is rising fast, lips parted, throat working with every breath like he’s holding something back.

And then he turns you.

Walks you backward across the plush rug, past the golden columns and toward the massive bed carved from obsidian and silver metal. The silken sheets shimmer under firelight, already rumpled, already waiting.

He doesn’t rush.

He takes his time watching you, every sway of your hips as you move, every rise and fall of your chest. And then, softly, firmly, “Bend over.”

Your body folds over the edge of the bed, silks brushing your nipples, the cool bite of the metal frame digging into your hips as you brace yourself. Fingers splayed, thighs parted wide, your back curves in perfect submission, spine arched to bare yourself completely. The air is thick, suffocating with heat, with expectation . You don’t look back, you don’t have to. You feel him behind you.

Mark’s breath hits your skin before he does, warm and ragged. His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in, spreading you open so wide you feel the slick heat of your cunt exposed to the air. You’re dripping , your arousal smeared across your thighs, inner folds swollen, glistening.

“Fuck,” he whispers behind you, calm and filthy all at once. “Look at this pussy. You’re so open for me. So wet , baby.”

You moan, head low, hips pushing back. “Stop talking and give it to me. ”

He groans, and his cock, thick and hot, slides up through your folds. He glides it back and forth, slathering your slick over his length, tip nudging your entrance again and again. Teasing, but not for long. You can feel the weight of him. The blunt pressure of his cockhead poised against your hole, ready to split you open.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades.

And then he shoves in.

One deep, ruthless stroke.

Your body jerks. Your back bows. You cry out, eyes flying open as your cunt is split wide, filled to the brink in a single, brutal push. The stretch is savage. The burn , dizzying. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease in. Just pushes until he’s buried to the base, his hips slamming against your ass with a wet slap that echoes off the stone walls.

Your mouth drops open. No sound comes out at first, just a strangled inhale, a full-body tremble as your pussy clenches hard around him, struggling to take the full girth.

“ Fuuuck ,” Mark groans behind you, voice shaking. “So fucking tight , baby. God, you’re choking me—”

He just stays there, cock throbbing inside you, hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself. Your walls flutter around him, involuntary pulses that make him groan again, head falling forward against your back.

“Shit,” he pants. “I can feel you twitching. ”

Your legs are shaking. You gasp, nails clawing at the bedding.

“Mark— fuck , you’re so deep —”

“Yeah?” His voice darkens, low and overwhelmed. “You feel how far I am? You feel me here ?” He presses a palm against your lower belly, and you sob at the pressure. “That’s how far I go. No one else gets this deep. No one can. ”

You nod frantically, babbling now, drunk on stretch and pressure and heat. “It’s yours, Mark—fuck—your cock, my pussy, everything— take it. ”

He pulls back slowly, dragging every inch out until only the thick tip remains inside your swollen entrance. You feel empty already. Ache for him. Then he slams back in, hard enough to shove the breath out of your lungs. Another loud slap of hips to ass, and this time he stays pressed in, grinding deep, cockhead snug against your cervix.

Your body shudders beneath him, skin flush against the silk-covered bed, hands clawing for purchase in the fabric that does nothing to steady you. You’re split wide around him, his cock sunk to the hilt, buried so deep inside your cunt you swear you feel him in your chest . He hasn’t moved. He’s just there , holding you open, filling every inch of you while your body trembles around the thick stretch, wet and clenching, trying to adjust.

His hand presses down between your shoulder blades, not to pin but to calm, an anchor against the wild tremble in your spine. His other palm strokes the curve of your ass, trailing down the swell of your hip as he breathes through his nose like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice a rasp behind you. 

Your only answer is a broken moan, muffled against the sheets, your body twitching as you try to handle the pressure, the weight of him inside you. Your cunt flutters around his cock, clinging to him, weeping slick with every throb. You’re soaked, and he hasn’t even started fucking you yet.

He draws back slowly, cock dragging through your walls, thick veins catching on every nerve ending, your body clamping down to keep him in. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the stretch easing only to return full-force when he slams back in with a grunt that sounds like he’s breaking.

The slap of hips against ass is loud, wet, obscene.

You cry out, legs buckling beneath you. “ Fuck, Mark— ”

“That’s it,” he pants, hand gripping your hips tight as he starts to fuck you in earnest. “Take it like you need it.”

You do . Your body obeys before you think, hips tilting up, legs spreading wider to give him more room, to give him all of you. His cock pounds into you with relentless rhythm now, each stroke hard and deep, heavy with possession, with purpose . He fucks like he’s not just claiming your body, he’s staking territory .

And your cunt, slick and hot, opens for him with every thrust, sucking him deeper, your walls fluttering helplessly as he drills into your most sensitive spot over and over. The noises you make aren’t pretty, they’re raw, gasping, filthy. You choke on your own spit, moaning, sobbing into the sheets, drool smeared on your lips as he fucks you through it.

You try to speak, to beg, to praise, to say something , but he’s slamming into you so hard your voice breaks on impact.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he says gently, breath warm against your neck. “Tell me how it feels when I touch you like this.”

You sob. “You’re—fuck, you’re so deep—I can’t— Mark , it’s too much—”

He groans and holds, buried to the base, your pussy pulsing around him like it’s trying to keep him there.

“No,” he whispers against your ear. “It’s not too much. You can take it. You’re made for this. For me.”

And he starts to move again, faster, rougher now. Your hips jolt forward with every thrust, your body bouncing from the impact as he fucks you through the mattress. The bed creaks. The headboard knocks. His balls slap against your soaked folds with every savage thrust, adding to the symphony of slick, squelching wet sounds that fill the chamber.

You feel him everywhere. In your gut. Behind your eyes. Your clit’s aching, untouched but begging for friction. The drag of him inside you is too much, not enough, devastating.

He reaches around and finally finds it, your clit, two fingers slick from your juices rubbing tight, precise circles. 

You sob into the bed, unable to catch your breath. “It’s—fuck—Mark, it’s too much—”

“No it’s not,” he coos, his hand wrapping tight around your waist to anchor you. “You can take it. You want to take it.”

He leans down over you, his chest brushing your back, mouth hot at your ear. “You asked for this.”

He punctuates every word with another thrust, and your mind unravels. The rhythm is steady, relentless, each stroke grinding so deep it feels like he’s trying to fuck through to your heart . Your clit aches, so sensitive you can’t bear the thought of even brushing it. You’re soaked, slick dripping down your thighs, coating his cock, squelching with every hard pump.

“You’re making such a mess,” he murmurs, reaching down to grip the underside of your thigh and lift it higher. “Dripping all over me. Can’t even hold it in.”

You whine, high and thin, tears pricking behind your eyes. Your body wants to give , wants to break into orgasm and be done with it, but he’s not letting you. He’s drawing it out. Holding you just on the edge, feeding your body everything but release .

He pulls out halfway, then fucks in hard , making you lurch forward, the bedframe slamming, your moan turning to a sob. His other hand strokes your spine, slow and sweet.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Just like that. Let me feel how much you need it.”

You sob again, cunt fluttering violently around him, begging for something your body’s too overwhelmed to claim. His cock drags across your most tender places with every deep thrust, and you shake under him, helpless and strung out, sweat slicking your back, muscles twitching from effort and strain.

“God, baby… you’re trembling .” he whispers, voice thick and ruined with want. 

Then it happens, your vision blurs. You feel the sting behind your eyes break, and hot, overwhelmed tears well and slip down your cheeks, soaking into the bedding as your body heaves a silent sob.

Mark notices immediately.

He slows, breath catching, hand soothing along your hip now. “Hey,” he whispers, staying buried deep inside you, holding still as your body trembles around him. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just breathe. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

You nod faintly, not trusting your voice. Still wide open. Still stuffed full. Still needing .

“You feel that?” he breathes, voice husky and soft against your ear. “How deep I am, inside you?”

You sob again, nodding through the burn, the unbearable stretch. Your body’s betraying you, dripping, squeezing, clenching tight around him with every stroke, so close to shattering, so far from release .

He groans when your pussy flutters. “Yeah… that’s it. You’re squeezing me, baby. I can feel it.”

His pace doesn’t change. He’s grinding now, cock rolling in slow circles inside you, hips flush to your ass, the drag so firm and thick you feel like your brain’s melting . You can’t breathe right. Can’t think . Your throat works, mouth open, but all that comes out is high, helpless noise.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, hand moving up to stroke your side. “You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you?”

You nod, fast, frantic, voice nothing but broken gasps. “Please—Mark— please —I can’t—”

“You can, ” he says, tightening his grip on your hips. “You’re my good girl. You can take it. Just hold on for me.”

His hips roll again, steady and smooth, cock dragging along every trembling inch inside you before settling in deep . You feel your body throb, pussy clenching so tight around him it forces a gasp from his throat.

“You wanna cum, yeah?” His voice breaks, breath shaking. “You’re desperate , I can feel it. This little cunt’s begging for it.”

“Y-yes,” you sob, face buried in the sheets, tears streaming freely now. “Please—I need to—I need it so bad— Mark— ”

He presses a kiss to your spine, hips still grinding, fucking you with slow, punishing control. “Then ask me , baby. Come on. Let me hear you beg.”

You try. You try , voice shaking, breathless, body rocking forward with each measured thrust. “Please, Mark, please—let me come— I need it so bad, I’ll do anything, just— please —”

He groans against your skin, his pace faltering for just a second from how broken you sound.

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit again, slick and swollen; you jerk the second he brushes it. You scream, body convulsing as the touch nearly sends you over.

He circles you, slow, soft, feather-light pressure that makes your thighs twitch and your sobs deepen.

“You’re gonna fall apart for me, aren’t you?” he breathes, kissing your temple, his cock grinding deep as ever. “Gonna come all over me, just like this. Gonna make a mess .”

He keeps you there , grinding slow and deep, fingers gentle on your clit, soft voice in your ear coaxing every sob from your throat.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Come when I say .”

Your arms have fully collapsed beneath you, and now your body is folded, offered, trembling with every breath. Your mouth hangs open, panting into the mattress, cheek pressed hard to the bedding, eyes unfocused, glazed with hot, brimming tears. You're not even moaning anymore. You’re whimpering . Broken little sounds that escape each time his cock grinds deep inside you.

Your body’s screaming, muscles taut and useless. You’re trembling so hard your knees threaten to slide out from under you, but he won’t let you . His hands are iron on your hips, locking you in place, keeping you spread, stuffed, wide open on his cock, just like he wants you.

It’s too much. Every thrust makes your stomach knot, your cunt throb, your clit ache with a pressure that’s gone from pleasure to torment and back again so many times you’ve lost track. Your body is stuck at the edge, hovering, suspended in that terrible, exquisite place where you need to come more than you need to breathe, but your muscles won’t let you. Not yet.

Mark’s cock drags through your spasming walls with devastating precision, the girth of him forcing you to stretch around him every time he rolls his hips forward, bottoming out so deep you feel him in your ribs . He never pulls all the way out. He never lets you forget what it’s like to be full of him.

