#that barbarian can count

[chibishortdeath]

Ok, I’m sick of seeing only Netflix posts lately so I’m ranting about Simon lol

Unfortunately I had some nice paragraphs written for this but tumblr crashed while I was writing so this is my second time making this post (TwT)

TL;DR with the rant under a cut for easy scrolling, I am deranged and have studied all of Simon’s outfits, here’s some fun tidbits and I guess kinda a guide about his fashion sense :3

Oh boy, where to start XD. Castlevania has a lot of intricately detailed usually gothic and/or visual kei inspired fashion designs, usually with some amount of historical accuracy, thanks to Ayami Kojima, that the series is known for. But before this, the character design style was very different. From the very 90s shonen anime inspired Richter, to Christopher being deadass shirtless in a skirt at one point, to John Morris being in basically casual clothes, there’s a lot of variety in it.

Well, being the silly Simon super fan I am, I’ve studied all his outfits a ton over the years I’ve been a fan of the series and oh boy they are INTERESTING :3. I’ve noticed a lot of elements are consistently reoccurring, specific to him, and some are very much not specific to him lol. Anyway, just trust me on this one, overanalyzing the closet of an NES barbarian to be able to make new outfits for him is FUN >:3c.

So, I’ve seen him not wearing pants thrown around as a joke before, but it’s actually the truth! Besides the Haunted Castle wedding suit (an outlier that should not be counted lol), I actually have never run into a design where Simon is wearing full length, proper pants. The closest he ever gets is black tights in Simon’s Quest and occasionally shorts, but on that topic, shorts aren’t even his most common choice! Let’s look at some of his oldest designs:

This one is really hard to tell, but based on the angle of the lines, the shadows, and context clues from other art for CV1, I don’t know if that’s actually supposed to be shorts 💀💀💀!

In both his cute little manual doodles and his almost more adorable teeny 8-bit sprite, his outfit is a belted tunic of some sort! So like, the equivalent of a really tiny dress or a long shirt XD. And really, his cover art design is kinda just a more detailed version of these. They both have a distinction between a top and bottom part of the upper half, they both have big belts, they both have the tall boots and arm guards, they both have teeny skirt part, and Fun Fact! They both have red in the hair! I color picked a nice high res scan of the CV1 cover art, and yes, there’s red in his hair!!! It’s like a nice mix of dark reddish blond, it’s a very fun hair color :3.

However, that’s not where CV1 ends in tunic vs shorts debate:

THAT’S A SKORT— DO YOU SEE THAT DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE HALVES, ONE IS DEFINITELY A PANTLEG LMAO. So yeah, skort Simon is also a thing thanks to this particular magazine scan lol, thus leaving us with the possibility that it is both a skirt and shorts on the CV1 cover that he’s wearing X,,,,D. Never change, Simon, never change.

Besides the tunic, there’s some other interesting details to his CV1 era designs! :D In a lot of depictions he has this neat cape, something that returns in some Simon’s Quest art and Smash Bros lol, but he’s never shown wearing it in game. What’s interesting is that Trevor actually gets a cape in his game’s opening as well as Christopher in Belmont’s Revenge if I’m remembering correctly. It’s very neat seeing Simon character design details rubbing off into other characters :3. I like to think lore wise that it’s the same cape that’s been passed down to Simon from those two.

He also has the headband! Iconic! But have you noticed the little ball shapes at the ends of the tails? They’re either knots or, infinitely cooler option, beads :D!!!!!!! And I wouldn’t be surprised if they were because that leads me to another design: X68000–

Now this one is one of my favorites :3. It’s kinda like a forward facing version of his original design but with some new details! And his headband gets this cool lookin, intricate distinctly metallic design on it, something I’ve seen a lot of artists simplify to a general crescent moon shape. But it is kinda similar to the shape on his belt buckle, something that I still have no idea what it’s even supposed to be. Also, his arm guards and the thing at the end of his necklace (which may or may not have vampire teeth on it, they could just be metal spikes though) are similar; it makes me wonder if it was an attempt at a tortoiseshell pattern? Filigree? Whatever it is, they’re all matchy matchy about it.

This design also gives him the staple left shoulder pauldron, of which has these huge stitches holding it on and an added belt that connects to his other belt armor. Get used to belts, he has a lot of those X,,,D. What’s really neat about this one’s belt is that he has both a hilt for the family sword but also one for the whip on the other side, and they’re on the wrong sides for drawing the weapon properly 💀💀💀💀. Which is also funny considering his CV1 cover art has the sword on the other side, which is kinda wrong too? Who knows, maybe he’s ambidextrous and just doesn’t care what sides they’re on lol.

The biggest thing I can say about this design though is that a lot of these accessories and armor pieces look homemade, like as if he just took teeth as a trophy himself and strung them on a cord or made a shoulder piece and put it on an already existing belt