He watches you now, head tilted as he slows just enough to feel you, cock grinding inside you like he's painting your insides with the weight of him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, one hand sliding forward to press flat against your belly, feeling the outline of his cock through your overstretched core. “You’re crying. And you haven’t even come yet.”

His voice is soft. Almost proud.

“You’re holding on for me,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, baby. I know it hurts. I know. ”

You try to say something. Try to nod. But your arms won’t lift. Your voice is shredded. Your throat only manages a hoarse gasp, choked and thick with tears.

Your whole body trembles like it’s about to seize.

Your body refuses to tip over.

And it hurts.

The ache, the need, the heat of it, it’s maddening. You want to come so badly it feels like your body’s splitting in half just trying to get there. But Mark keeps you steady. Keeps you right there.

His hips grind in again, perfectly slow, the base of his cock kissing your swollen folds, every vein dragging across your pulsing walls, and you scream into the bedding, raw and high and hopeless.

Tears fall harder now.

Hot. Constant.

Your body is slack beneath him, hips held up only by his grip, by the steady pressure of his cock still grinding against your tender, raw walls. You sob into the silk, tears soaking the sheets, your hair, your mouth. Your lips are parted. Your eyes unfocused. Every muscle in your body aches with how long you’ve been held on the edge.

And then his hand slides forward.

It slips from your hip, glides up your waist, over your ribs, calloused palm dragging across your chest, your collarbone, and then to your jaw. He finds your face, fingertips tracing the salt-wet curve of your cheek, and gently turns your head toward him.

“C’mere,” he breathes, voice soft but heavy, lips already hovering over your skin. “Let me see you.”

He turns you to him. Twists your tear stained face over your shoulder, coaxing your unfocused gaze until your lips part wider on instinct, breath catching as he leans in and takes your mouth.

The kiss is messy, too messy. Wet and breathless and hungry, his tongue sliding into your mouth like he owns the space, like it’s his too. He swallows your sobs as they break on your tongue, his moan lost in yours as the thrust of his cock deepens . His hips stay moving, slow and hard, grinding into your sweet spot over and over again while he kisses you like he needs it to breathe.

Your tears smear across both your faces, your lips slippery from spit and salt, your bodies pressed together as he holds your jaw in one hand, his mouth claiming you with open, raw hunger.

“Look at me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice breaking. “Come on, baby. Let me see those eyes.”

You try.

You try , even though they’re blurry, even though your lashes are clumped with tears. You open them, and you meet his gaze, and he groans, like the sight of your ruined face is too much to bear.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he says, forehead pressed to yours, voice trembling. “So fucking beautiful. Mine. All mine.”

Another deep grind, so slow it feels like he’s sinking into your soul, and you scream into his mouth, high, gasping, breaking.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, voice low and warm. “Come for me, sweetheart. That’s it… that’s all I want right now.”

You do.

You can’t stop it.

Your thighs quake violently as an orgasm crests deep in your belly, exploding outwards in electric shudders. Your arms give out. Your legs lock around his waist, ankles crossing behind his back in a frantic grip, pulling him in as if that’ll make it stop hurting, make it stop feeling so good.

You’re babbling now. Words that make no sense, gasping pleas soaked in tears and saliva and pure drunk need.

“’S too—too good, I… I—Mark—oh God, oh God, oh fuck —I can’t—can’t—!”

You think he might stop.

You hope he won’t .

He doesn’t.

He lays you back onto the mattress with care, but his chest is heaving, and his fingers tremble against your skin.

He’s barely holding on.

Your body is slack in his hands, drenched in sweat and tears, your thighs still twitching from the last orgasm he coaxed from you with nothing but praise and slow, deep strokes. You’re floating, brain flickering like a dying lightbulb, every thought replaced by the echo of his voice, good girl, so perfect, just let go , and the warm weight of his body pressing into yours.

But when he looks down at you?

When he sees the way your eyes glaze, the way your legs fall open again, instinctively offering yourself to him, that’s when it snaps.

That last fraying strand of restraint is gone.

A sound tears from his chest. Not a growl. Not anger. It’s deeper. Wilder. Raw need. He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t slam. He sinks into you in one hard, overwhelming motion, his cock sliding back inside with slick, wet heat, your body gripping him instantly, so tight it drags a strangled gasp from his throat.

You cry out, a broken, breathless gasp , not even a word, just a reaction to the stretch, the force of him. Your fingernails dig into the mattress, the headboard, into him , anything solid enough to keep you tethered.

Mark's arms tremble with the effort to stay gentle.

He buries his face in your neck. His breath is ragged, body shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice fraying with restraint, “I—I’m trying to stay gentle—trying so hard—but I can’t—I fucking can’t —”

Then he moves.

His hips slam forward, and the force rocks the bed, the entire frame lurching forward with him. The metal headboard cracks against the wall with a BANG and keeps hitting with every savage, uncontrollable thrust.

He braces one hand on the top bar, steel wrapped in his fist, and it groans under the pressure. Dents form under his grip. The wall behind you cracks, the metal denting with each crashing impact.

And still, he moves.

Desperate. Helpless. 

He fucks you like he’s losing his mind, like he’s trying to get closer than physically possible. Every thrust drives into the deepest part of you, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene and perfect, echoing through the room alongside the constant bang, bang, bang of the metal headboard punishing the wall behind it.

Your voice is gone .

Long gone.

You can’t speak. Can’t scream. Just soft, high-pitched whimpers each time his cock punches into your soaked, swollen cunt. You’re clenching around him so hard it must hurtb, ut he moans like it’s salvation. Like it’s the only thing anchoring him in his own body.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, the backs of your knees locking against his sides as your entire body jerks with the rhythm of his thrusts. You can’t stop it. You’re being moved, used , by someone who cares for you too much to be careful anymore.

And still, Mark whispers between his groans.

“I love you—I love you—I love you —”

He’s gasping it like he’s trying to apologize, like if he says it enough you’ll understand why he’s unraveling. His lips brush your cheek, your temple, your shoulder in between stuttered breaths.

“I can’t stop—I need you—need to be this close— please —”

Your body is barely functioning anymore. You’re sobbing without sound, tears leaking from your eyes, your skin tingling all over. You feel light. Floaty. Each thrust bounces you up the bed an inch. Each movement shatters you a little more.

Mark isn’t speaking anymore. He can’t. His mouth is open, breath heaving, jaw tight like he’s holding something back with every ounce of strength he has. Every time his hips slam forward, the headboard bashes into the wall with a hollow, cracking BANG. Over and over. The metal groans. The steel bends .

You feel him everywhere.

In your throat, your spine, your trembling legs clamped around his waist like they’re trying to hold him in. Your body jerks with every thrust, muscles locking, overstimulated but greedy, wet and clutching like your cunt’s in love with him all on its own.

One hand grips the metal headboard, still denting it every time he drives into you. But the other leaves the sheets and comes up to your face. Shaking fingers brush your soaked hair from your forehead, sweaty strands stuck to your cheek, your temple, he pushes them back, one by one, with desperate, trembling tenderness.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You try. Your eyes flutter, glassy with tears and float and too-much pleasure. But his hand cradles your jaw, and he makes you look, makes you meet his gaze.

In his face isn’t anger. It’s not even control. It’s devotion, cracked wide open.

“I need to see you,” he chokes, voice raw. “Don’t look away. Please. I’m so close—fuck—I’m right there—but I need to see your eyes when I—”

His words break off into a groan, deep and guttural, and then he’s biting you.

Not gently.

His mouth crashes to your neck, tongue hot and breath ragged before his teeth sink in, not to hurt you, not cruel, but because he can’t not . You cry out, throat hoarse, your head falling back, body jolting as your pussy clenches hard around him from the bite alone.

That’s when he groans again, low and vibrating through your skin. His thrusts pick up, violent now, not reckless, but unstoppable, driven by something bigger than lust. The bed slams against the wall again. The metal cracks louder this time. Something inside the frame pops .

And Mark won’t let go.

He slams in again and your body jerks, spine arching up against him, thighs quaking violently as your pussy milks him without meaning to—tight, fluttering, overused and still needy . You’re so sensitive you can’t tell if you’re about to come or pass out.

You force your eyes open again, blurred and blinking and shaking, and meet his gaze just as he thrusts again, so deep it feels like your body folds around him. Your mouth opens in a silent scream. Your walls spasm again, and his head falls forward, groaning your name like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming right that second.

Teeth gritted. Face buried against your cheek. One hand crushing the headboard, the other on your cheek, brushing tears away, hair away, keeping your eyes wide open while his hips keep hammering into yours.

And you? You sob. You moan. You clench, helplessly, again and again. And all you can say, soft and ruined, whisper-gasped from lips that barely move—is, “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop—”

It hits so fast you can’t even scream, your mouth opens in a broken, high-pitched sob, but the sound catches in your throat. Your back snaps off the bed, spine arching, fingers clawing at the sheets, at his arms, at anything , as your pussy clamps down, hard, ruthless in its desperation to hold him inside.

You cum, sobbing.

Real sobs now, not moans, not cries of pleasure or even pain, but deep, shaking, full-body wails ripped from your chest like your soul is coming out through your mouth. Your cunt spasms again, again, again, milking him in slow, brutal squeezes that pulse in time with your heartbeat, soaking both of you in slick, messy warmth.

You scream his name, half-choked, breathless, delirious.

“ M-Mark —oh God—oh God—please—please—”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for.

You just need him .

Need him inside. Need him to feel it. Need him to follow .

And he does.

You clench one more time, tight, wet, trembling, and Mark breaks .

You feel it before you hear it, the way his whole body locks, the sudden jerk of his hips as he slams into you, deep and final. His cock throbs, hard , pulsing thick and hot, and then he lets out a sound, choked, full of heat and need .

“ F-fuck—yes—yes—fuck, I’m— ”

He cums deep .

Hips pressed flush to yours, thighs shaking, abs flexed and twitching as he pumps into you, over and over again, cock pulsing thick, endless waves of warmth inside your already overflowing cunt.

You feel it flood you.

Feel him spill every drop.

It’s hot and slow and so much , like he’s emptying everything into you, like he’s been saving it just for this moment. You sob through it, clutching him tight, your body trembling from the aftershocks, tears streaking your cheeks, lips parted in wordless cries.

And Mark can’t stop whispering.

His mouth is on your skin, your jaw, your cheek, your neck, murmuring broken, shaking things that spill out in time with every spurt into your body.

“God, you feel so fucking good—so tight— you’re perfect —I love you—I love you—fuck, baby, I’m full—I’m so full—yes, yes, take it —”

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

His hands roam your body, trembling with afterglow, stroking your sides, your thighs, your ruined belly as he rides out the last few pulses, grinding in, making sure you have all of him.

You’re sobbing openly now.

Not from pain.

From how good it feels to be filled, stuffed full of his warmth, his love, his need, your body twitching from the overload, your brain floating on empty, thoughts soft and slow and dizzy.

Mark doesn’t pull out.

Not yet.

He stays buried, hands cradling your face, brushing more tears away, his eyes locked on yours even as yours flutter and roll from the floating high.

“You took everything,” he whispers, reverent, voice thick with emotion. “All of me. You’re so good, baby. So fucking good .”

His cock twitches again, still inside.

You feel it. Every little throb. Every final spurt as your pussy gives one last squeeze, fluttering in lazy, overspent pulses. There’s so much of him inside you now, you can feel the stretch of it, the weight of it, leaking out around the seal of your cunt where you’re still joined.

You shiver, sobbing harder, burying your face in his neck.

And he holds you.

Kisses your hair.

His breath is still uneven, shallow and slow, chest rising and falling against yours as if he’s afraid to move, to speak, to do anything that might break the fragile stillness between you. He’s still buried deep inside you, thick and softening, twitching every so often in the warmth of your pulsing cunt, like his body refuses to admit it’s over.

And for a moment, you both just breathe.

Your skin sticks to his, soaked in sweat and come and the glowing heat of the final, all-consuming release you just shared. His cock shifts inside you with every tiny motion you make, and even that slight pressure makes your sore walls flutter in exhausted aftershocks. Your thighs twitch uselessly against his hips. Your lips are parted, but your voice is gone , lost somewhere between the sobs and screams he pulled from you like prayer.

Then, slowly, regretfully, he pulls out.

You whimper the second you feel it, the thick drag of him sliding free, every ridge catching on oversensitive walls, making your whole body jolt with the last dregs of overstimulation. Your hips roll helplessly in search of him, trying to stay full, to keep the ache that still stretches your belly from becoming empty .

But the absence makes room for something else.

You feel the warmth before you see it, his come, so much of it, leaking out of your swollen pussy in slow, sticky drips. It runs down over your ruined folds, spills onto your inner thighs in thick, creamy rivulets. You blink down, dazed and wide-eyed, to see it trickling in warm streaks across your skin.

Mark’s eyes are there first.

Watching.

His pupils are still blown wide, his chest heaving, lips parted.

Then he moves.

Carefully.

His strong arms scoop under you, lifting you from the wrecked mattress with ease, cradling your body like you weigh nothing . You can’t help but whine softly when your thighs shift, when gravity makes his cum slide further down, cooling slightly as it drips between your legs, down the curve of your ass.

But Mark just whispers, “Shhh, I’ve got you.”

He gathers the blankets with one hand, still warm from your bodies, and wraps them around you. Thick. Soft. Wrapping you in heat. In him . Then he sinks back onto the bed, your body curled in his lap like something precious, your head against his shoulder.

His palm strokes along your thigh slowly, following one of the sticky lines of his release as it drips, warm and steady, down your skin. His fingertips drag gently through the mess, smearing it a little as they follow the path. Then up, higher, tracing the inside of your thigh where it still trembles and twitches with every shift.

You flinch when he reaches your pussy, still sensitive, still fluttering, but he doesn’t push. He brushes your outer lips with the backs of his knuckles, watching your thighs jerk and tremble, his mouth twitching into a soft, crooked smile like he loves how ruined you are. How raw .

Then he brings his hand up and presses two wet fingers against your lips.

You don’t even hesitate.

Your mouth opens. You suck them in, your tongue curling instinctively around the taste of yourself and him , eyes fluttering closed as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

When your lips release him with a quiet pop , his voice comes low, full of heat and affection.

“You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

You open your eyes slowly, hazy and floaty, and smile, soft and fucked-out.

“I hope so.”

He makes a sound, a short, breathy laugh choked with something deeper, almost pained. His hand moves to your hair, stroking it back again, brushing damp strands from your face with infinite tenderness. He presses his lips to your temple, slow and lingering, and breathes you in like he’s memorizing the moment.

He doesn’t let go.

Not when your body finally goes limp in his arms. Not when the first shiver of sleep starts to tug at your bones, gentle and warm like the afterglow of his care still flickering in your blood.

His arms are wrapped tight around you, the blankets tucked up to your chin, his cheek resting on the crown of your head. His hands never stop moving, stroking your back, your hip, the curve of your thigh, tracing the soreness he gave you like it’s his . Like it means something.

And it does.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

taglist is OPEN. drop a comment in the replies if you wanna be tagged in future updates. @saturnalya / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @isnt-itstrange / @camilo-uwu / @noxiousness-obnay / @ketsuekiakane / @nympheagain / @verysynical / @gvre / @cookiemonsterboss / @weirdstartshere / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @monaekelis / @tr3nzit444s / @mikevi / @the-good-kooshe / @moraxussy / @ladynoirx321 / @just-a-harmless-patato / @splodencible / @alma-ru3 / @vhraem

[wr1t3w1tm3]

This is how we do a full circle!!

the blade is folded steel. that’s gold filigree laid into the handle. if i may — perfectly balanced. the tang is nearly the full width of the blade.

[merrinla]

Nick Thornborrow on BlueSky showed some more Lucanis narrative sketches

Sketch of Teia and Viago

Portrait sketch of Lucanis

Sketch of Lucanis violently dispatching prison guards along with Spite rapidly dispatching Venatori minions in the background.

Spite conversing with Rook. Spite grins with … well… spite. And Rook looks like she's having none of it.

A hedonistic bath house. Lucanis is deep in foreground in silhouette with two sword hilts apparent in the silhouette.

Ilario being seduced by I forget her name. But the villain in Lucanis's story. The villain is in a glowing red pool and drawing Ilario towards her who sits on the edge. Lucanis spies in the foreground.

Shirtless Ilario hulked out advancing on Lucanis in the foreground with a sword. The villain is in the background towering on a miasma of blood magic.

The villain reduced to a skeletal frame begging Ilario to save her.

Ilario smoke bombing out I think. Lucanis in the foreground in command of Spite.

Rook checking in on Lucanis who is curled up on the floor. Lucanis has just had an episode with his demon, Spite. Scorch marks in the shape of wings smolder on the walls.

Lucanis holding Rook in an embrace but looking warily back at Spite's wings protruding from his own back.

Lucanis ceremonially marking a book with blood.

I honestly can’t remember what was going through my head. I drew this years ago. It’s possible I was working from an explicit description of a ritual to become a Talon, or I may have been taking creative license. Either way, it was something to do with Talon coronation.

Lucanis and Spite working together for once to defeat the villain.

Action shot of Lucanis. I don't know. Kinda scruffy.

Lucanis looming over the villain who has been thoroughly defeated.

Lucanis becoming First Talon.

Lucanis with Spite wings out kissing Rook in the rain. This sketch was meant to portray an intense moment in the midst of going into a battle we don't expect to survive.

An intimate moment between Rook and Lucanis in the hot springs at the Dellamorte Estate.

Rook (who quite famously can't swim) tumbling into the canals of Treviso in a friendly game of bumper car gondola with Lucanis.

Rook and Lucanis having a wholesome (read spicy) experience in a secluded tunnel on a gondola. Lucanis's back is to us and his shirt is half off. Rook is obscured by Lucanis but the two are kissing.

Lucanis executing an ancient God with a lyrium dagger by stabbing him in the back. The God has a skull like face and and a horned helmet. Grey fog leaves his throat as he perishes with the word "URK"

[mass-convergence]

“Buy these tactical swords!”

I know they likely mean like modern tacticool type weaponry. But like … aren’t all swords are inherently tactical? They were used in war and like not to chop potatoes or something. (I mean I used my sword to cut up a cucumber for my Guinea pig but that was solely out of necessity because I couldn’t find my knife)

[obsessivevoidkitten]

That Time You Got Yeeted Into Another World, Mistaken as a God-Sent Gift, and Used as a Prize in an Arena

Yandere Bear-Man Dilf x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: Noncon, framed for a crime, language barrier, eaten out like it's groceries, biting, scent marking, musk, combat, general yandere behavior

Word Count: 765

(Speed written out of nowhere because I had the idea suddenly, not beta read so please forgive any mistakes. I hope you guys like this ficlet. Also forgive the title, in a game I was playing there was a crossover with "That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime" and I liked the vibe of the title.)

You were framed for a crime you didn't commit and in your village the punishment for that crime was immediate exile via being shoved down a steep crater in the center of which is a one-way portal to what is thought to be Hell.

What no one on your side of the portal knew was that on the other side was just another world. A world that celebrated with a great holiday anytime a human came through the portal. It was also a world populated entirely, with the exception of humans who crossed over, by human-like beast hybrids.

Driders, lion hybrids, nagas, aqrabuamelu (scorpion-men), harpies, dog people, centaurs, minotaurs, gnolls, and many other races that seemed to be part human. 

They have a connecting portal in their universe, but any who try to go into it are spat back out. The current went only in one direction.

Every few years, a human would be flung forth from the portal, a gift from the gods! But only the worthy can keep such a gift. So whenever a human comes to the realm from the watcher of the portal will ring the bells and all the warriors assemble and a grand tournament is held at the arena. Whoever wins gets to keep the human and gains enough wealth to care for them properly.

Things are no different when you arrive, you are immediately ushered away, examined, and pampered like a prize doll with no agency. Despite your objections. It seems like only the keeper of the portal has any rudimentary undestanding of your language, not that it helped you. He didn't explain much and his speech wasn't that great. Something about... a big game?

You were naturally frightened beyond all reason, seeing all these beast-men, but it didn't seem like you were being harmed. It really wasn't what you thought hell was going to be like. 

On the day of the big tournament, you were dressed in the finest silks, given a tiny crown of silver, and taken to the best seat in the arena. One where everyone could see you. A cushioned throne was provided for you to sit upon. You figured that this must be a ceremony to welcome people from the portal.

You watched as all the combatants sparred. At first you were horrified, but it became evident that people could yield and death was, almost always, avoided. There were combatants of every variety. 

Even from the start the best seemed to be a naga woman named Eeris and a bear-man named Brakwen. As they advanced through the fights they both finally made it to the finals where they'd clash. Eeris favored twin daggers and fangs while Brakwen used claws and brute strength. He had a sword but had not resorted to using it. 

It was a mighty battle but Brakwen the bear-man managed to win. You still did not yet realize you were the prize. Not until you were escorted down to him and were carried bridal style out of the arena with the crowd cheering. Brakwen had won the god's favor!

From close up he looked even more imposing. He seemed to be in his late 30s to early 40s. He mostly looked like a hairy man from far away though up close his massive size, sharp teeth, claws, thick fur covering his arms and quite frankly adorable bear ears, gave him away. He was rugged but admittedly rather handsome. You knew there was nothing you could do so you let him carry you away. 

Despite the language barrier, Brakwen did his best to please his god-given prize. He could tell you feared him. Especially since you tried to run off a few times. But Brakwen didn't get angry. You never even managed to get past the door. Even if you did there were two gates outside the house. You were far too valuable to let wander off. 

Eventually when you had stopped running off, and when his rut demanded he wait no longer, he began acting a bot more aggressove and sexual towards you. 

Though you tried to stop him it ended with him stretching out your hole with his powerful tongue, lubing you up with his copious amounts of drool, and sliding into you with his massive musky cock.

That's what your life was now. Being treated like a fragile precious gem most of the time and then for one week out of every month you were fucked full of hot bear cum in every possible position, bitten possessively, and scent marked by being forced to wear his oversized clothing. 

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

#she’s not using it but best believe it’s bejewelled and stunning!! #glad the canon art continues to provide them wrong <3 (via @darilarostarg)

#she would have stolen Blackfyre if George had moxy (via @claudiatherelentless)

“Book Rhaenyra wouldn’t carry a sword” crowd are weird, because how do you read F&B not coming away with the option that she absolutely would simply for the aesthetic.

[frannyzooey]

Veneration

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Rating: E

a/n: another piece from Ao3 — enjoy! ❤️

—

“Where is she?”

Marcus stalks into his chambers, his white cape billowing behind him, a guard following in his wake.

“I asked for her, sir. I’m not sure where she is. She –”

“Just find her,” he growls, frustration etched on his face.

The guard makes a hasty apology, slipping from the room. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Candles fill the space, pools of shadows gathered around the edges. The fabric on the bed is rich and decadent, every piece of decoration in the room dripping with luxury.

It’s jarring, after so many months living in a battle tent.

A table filled with food in abundance, he bypasses everything on it for the jar of heady wine. Pouring himself a cup, he drinks deeply.

He thumbs at the slice on his neck, smearing blood on the tips of his fingers. His hands are used to being drenched in blood, crusted with it, the firm hold of a sword nearly molded to the creases of his palm.

It took everything he had not to raise it to the fucking pup who cut him. The one who is so careless and callous, he threatens to burn down everything Marcus has worked for.

All of his protection, wasted. His entire career, played with for sport.

Where is she?

He rips the pin off his tunic, tossing it to the side — he should be more careful with it, but he’s in no mood to be careful with anything. The laurel comes next; the stupid fucking pageantry. He’s a general, a man made of sweat and blood and his fingers tear at the clasps of his armor, but he quickly gives up, pouring another cup of wine. Beautiful and untarnished, the armor is all for show, just like the adornments they covered him with.

It felt good to ride through the city and wave to the people he has been campaigning for months, but he could do without the show of it all. He recognizes the need for celebration, and he’ll gladly give it to them, but he wishes he could do it in his actual armor. The one he defends their city in. The one nicked with a thousand dents from a thousand swords. The leather that fits to his body like a second skin, and he wished for it during the ceremony more than ever, wanting to present himself to the city like the soldier he is.

He sighs, the weight of the day resting heavy on his shoulders. He’d hoped he’d feel more relieved after his conversation with Lucilla, that maybe he’d finally have someone useful he could persuade to act – and yet, the conversation was fruitless.

Frustration throbs behind his eyes, and he closes them, rubbing at his brow.

“You’d think someone who just had a parade held in their honor would look a little less plagued.”

At your voice, his head snaps up. He watches you slip into the room, servant girls on your heels.

He shakes his head, a stern look on his face. “Alone.”

His command is clear, and you obey, dismissing the girls with a slight wave. All for show in the first place, they turn and leave the two of you.

“Where have you been?” he asks. “I’ve been waiting to see you since we entered the gates.”

You walk closer, bending to pick his cape off the floor. “You know I’m not allowed up there with them.” You finger the rich fabric, fighting the urge to bring it to your nose just to inhale his scent.

A scent you’ve missed for almost a year now. A scent that was pressed into your bedding before he left, a scent you used to have memorized from the soft divot just underneath his ear. Oil and sweat and a heady fragrance that clung to his curls and clothes - one you’d been longing for since he left you behind for the promise of North Africa.

“I know,” he answers. “I thought you’d come to see me sooner. Or that I would have seen your face along the route.”

“Would you even have remembered what it looked like?”

It’s childish, the question. You know it, but a barrier comes up automatically, placing protection around your heart. You were so sure of your bond until you saw him climb those steps, taking his place alongside the Emperor. A tiny prick of doubt at the display of his status bled within you, and though you want nothing more than to run to him for reassurance, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

“How can you even ask that?” he asks lowly, hurt and frustration buried between his dark brows.

He steps closer, and yet you withhold, standing your ground.

You did see him on the route, hidden in the back of the crowd, watching from underneath the hood of your robe. The second you heard he was approaching the city, anticipation stole the air from your lungs, so strong that you had to stop your chores. A thousand different scenarios of reuniting with him swirled through your mind, all of them abruptly stopped by the remembrance that you couldn’t greet him. Not in public, not where anyone could see. You watched him instead from the depths of the crowd, feeling pride as he rode past.

There, he looked like a shining god. Here, in front of you, he looks older.

Aged in a way that makes him even more handsome, there is new gray along his temples. More, along the curve of his jaw. The candlelight catches strands that mix in with his dark curls, and you take in the wrinkles the line the edges of his eyes, the ones that crease his forehead. The one between his brows was there before he left, only it’s deeper now - something you know has to do with the way you haven’t touched him yet.

“This finery suits you,” you muse, fingering the edge of his armor.

He scoffs, catching your hand in his. Bringing it to his mouth, you watch with rapt attention as his lips mold to your knuckles, one delicate kiss after another.

“I hate it,” he mumbles against your skin.

You smile. “Then let’s remove it.”

–

He’s patient as you help, but barely.

You can feel the tension radiating off his body as you unclasp his armor and lift it off, the heavy leather set to the side. His eyes stay trained on you as you guide his thick tunic upwards, discarding it onto the floor. He stands in his underclothes for a moment before you sink to your knees and undo the tie at his waist, letting them fall as well. Bare now for your eyes, you inspect him from your position, your hands running over his skin.

It’s familiar, yet not: new wounds that have healed, new scars for your touch. He stirs under your exploration, twitching along his thigh, but you don’t give into the touch you know he wants - not yet. You used to spend hours exploring his body: working oil into his tired muscles, memorizing the firm planes of them born in the training yard. He’s just as thick and strong as you remember, maybe even more so now.

Standing, you turn to retrieve a strigil from his bedside table, undoing the clasp of your tunic with one hand with your back facing him. It falls from your shoulders, slipping onto the floor in a puddle of cloth and when you turn to face him, the hunger in his gaze at your nakedness floods you with arousal.

“They bathed me before the parade,” he says dismissively, glancing at the tool in your grip.

You had a ritual before he left: he would summon you to his chambers, and be waiting for you. You’d help him undress, and sometimes you’d bathe him, but sometimes he liked it better this way - your small hands smearing rich oil along his tanned skin, your fingers working it in. The deliberate strokes of the strigil swept along the lines of his muscles, the tool gathering all the grime and the dust and the sweat from the yard. Never enough that it disappeared though. You smelt it on you when you slipped from his chambers later that night, always pressed into your limbs, his seed trickling from between your thighs.

Assuming he wants the same veneration tonight, you’re surprised when his hand flicks out faster than you’re prepared for, his grip relentless on your wrist. It tightens, and he pulls you towards him, your back to his front. The heat of his body is flush with yours, the weight of his cock thick along the curve of your ass.

“How long I’ve waited to have you,” he breathes into your ear, his tone a growl that sends a shiver down your spine. The scruff along his jaw scrapes against your skin, and you melt into him. “Why are you doing this?”

You drop the stirgil on the tiled floor, the sound barely heard over the pounding of your heart. Letting yourself lean against the thick, broad plane of his chest, his hand lets go of your wrist to skate up your side, roughly palming the weight of your breast. He groans when he touches it, a relieved one that blends with your softer moan, and his other hand curls around your front, cupping you firmly between your thighs. His fingers reach for the curve of your entrance, his teeth scraping along your shoulder when he finds you wet. His touch lingers there, his fingers spreading you to find more evidence of your need.

There is a tension that still vibrates from his form behind you, hidden underneath his skin. He’s holding himself back just for you, and though you want nothing more than to put aside your hesitation and your pride, it’s actually easier to do it this way. To encourage him to take, so different than the sweet murmurs you’ve wished for in the night, less vulnerable than the tender touch of his hands.

You want it to hurt, just like you’ve hurt, and you know he also needs this right now.

Your hand rests upon his, sliding it up.

Up, up, up until it circles your throat.

He flexes his grip, his fingers pressing into your pulse that thrums underneath his touch. You give him silent permission — permission to be the one he wants to be with you sometimes.

Permission for him to be rough, like he is in battle.

Permission to take you as he needs to take you.

Tilting your head to the side, you whisper against his scruffed cheek. “I’m yours, General.” The title gives away the game, your slip into character. “Tell me what you want.”

Your words set him alight, his body moving just how it does on the field: in control, precise, power emanating from his stance when he tugs you away from him and pushes you to your knees. He blocks out the light above you, his fingers curling around your chin to pull you closer. Your hands splay on his sturdy thighs to catch your balance, and he steps forward, crowding you.

“Open your mouth.”

An order, like he was born to give.

Dutifully you do, and he wastes no time feeding himself between your warm, wet lips. The thick tip of his cock brushes against your bottom lip, the weight of him smearing across your tongue the deeper he gets. He tastes so good and so familiar, so musky and masculine, and your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft, curving to the skin as he hardens even more. You slide it along every ridge, every vein of his thick cock, and when he pulls back just before pushing himself deeper with a groan, you swirl your tongue around the rounded tip.

Going back for more, you do it again.

Your hands slide up his thighs to his hips, your fingers digging into the skin, and you pull him deeper, encouraging it. He groans loud and shameless, your cunt throbbing when you look up to the light flickering over his skin. It looks so rich and real , your hands slipping backwards to palm the curve of his ass with a greedy grab.

The release of want pours from you both, his body still tight with tension but a different type of tension: not frustration, but need.

He gives in, thrusting into your mouth harder, flickering candlelight catching the drool that gathers around the edges of your mouth and slides down your chin. Your cheeks hollow, his thumb fitting into the indented curve. Your eyes shut tight, his cock pushing against the tight ring of your throat. He holds there for a moment, and then pulls out, his is cock glistening and he strokes it while you catch your breath, but you’re already grabbing for him before you’re ready.

“I want more,” you beg, your voice hoarse. “Take what you need.”

He strokes himself faster, harder, his stomach tensing.

“I know you’re holding back, but don’t. Take anything you want from me. I can take it.”

Those are the words that do it. He growls, his hand palming the back of your head to force you back onto his cock. He pushes it past your lips as far as it will go and then some, not stopping this time when he reaches your throat. He feels the tight, constricting curve of it, and pushes a little further still, thickening at the strangled whine you let out into the dark curls at the base. Swiping the hair from your face, he cups your cheeks in his hands and angles your face to turn up towards his own.

Then, he fucks.

His pace is relentless, brutal, his cock slipping into the tight fist of your throat with every thrust forward. Stars dance along your vision, your chin soaked with spit. Desperation radiates from him, his grip tightening on your face, your fingers digging crescents into his hips and he groans, wanting more pain.

A familiar ache, one that he’s used to. Something to distract him from the deeper pain of your hesitation when you first walked in the room. Deeper still, the ache he felt for you while he was gone.

“You have no idea how much I missed you. How much I missed this.” Every word of his confession is mixed with his heavy breaths, with soft grunts from the back of his throat.

You hum, a tiny frown pulling between your brows. You missed him just as much, missed this just as much — the way he emanates authority, the way he bends and molds and positions you just like his soldiers, to do as he bids.

He pushes you further, shedding the frustration and pent up tension of the day with every harsh stroke. He feeds it to you, makes you swallow it as it pours from him into your waiting mouth and an ache blooms in your throat, your jaw tense with the effort of trying to stay open wide enough for him to fit. Slipping your slim hand between his strong thighs, you cup his heavy balls with a tender squeeze — a touch that makes his head tip back as they draw up.

Harder, faster and then he doesn’t give you any warning before he fists your hair and pulls you off his cock, stroking it with a slick, rapid beat to come on your chest. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts.

More, when you start to smear it into your skin like oil, pressing it into your skin.

When he’s finished, he sags with release — though you know he’s not done. His hands reach for you, pulling you up off the floor and then finally — finally — he kisses you.

Fevered and desperate, his mouth open to taste yours, his tongue sliding against your own. Your fingers thread through his curls to keep him close, and his own dig forcefully into your skin, as if you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you tight. They splay to slide up your back and down again, stretch to cup the curve of your bottom and he lifts you to carry you over to his bed. He means to drop you there so he can sink to his knees, but when you cling to him, he falls with you, his weight settling over your body.

This — this is what you dreamed of every night he was away. This is what you held onto, this is what you missed. This version of Marcus that no one else gets. Not the stoic General, but rather the tender touch of his calloused hands. The slide of his body against yours, the murmurs of his adoration poured along the column of your neck.

Your legs wind around his waist, your hips canting up and he groans into your mouth at the sticky smear you leave on his stomach. More than ready for him, desperate for it.

“My love, I need a minute.”

My love. The endearment fills your heart until tears leak from the corners of your eyes, and you pull him closer, wanting to be buried underneath his bulk. Winding your arms around his neck, you keep his mouth pressed against yours, only to frown when he pulls away.

“I need a minute,” he repeats, his head bending to brush his mouth along your throat. “But let me indulge myself in the meantime.”

You watch the muscles in his thick shoulders shift as he holds himself above you and bends his head, taking your breast into his mouth. It’s a greedy suck, his hand pushing the soft weight of it up so he can fit more. His teeth scrape against the peak, and then he’s moving onto the other one, giving it the same attention while you moan underneath him.

Down further still, he presses kisses along your belly, against each hip. Your thighs open wider, making room for him. A part of you expects him to tease you like you did him, but he doesn’t — he settles in, hooking his arms under your thighs and spreads you wide right before he bends to devour.

Your hands rest upon the top of his head; your own version of a laurel resting on his curls. No adornments, no finery, no pristine armor and gold.

Your eyes close, savoring the slow, wide licks of his tongue. The devotion he gives your cunt with every slick, firm slide.

Not the General that the city fears and adores in equal measure - just Marcus, bending the knee for you.

[manicmanuscription]

Exhibit

PolySJM Week: Day Five

Prompt: Memories and History

Pairings: Feysand / Reader

Summary: You're the last one left in the inner circle, taking a weekly visit to the museum.

Word Count: 2225

Tags: Extreme angst, no like, a lot of angst, hurt and barely any comfort, author hurt her own feelings. Inner circle is all dead. briefly smutty memories but explicit, 18++

PolySJM Week 2025 Masterlist | Acotar Masterlist

My shoes clicked softly against the hardwood floors, yet each step echoed throughout my entire being, the sound deafening in the quiet halls and a sense of dread bled into my heart with every movement.

Being here was suffocating and I tried to remind myself to breathe, to force air into my lungs. Yet I tortured myself with this feeling every Friday, at one p.m. With tentative steps I reached the next room, the open floor plan allowing everything to be displayed properly and I halted in front of one of the clear cases. 

My heart constricted at seeing the matching set of jewelry. A custom set commissioned by Rhysand for Feyre and I. Small glittering black diamonds fashioned into the shapes of small stars and tiny pearls all strung up elaborately to cascade down the earlobe. 

The earrings sat next to their complimentary tiara's, the highest point also forming into a star. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment at the sight. It had been a mating gift, one of many after the elaborate ceremony he planned. The earrings had been one of my favorite pieces in my vanity and had seen the sun so often my mate had regularly taken it in for cleaning and upkeep services.

Though when they stopped pumping air into their lungs and their heart gave out from the extent of their injuries the sight of it quickly made me want to tear my skin off. 

Lifeless eyes and bloodsoaked satin flashed before my vision and I gripped my walking cane so hard I swore you could hear tiny wood pieces splintering.

A few hundred years later andI could still hear Nesta’s anguished cries and Mor’s horrified whimpers as we rushed to save them. 

Too late. Too late. Too late. 

I could still feel Cassian’s grip on my arms as he forcefully pulled me away from the sight of the gruesome scene, everyone yelling over one another as it all dissolved to chaos. The only thing that existed in that moment was them, the sight of their limp bodies into my mind forever, that agonizing pain in my chest as the bond shattered with their last breath. 

Madja wouldn’t even tell me what had truly happened to them. I found out, of course. It took me weeks but eventually I found out. That knowledge nearly sent me spiraling over the closest cliff, and the memory had that ragged bond in my chest stirring painfully. 

I forced myself away from the display case and ventured further into the Inner Circle’s exhibit. Blinking the horrid memories away as I passed a few of the other cases, letters between The Spymaster and Highlord, various weapons, sculptures, depictions of great battles my family fought in and other heroic deeds, even some shattered siphons from when my friends were youthful and untrained, a replica of the mirror the General used to capture the death god Lanthys, then a replica of the sword used to slain him. -the real thing had been given to their daughter-  great paintings depicting the Battle of Hybern and the Three Sister’s once human in all their glory. Each piece a living reminder of the legends that were my family until eventually I paused in front of my greatest torment. 

Feyre’s last unfinished piece was sitting in a storage unit a few blocks away, sometimes I’d sit there wondering what it was meant to be, my sneaky little mate having kept it a secret until she meant to reveal it on our anniversary, it tortured me for years after their deaths knowing she’d never finished it and never would, yet this canvas in front of me…

Feyre and I were sitting on lavish chairs facing forward as Rhysand stood behind us with an arm on each of our shoulders, a coy smile playing on his lips. Even though I was starting to forget a lot of things with my age, I remember that day like it was yesterday. 

“Stop trying to make me laugh!” I scolded Rhys mentally. His laughter echoed down the bond and I whirled around in my seat to face him, still keeping my hand firmly intertwined with Feyre’s. A reprimand on my tongue even as I struggled to control my giddy smile. 

The painter gently reminded me to sit still and Rhysand smirked. “Yes darling sit still we’re trying to get our portrait taken after all.” I rolled my eyes, sending a harsh wave of annoyance down the bond. “You’re the one distracting me!” I protested even as I faced the painter once more. 

“I. am. not.” Rhysand objected, his smooth voice falling on my ears, the sound of it a balm to my soul even though he was getting on my last nerve. Three seconds passed before another image of the three of us flashed in front of my eyes, my lovely wife was all wrapped up in pretty silk tied to our bed while I had the pleasure of tasting her, my tongue circling her clit as my husband kissed up her thighs before reaching her breasts. Her soft moans filled the room and- the image dissolved with a brush of Feyre’s magic and she glared at both of us and huffed slightly. “That is enough!” She snapped angrily, a faint blush crept up her cheeks and she adjusted herself on her chair. 

“The both of you are behaving like children! We wouldn’t even be in this position if you” She sent me a pointed glare.  “hadn’t insisted on a live portrait.” 

The artist gave us a confused glance at our conversation flowing in and out of mental or verbal speaking but returned to their canvas quickly not wanting to somehow upset the powerful leaders of the Night Court. 

“I thought it would be fun!” I whispered back and Rhysand chuckled softly leaning down to give Feyre and I a quick peck on the cheek. “She truly had no idea how boring these things are. I'm just trying to liven it up a little.” 

“Well quit it. Because you’re distracting me, our mate, the artist and making this whole ordeal last longer than it needs to.” 

Rhysand winced as her harsh words dug into his mental walls and I threw a look over my shoulder sticking my tongue out at him before returning my gaze forward. Feyre gave my hand a warning squeeze accompanied with her signature glare and I muttered an apology. 

Another few agonizing minutes passed before another image flashed before my eyes. I was slowly removing the silk dress from my body, stepping out from the expensive fabric in nothing but lingerie, Feyre trailed her hands up my spine from behind me a dark look in her eyes watching as Rhys leaned down to hungrily claim my lips with his own. Soft manicured nails tugged at my hair harshly eliciting a soft moan from my lips and she turned my head to the side to give our mate more access and Rhys trailed those kisses down to the side of my neck– 

“That is it!” I hissed. Standing up from my chair and storming out of the room as I fought to get my arousal under control. 

Rhysand just leaned down to Feyre’s ear. “I told you I could get her to break.” She just rubbed a tattooed hand over her temples, a small -annoyed- smirk playing on her lips as she stood as well. 

The memory faded and I brushed the tears away with an aged hand. Feyre ultimately finished the painting by taking the reference photo from the memory of the artist we hired, and reimbursed the poor girl for wasting her time. 

A wave of anger rose within me, I would never not be mad at them for leaving me to raise our child alone with that stupid fucking pact. Sure I had our family’s help but they had their own children and spouses to attend to as well and eventually old age or injury picked them all off until it was just me. The shattered bond in my chest ached at the thought refusing the anger and sadness that suffocated me so strongly a wave of pain almost had me doubling over in the exhibit.

I knew I was starting to go, forgetting things and losing time. I had to start walking with a cane and my hair turned fully white ages ago. Even my hearing was almost nonexistent. Not a lot of fae got to be this age but I was stubborn, refusing to go until I was sure my son, nieces and nephews, and court were ok. 

Sometimes I could feel my mates, brushing their hand with mine as I hobbled down the streets of Velaris, whispering things to me in the wind that I could not decipher. Sometimes I could feel one of my friends, urging me to relax or even teasing me from realms apart.

 It was getting more frequent and I knew my loves would be coming to collect me from this realm soon. 

When they did I would never, ever stop yelling at them for what they did to me. They broke their promises leaving me with a temperamental and newly made High Lord who was just a little too young to rule and a grieving court. I sat down on one of the museum’s benches as a cluster of people entered the exhibit, the clock striking one fifteen. 

My favorite part of the day. 

The tour guide spoke softly as the fae walked around the room, awe lining their faces. No one recognized me from the paintings and they were all too young to realize anyways, I hadn’t ventured to any political or public events in years, not ever since I broke my hip on some stairs in the Hewn City and my son all but banned me. Just as protective as his father. 

The guide spoke about my family with quiet reverence, telling stories about countless battles and wars won, treaty’s built. She talked about victory over Koschei and the Illyrians unrest. She talked about the political wins of my mates, she talked of the Lady of Death and her Valkyries. 

She then spoke of me, telling the love story of my mates and I, put together from long dead witness statements, letters, and even stories spilled from the old Inner Circle. 

The guests moved about the room excitedly, pointing at old artifacts and statues. It was always strange to hear my life and my family’s lives from another person, one who wasn’t there but had studied us. My nieces and nephew’s loved to hear the stories I told when they were young, but sometimes…it was nice to hear about it from someone else, I was the only one left who truly remembered what happened after all and even those were slowly going. 

It helped me remember. Remember Cassian’s booming laugh long faded, Azriels quiet reassurance, chess games between Nesta and Amren, Elain’s garden long untouched by her own loving hands. 

The perspective shift was amusing to me and war and peace raged in my heart at the memories the tour guide returned to me with her intricately weaved tales. I missed my family, missed the way our home came alive with their presence. 

Every fiber in my body ached and a stray tear slipped as the guide eventually moved onto my mate's demise and the betrayal of our ‘allies’

There wasn’t time, even if we spent eons together it would have never been enough. 

Eventually the crowd cleared as she concluded this part of her tour and moved to another exhibit. Leaving only one person in the room with me. Nyx strode across the room in just a few steps sitting on the bench beside me. “I nearly had a heart attack when Simone told me she lost you. Again.” 

“Why must you torture yourself like this Mother?” He asked, placing a comforting hand on my wobbled knee as he took a pained glance at the room. I didn’t respond, just took a chance to study his face doing my best to commit it to my weathered mind.. He was getting old, stress lines making him seem even older and being a High Lord and a new father certainly didn’t help.

Gods he looked so much like them. With his soft freckles and violet eyes. He most certainly had Feyre’s nose. 

I smiled, another ghostly wisp of a warm touch running along my spine and I knew it would be soon. I could feel that knowledge all the way down to my weary and ancient bones. Just as I knew Nyx would be fine, him and his cousin’s had been ruling for quite some time and I’d never been prouder of them and I would finally get the chance to confront my mates for I had hundreds of years of grievances to settle with them. But I would also get to hold them close once more, press kisses to their shoulders and tell them stories of the male our son had become. 

I would be able to cherish them once more, to hold them close once again, to hear their voices and see their smiles. 

I would be able to see my family once again and that peace would settle my soul for eternity. 

[blueiscoool]

Archaeologists Find a Beautiful 3,000-Year-Old Octagonal Sword in Germany

A rare Bronze Age sword unearthed from a burial site in Germany is in such good condition that it still glimmers.

According to a statement the Bavarian State Office for Monument Protection released on Wednesday, the weapon was discovered in the town of Nördlingen in Bavaria, and may date to the 14th century B.C.

"Last week, archaeologists made a very special find during excavations in Nördlingen: a bronze sword that is over 3,000 years old and is so extraordinarily well preserved that it almost still shines. It is a representative of the bronze full-hilt swords, whose octagonal hilt is made entirely of bronze (octagonal sword type)," a translation of the statement reads.

Its octagonal shape make it a rare find, as only the most skilled blacksmiths were capable of making these types of swords—known as Achtkantschwert in German—that required precise casting and decoration.

"The production of octagonal swords is complex because the handle is cast over the blade (so-called overlay casting). The decoration is made with an inlay and using hallmarks. While there are two real rivets, another pair of rivets are only implied," the statement said.

These rare and specialized swords were only made in two locations in Germany at the time, one in the north, one in the south, although the exact location of this sword's origin could not be confirmed.

This find is especially unusual considering that most burial mounds in the area of Germany where the sword was discovered have been opened and looted in the past.

"Sword finds from this period are rare and come either from burial mounds that were deliberately opened in the 19th century or as single, presumed sacrificial finds," the statement said.

It is unclear if this octagonal sword was ever used in combat, or if it was a ceremonial blade.

However, archaeologists noted that while the blade had no signs of wear in battle, its center of gravity made it suitable for use as a real weapon, and it was capable of being used to slash opponents.

The grave in which the sword was found contained the remains of a man, a woman and a child.

"It is not yet clear whether the persons were related or what the relationship between them was," the statement explained.

Despite these questions, the sword marks an exciting find for the archaeologists and for Germany.

"The sword and the burial still have to be examined further so that our archaeologists can classify this find more precisely. But it can already be said that its condition is exceptional. A find like this is very rare," Mathias Pfeil, head of the Bavarian State Office for the Preservation of Monuments, said in the statement.

[felassan]

Lucanis narrative sketches and captions by Nick Thornborrow, under a cut due to spoilers and length:

Sketch of Teia and Viago

Portrait sketch of Lucanis

Sketch of Lucanis violently dispatching prison guards along with Spite rapidly dispatching Venatori minions in the background.

Spite conversing with Rook. Spite grins with ... well... spite. And Rook looks like she's having none of it.

A hedonistic bath house. Lucanis is deep in foreground in silhouette with two sword hilts apparent in the silhouette.

Ilario being seduced by I forget her name. But the villain in Lucanis's story. The villain is in a glowing red pool and drawing Ilario towards her who sits on the edge. Lucanis spies in the foreground.

Shirtless Ilario hulked out advancing on Lucanis in the foreground with a sword. The villain is in the background towering on a miasma of blood magic.

The villain reduced to a skeletal frame begging Ilario to save her.

Ilario smoke bombing out I think. Lucanis in the foreground in command of Spite.

Rook checking in on Lucanis who is curled up on the floor. Lucanis has just had an episode with his demon, Spite. Scorch marks in the shape of wings smolder on the walls.

Lucanis holding Rook in an embrace but looking warily back at Spite's wings protruding from his own back.

Lucanis ceremonially marking a book with blood.

Lucanis and Spite working together for once to defeat the villain.

Action shot of Lucanis. I don't know. Kinda scruffy.

Lucanis looming over the villain who has been thoroughly defeated.

Lucanis becoming First Talon.

Nick Thornborrow: "Don't think for a second I haven't seen your fan art. 👀"

Lucanis with Spite wings out kissing Rook in the rain. This sketch was meant to portray an intense moment in the midst of going into a battle we don't expect to survive.

An intimate moment between Rook and Lucanis in the hot springs at the Dellamorte Estate.

Rook (who quite famously can't swim) tumbling into the canals of Treviso in a friendly game of bumper car gondola with Lucanis.

Rook and Lucanis having a wholesome (read spicy) experience in a secluded tunnel on a gondola. Lucanis's back is to us and his shirt is half off. Rook is obscured by Lucanis but the two are kissing.

Lucanis executing an ancient God with a lyrium dagger by stabbing him in the back. The God has a skull like face and and a horned helmet. Grey fog leaves his throat as he perishes with the word "URK"

Art by Nick Thornborrow. [source thread]

[serpentface]

Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

[doodle-pops]

All Your Little Things (That Drives Knight!Fingon Crazy)

A/N: At long last, the fluff I promised after that heart-aching angst.

Masterlist | Navigation

10 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭!𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞/𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐇𝐢𝐦:

1. You frequently slip away from your guards without telling anyone, riding off alone on horseback across the fields in full royal garb, unarmoured and entirely unbothered. Every time he finds you again—usually muddy and smug—he looks like he might burst a blood vessel. “Do you try to get yourself killed, or are you just daft?”

2. You absolutely refuse to use the side saddle, no matter the occasion. During formal processions you ride astride like a soldier, skirts hiked to your thighs, scandalising half the court and making Fingon grind his teeth into powder behind you.

3. You mock the ceremonial bowing and curtsying rituals—especially when Fingon does them. The one time he bent knee before you at a ball, you tapped his helmet like a drum and asked, “Can you hear me knocking?” He refused to speak to you for two days.

4. You have a tendency to ‘borrow’ his weapons for reasons both frivolous and infuriating. Once you took his favourite sword to use as a makeshift paperweight. Another time, you repurposed his dagger to cut cheese. He was appalled. “That blade has tasted dragonfire and your Camembert has ruined it.”

5. You challenge him to duels in public spaces, loudly and without warning, just to see the expression on his face. Whether it’s a wooden spoon or an actual blade, you’ve no shame and he’s so tired. “We are in the middle of a diplomatic feast, Your Grace—put the ladle down.”

6. You flirt outrageously with other knights in front of him, particularly the youngest squires, just to rile him up. It always works. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear it, and later you’ll find him hacking at training dummies like they insulted his honour.

7. You give him pet names in front of the court that no knight should ever have. “My brave little buttercup” nearly made him choke on his wine. “Moon-thighs” had him storming from the hall. “Sword-boy” made his cousin laugh so hard he snorted.

8. You leave your embroidery or court duties half-finished to go climb roofs, trees, or anything high and ridiculous. He once found you dangling your feet off the ramparts and nearly dropped his helm when you cheerily waved.

9. You don’t cower during battles or danger. You face threats with a mad sort of calm, teeth bared and eyes blazing, and he hates that he both admires and despairs of your lack of self-preservation.

“Next time you run when I say run.” “What if I’m feeling brave?” “Then I’ll carry you and tie you to a bloody tree.”

10. You once kissed him mid-battle, just to throw him off his rhythm. He fumbled his sword and had to pretend it was a tactical flourish while you laughed into his armour. “You—you absolute menace, that was not a proper time for affection!” he shouted, red in the face and bleeding from the ear.

10 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭/𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐬 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭:

1. You always polish his armour by hand before every battle, even though he has squires for that. You sit cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath as you work. He never disturbs you. Just watches in silence, thinking, I would die for you a thousand times over.

2. When he’s injured, you fuss over him like an old nursemaid, scolding him in whispers and bandaging him with trembling hands. “Idiot,” you murmur, but your fingers linger just a second too long. He pretends not to notice the way you kiss the edge of a bruise when you think he’s asleep.

3. You sneak him pastries from the royal kitchens—his favourite honeyed tarts that are technically forbidden to knights during drills. You press them into his hand with a wink and vanish. He eats them behind the stables like a guilty schoolboy.

4. You braid his hair before tourneys, your fingers working deftly while you murmur quiet encouragements. “Win this one, and I might let you kiss me somewhere scandalous.” He always fights twice as hard those days.

5. You dance with him when no one’s looking, in hallways and gardens, barefoot on marble floors or in the mud. Once, you whispered, “No music needed. I can hear it in your heartbeat.” He nearly tripped over his own boots.

6. You defend him publicly when other nobles sneer at his lack of courtly manners. “He’s the best man you’ll ever meet, and twice the warrior,” you once said, before challenging the duke to a duel over it. Fingon had never looked prouder. Or more terrified.

7. You write him letters during long campaigns, but never sign them with your name—only a tiny sketch of a sword and a crown in the corner. He keeps every single one in a secret box, even the ones that just say, “Don’t get killed. I’ll be pissed.”

8. You once fought off a wild boar with nothing but a branch because you didn’t want Fingon to be late for a royal inspection. He arrived to find you bloodied, triumphant, and completely unconcerned by the carcass beside you.

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or drag you to the healer first.” “I vote kiss. Always kiss.”

9. You always know when he needs silence. You just sit beside him, no words, no questions, your presence a quiet balm against the storms in his head. He once told you, softly, “You’re the only calm I’ve ever known.”

10. And when he’s had a hard day—when blood coats his hands and the weight of duty presses heavy on his shoulders—you never speak of titles or thrones. You just take his hand, hold it tight, and whisper, “Come home, Fingon. Just come home.” And he does. Every time. For you.

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[bellarkeselection]

Hiii I was wondering if you can do daemon Targaryen x plus size reader getting married fluff? Thank you!

Dragons Binded Through Blood

The double doors of the throne room creaked opened before my eyes. My Targaryen silver hair was completely loose except for two strands twisted up to appear like a crown sitting on my head. Walking through the entrance I focused my gaze on the stone floor until I reached the man who would soon become my husband. The Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

My sister always looked up to him but not in the same way as I did. I was the twin sister of Rhaenyra who was born a few minutes after her and a bit bigger than she was. “Iksos bisa nykeēdrosa mirros ao jaelagon, uncle. Am nyke nykeēdrosa someone ao jaelagon hae aōha riñnykeā ābrazȳrys? ( Is this still something you want, Uncle. Am I still someone you want as your lady wife?”

“Nyke iderēbagon ao, y/n. Regardless hen whispers lī orvorta lords vestragon bē ao. Nyke jāhor va moriot iderēbagon ao ( I choose you, Y/n. Regardless of the whispers those cunt lords say about you. I will always choose you.” His dark purple eyes lowered down to meet mine while he stood dressed in all black and red clothing of our house.

His words would mean more than they did the first time he had said something along those same lines to me when he asked me to marry him. Every lord that I had come into contact with attempted to compare me to my sister or politely ask if my size was because I ate more than I should, every single one of them except Daemon.

I’d remember the day he asked for my hand in front of the entire court and my father.

Standing beside my sister off to the side at the front of the crowd of people gathered in the throne room all awaiting to see whatever Daemon had to report on his battle fighting in the Stepstones. Heavy footsteps came through the crowd before I saw my uncle walkthrough and stand before my father. He wore white bones shaped into a crown upon his head. “You wear a crown. You also call yourself King.”

“Once we smashed the Triar Key they named me King of the Narrow Sea. But I know there is only one true king, your grace.” Daemon lowered himself down on one knee removing the crown from his head. “My crown and the Stepstones are yours.”

My father walked down the throne stairs clanking his sword on the harsh floor until he reached his younger brother. “Thank you, brother. I now ask you to give up your crown and title of King over to me if you would be so generous.”

“I will in exchange for something in return.” Daemon raises his head glancing behind his shoulder at me briefly.

Father raised a brow at him. “I suppose you can have anything for your victory in battle. What is it that you wish to have, brother?”

“Give me your daughter, Princess Y/n. Allow me to take her as my Lady wife.” His gaze focused on his brother.

Father glanced over at me asking me softly. “Daughter, what do you think about this opportunity? Do you wish to marry Daemon?”

“I’d gladly marry him, father.” Breaking through the crowd I jumped into his waiting arms where he spun me around in some circles till he sat me down on my feet. I grinned leaning forward, capturing his lips with mine ignoring the crowd of people watching us.

Daemon eyed the Septon who stood before us where he handed him a knife cutting his palm drawing out some fresh blood. He handed it to me and I did the same thing as he had. “Now we bind ourselves through blood, princess.”

“And become husband and wife forever, my prince.” I smiled fondly at him, connecting our bleeding hands together as one.

The Septon shifted his gaze between Daemon and I. “In the sight of the seven look upon one another and say the words.”

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crown, Stranger. I am hers ( his ) and she ( he ) is mine from this day until the end of my days." Daemon and I said in unison together with genuine smiles on our faces. We met the other's gaze and sealed the ceremony with a long awaited kiss.

I leaned up pressing my lips down upon his. He embraced me back instantly when my fingers dug into his shoulders once I had wrapped my arms around his neck. He ran his fingers over every inch of my body he could reach. Together we would keep the house of the dragon alive.

[argisthebulwark]

My Best Friend, My One & Only

summary: how they propose <3 gn reader, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. feat: Farkas, Teldryn, Miraak, Brynjolf, Balimund, Mercer, Vilkas warnings: non explicit mentions of battle/injury a/n: yes I know this isn't how proposals work in the elder scrolls, I know about the amulets, rings are just more romantic to me masterlist

Farkas does it in the middle of a difficult battle. When you're back to back, weapons bloodied and muscles beyond exhausted and the enemies are circling closer. "If we make it out of this," Farkas pants, back flexing as he readies his sword once more. "Will you marry me?" "What?" "C'mon, if we're both alive tomorrow we'll get married. Deal?" "Alright, deal." You gulp, rallying whatever shred of strength you have left. An arrow lodges itself near your feet and you're lost again, hacking and slashing through the seemingly endless waves of bandits. It isn't difficult to keep track of Farkas on the battlefield - his stature and the roar of his victorious laugh calm your worries about losing him. Once only the two of you remain standing, you turn to him. Through the mud and viscera Farkas is grinning as he approaches you, chest heaving with each deep breath. "We both lived." He brags, one messy hand scrounging in his pockets. Your heart flips when he produces a stunning ring in his outstretched palm and offers it to you. "I didn't think you were serious." You breathe, plucking it from his hand despite the screaming of your muscles. Holding it up you marvel at the silvery moonlight glimmering on its beautiful stones. "I wouldn't joke about this." The ring fits so easily onto your finger. Farkas presses shameless kisses on your hand and up your arm, clearly so excited to see his ring on your finger. You can hardly believe that this is real, this isn't a dream.

Teldryn has never really brought up marriage, so the hypothetical catches you off guard - would you ever want to get married? Coming from a relatively large family it had once been the expectation but after the years of dealing with dragons and wars it's become less of a priority. "Yeah, I suppose I would." "You suppose?" "Well, you never bring it up so I haven't given it too much thought." "I ever said to me, specifically." There's a glimmer of humor in his eyes but you can't bring yourself to play into it. Something about this conversation feels heavy, like it's more important than some silly banter. "I wouldn't consider it with anyone else." Teldryn sighs and flips a coin your way. You scramble to catch it, glaring over at him when he begins to wander away. Prepared to ask why in the hells he would throw a septim your way you stare down at your hand. Sitting there in the palm of your tattered glove is the most beautiful ring you've ever seen. Small pale stones glitter around one dark gem placed in the center, all held together with sturdy metal. That bastard has the audacity to propose to you so casually? To toss this gorgeous ring at you, risk it falling into the dirt, and stroll off as if he hadn't just offered you something so beautiful? "What d'ya think?" Teldryn smirks, glancing over his shoulder. You want to berate him for his nonchalant tone but you've lost all words, tears springing into your eyes at the realization. Teldryn's offering you a future together, a promise that he won't leave. Placing that ring on your finger, you know that it's all you want.

Miraak doesn't. He began referring to you as his spouse ages ago. You've been his partner for so long it's an easy rhythm to fall into. Everyone else simply accepts that you're married and you're comfortable with it - saves you the trouble of planning a wedding. You know that Miraak isn't going anywhere and neither are you. After lifetimes together, you feel that traditional wedding ceremonies can't capture the depth and love that have been crafted between you. Miraak is your future and your past, and when he whispers that you are his entire world you know that it is true. "So," some lordling pipes up, drawing everyone's attention. Thanes and Jarls mill about the room and Miraak rolls his eyes, still unsure why you insist on maintaining relationships with them. "Yes?" You respond, rubbing a soothing hand over Miraak's arm. You take a sip of your drink and ready yourself for whatever political nonsense they have to offer now. "We've heard so many stories about you two - how did Miraak propose to you?" Wine practically shoots out of your nose. You snort, grabbing onto Miraak's coat and fight the laughter bubbling up at his expression. Your beloved husband is looking especially pale when he wipes absently at your face. "Well," he stalls and oh, it is delightfully entertaining. Miraak, always so eloquent, at a loss for words? It's a rare sight, even you have hardly seen it. "I may have skipped a few steps." "There's still time." You snicker playfully, fixing the lapel of his coat. He sends you a cutting glare, though it hasn't scared you for ages.

Brynjolf wants to keep it lowkey. He never thought he'd make it this far, not bothering for decades to imagine anything for himself outside of the Guild. When you're seated atop a manor, packs full and enjoying your last night before the long carriage ride home, he slides the ring toward you. "Did you steal this?" You question, totally ignorant of the furious blush in his face. Examining the ring in the moonlight is difficult but you're impressed, a simple and stunning piece. One deep green gem is framed with gentle swirls of metal, so unlike the terribly gaudy pieces you're used to pocketing. "Usually these lords have awful taste but this is beautiful, Bryn." "Glad you like it." He sounds a bit off, almost nervous. You scour the streets below but can't make out any guards. "It looks expensive, I bet Tonilia can fetch a good price." "No." "No?" Your brows tighten, that strained tone of his voice sets your nerves on edge. "It's for you." The situation punches you in the gut. Brynjolf, usually so calm and collected, looks nearly ready to launch himself off the roof. The gorgeous ring sitting in your hand, the ring that's for you. "Are you asking me to marry you?" Your fingers quiver when Brynjolf finally meets your gaze. "That depends on how you're plannin' to answer." His nervous laugh is so endearing. How could he possibly think you would refuse him? "Well, we live and work together, we've discussed spending our lives together, and all the recruits think we're already married." You squeeze his chilly fingers, surprised at how scared he is. "Of course I want to marry you, Bryn." "Oh, thank god - please don't fence that, love. Cost me a fortune."

Balimund works with Madesi for ages to forge a ring just for you. He's known for years that he intends to spend his life with you, there's no need to rush this step. The pair craft a ring to Balimund's exact specifications, priding himself on knowing exactly what you like. He chooses one of the nights you treasure the most - a quiet night at home together. No couriers pounding down the door or Jarls demanding your presence, just a night at home. You notice Balimund planting extra kisses to your shoulder while you cook dinner together and gazing at you across the table until you're certain there's something stuck in your teeth. Curled up on the couch together, your heart feels so full it hurts. Balimund's heavy arm rests around your shoulders, calloused fingers trailing over your skin as gentle kisses press to the crown of your head. You notice the uptick in his heartbeat where you're pressed to his chest and snuggle closer. "You alright, dearest?" You yawn, glancing up at him. Balimund finds himself struck by the sight of you; eyes soft and tired after a lazy day together, that gentle smile on your face he loves so dearly. He swears he falls in love with you all over again in this one moment. "I want this for the rest of my life." He mumbles, grasping the little box in his pocket. He's been fussing with it all night, gathering all his courage over the course of the evening but suddenly it's all gone. When he feels your hand cup his face Balimund gulps and draws the box out. "Me too, love." "Yeah?" He thumbs open the box, nervously presenting you when the fruit of his labor. Perfectly polished metal bears three sparkling gems. They aren't large or especially impressive but he recalls the way your eyes lit up when you'd seen each of them in his chest of supplies. "Balimund, please tell me you're proposing." "'Course I am, dearest." "Oh thank the gods."

Mercer doesn't. He's already gotten far too close, he can't let you creep any further into his heart. Occasionally when you're tucked into bed at his side, legs tangled together and all worries banished, you smile up at him and he sees an entire future. And gods, he hates it. Boring days spent together in the Cistern and weeks on the road to some high profile job. His family's ring sparkling on your finger and your lips on his skin. Watching grey creep into your hair and retiring in some fancy manor not too far from Riften, somewhere you can watch the leaves turn that shade of orange that lifts your spirits. Marriage, family, a real life together... he hates the thought of it. He's in too deep and there's no going back. His stomach always turns when he catches glimpses of that potential life he could have with you because for one desperate moment he wants it. He wants to forget about all the bullshit he's spent his life building up, the Guild, the Eyes, everything to live that life with you. But he can't. Mercer wishes he didn't make your smile falter in these moments when he wants you so badly. He clutches you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead in a silent apology for the heartbreak he'll surely dump on you someday. He knows he'll only break your heart, the longer he puts it off the worse it gets, but he can't bring himself to give you up. "Love you." Guilt spikes at his heart each time you yawn those damning words into his chest. Your skin is so lovely and warm when an arm wraps around his waist. I love you. He chokes on those words he can't say, choosing instead to kiss your head once more instead of damning himself further.

Vilkas knows that you'll say yes but fuck, he's still terrified. You're relaxing in the fancy inn, muscles loose from an afternoon of lazing in the hot springs. He's never been away from Jorrvaskr for so long without being on an assignment but tonight his nerves are entirely your fault. He's had it planned out for weeks. The many days spent relaxing far from the worries of your everyday life have lead up to this evening; a fancy dinner he's picked out every little component of, chilled drinks on the patio, and the ring. It sounds so easy in his mind but standing here in your rented cabin, he can't keep his hands from shaking. Thank the gods you help him with that last button. He'd only bought the jacket after you pointed out it would look nice on him, and when you smile up at him he can hardly breathe. "Are we running away?" You sigh, thumb tracing over his cheek. "Not if we plan on going back." He fumbles with the box in his pocket, stunned when you smile up at him. "There's no one else in the world I'd rather run away with. Even if it's just for a couple days." He isn't sure what he's thinking - the entire plan is forgotten when you're beaming up at him. Vilkas produces the ring, heart swelling at your words and the blatant love in your eyes when you gaze up at him. Suddenly his meticulously planned dinner seems far less romantic than what you'd said. "Vilkas," you pause, carefully reaching toward the little box. "What is this?" "Please marry me." He chokes out, all his fear and anxiety spiking when you thumb it open to glance at the ring. It's bewildering how just a few minutes can feel like hours but he endures it, choking back every nervous word until you respond. "Of course I'll marry you, Vilkas." Thank the gods you put him out of his misery. Vilkas feels numb when you launch yourself at him, arms around his shoulders and face buried in his neck. God, the world feels so wonderful right now. Vilkas holds you to his chest, relief slowly ridding him of those nerves until he's practically giddy - you've agreed to marry him.

[redundantz]

Ancient Loz AU Story

10,000 years before the events of BOTW the Princess of Hyrule and the Hero who wields the sword that seals the Darkness first fought off the Calamity. With the help of the Sheikah, Guardians, Champions and the Divine Beasts. However, the hero and her best friend; the Prince of the Gerudo, were now missing. The only one to return from the fight was the Princess… Bloodied and bruised. She emerged from the castle alone. No longer the energetic, and free spirited person she used to be. Now, she is filled with a sole dedication to her Kingdom. But cold, and filled with deep sorrow. She orders the Sheikah to create shrines to train the next hero.They prepare the towers, store the Guardians under the castle till they are needed. Research started on the slate where it can be used for building infrastructure and even battle. Anything to help prepare for another Calamity.

The Gerudo Prince wasn't seen again and the heroes identity was forgotten But, the Royal blood of Hylia lives on….

Link is from a traveling caravan. His family has blood from the ancient Zonai tribe. He travels with a decent size troupe along with his sister, father and grandmother.

He meets Zelda during a festival where he was entering an archery contest in castletown. Zelda, who was disguised as Sheik, was also entering. She beat him at the contest(barely), but was extremely bothered by how good he was.

The festival goes on for about 3 days and at the end there is the sword ceremony where all the people coming of age(18) can attempt to pull the sword. She was presiding over it and witnessed him pull the sword and his whole life change. Not long after they meet officially and Link is appointed as her Knight; She introduces him to Ganondorf, her best friend from childhood.

And the chaos and comrade-ere ensues~

Over 3 years they travel, train, fall in love and wait for the day when the evil is supposed to show itself. With no sign of the great evil, they start to relax a bit. But that is when it strikes. Ganon travelling by himself at this time. Explores a cave in the Gerudo desert and encounters something ominous. Whispers in the dark speak to him and his fears and wants and his distaste for the King of Hyrule…. The voice is familiar, much too familiar, and before he can fight back it consumes him. When he awakes he is alone. He isn't instantly ‘evil’ but over time it twists his thoughts and actions. His closest friends and mother grow concerned. He becomes harsher and radical. Cruel. During a secret meeting with the King, Ganon assassinates him. Zelda happens upon Ganon covered in blood. She thinks he's hurt and is concerned by his behavior the past year. He snaps. He tells her every dark thing he has been thinking, and that he killed her father. In shock, and devastated, she can’t move as Ganon is about to strike her. But Link manages to get to her in time because the master sword was glowing, something he has never seen before but an instinct so old took over him. He races to escape with her. Ganon takes over the castle. But only as a steward because the King and the Princess are nowhere to be found. No one is the wiser to his malevolent plots. Yet. He knows she has to act fast since Zelda and Link escaped.

Zelda and Link make it all the way to Kakariko Village and Impa and they are all Informed that the Calamity is upon them. No one can believe it is their Ganondorf who is doing this but it is undeniable. They grieve, but they must act fast. With the help of the Sheikah they gather the guardians, monks and send word to the Races and Champions to prepare for battle. Zelda listens as Link hums an old Zonai Lullaby his mother used to sing to him. And it makes her remember something she read about. A story about there being an ancient Zonai device below the castle that would help defeat the Demon King.

Impa knows the tunnels She can help them sneak in. So they prepare to infiltrate the castle.

Under the castle they find the Zonai Artifacts that were left behind for sealing the great evil.

Ganon's followers saw them enter however and informed him. Knowing this is his chance he stops all pretenses and releases his power. Unleashing a mob of monsters and a cloud of malace into the castle and across Hyrule. But the Champions and Shekah are prepared to meet them.

Looking around for any clue. Trying to think of anything they read or that Link heard from his family that could be used to turn on the sealing jewelry. They don’t know how to activate it, but Ganon is going to be upon them soon as they had to fight through hordes of monsters beforehand.

Out of the dark behind them he emerges.

Zelda and Link manage to avoid the surprise attack. They both go on the defensive. They fight and try to reason with him. They can’t believe this is their friend, their lover. The fight is tough, because they all know each other's moves after training together for years along with the emotional turmoil. Zelda tells Link he needs to figure out how to activate the artifact if they are to succeed. She will hold him off. But by this point they are both exhausted.

Ganon manages to cut Link, spraying blood over the floor and the statue. Link falls to the floor and Ganon towers over him ready to strike him down, but Zelda blasts him away. Ganon turns his attention to her. Annoyed with her meddling and manages to land a blow on her also. Cutting the tip of her right ear off.

The statue lights up from the blood. The blood of a zonai. That  was another part of the Lullaby from Links family Zelda realizes. The Jewelry glows and expands before flying off the wrists of the statue to Link. He is surrounded by a green glowing light that blasts Ganon and Zelda back. The bands constrict around his arms and legs disintegrating the clothing underneath. He screams. Zelda watches on in horror as Link transforms before her. His skin is turning black and his bones and skin stretch until he is 6 ft tall. What did she get him into? This was supposed to help them what was happening… She is living in a nightmare. What else will she have to give up. She cries as she looks at him, feeling his pain and fear. His hair band she had given him falls from his hair. Rolling across the floor towards her. “..Zelda….” He says 

She picks up the hair band and goes to him! But he is not really responding. He is restrained and struggling within himself. His head is filled with the spirits of the Zonai he knows what he must do…he knows this is the last time he will see Zelda and Ganon. To seal the Demon King he must sacrifice himself. He says the last part of the Lullaby to Zelda and she knows. This is it. She kisses him. Though a bit strange now that he's so tall and his lips are cold. Ganon is getting up across the cavern from them, laughing. He mocks them and their weak attempts at thwarting him. One last clash. Zelda manages to get his weapon from him and Link plunges his arm into Ganons chest activating the sealing power. Glowing green. They both freeze in place and all is quiet. Entombed under the castle. The malice and monsters disappear. Zelda cautiously goes up to them. She doesn't touch them lest she break the spell somehow. The only thing she does is grab the hair bangle that fell to the floor in the final fight. It was the one from Ganon’s hair. And she left for the surface.

Alone.

Thanks for Reading! <3

[lagertha-lothbrok]

As dusk falls on the land, Lagertha prepares herself for the ritual to seek protection from the Gods for the journey and battle to come in Irland. After cleansing herself in the river, she dons a white gown while one of her shield maidens works on placing braids in her hair. Lagertha applies kohl around her eyes and draws some runes on her cheeks. She dabs her finger in a small jar of gold paint tracing a line from her bottom lip down past her chin.

Ragnar and some of her men prepared an area for the ritual to take place. Lining a circle with torches with a central spot for the ritual to be preformed. Lagertha thinks about asking Finan to preform the sacrifice, but she isn’t sure if he would feel comfortable with that. Although it would give him a closer connection to the Gods, if that is what he is seeking. Björn fetches the falcata blade sword that will be used to make the sacrifice.

When she steps out of the Hall, people are already gathered to witness the ceremony. Danes and Northmen alike. They have created a path for her and her assistants for the ritual. As she walks to the center, Björn carries the sword that will be used for the sacrifice, and one of her shield maidens carries some wooden bowls to collect the blood that will be shed. Uhtred leads the goat on a leash. Lagertha as well as some of her people softly sing a song in their native language to honor their Gods. The glow of the torches against the waning light of the day, brings a reverence to the assembly.

The men following Lagertha join her in the center of the circle. Uhtred doing his best to keep the goat calm, until it is time to make the sacrifice. Lagertha starts her invocation to the Gods.

“Thor, God of Thunder and strength, we summon you. We offer this sacrifice in your name. I call upon you to offer us your protection and strength as we travel to Irland to seek vengeance against those who have trespassed against us. I seek your protection and strength for the shield maiden, Revna, as she is held captive by those who wish her harm. Guide our swords and shield us from harm as we go against our enemies…. With the blood of this sacrifice we beseech you to walk by our sides as we strike down our enemies and reunite with our lost love one.”

When Lagertha finishes, she looks over at Finan, standing amongst the other witnesses. There is a softness in her eyes as she looks at the Irishman. “Would you like to do the honors?” She softly asks, with no judgment in her voice if he declines. 

Her shield maidens stand at the ready to collect the blood in the wooden bowls resting in their hands, that they will then dip their fingers into and smear lines on their faces to honor their Gods.

@thedarkprinceofulaid @askuhtredragnarson @asksihtrickjartansen

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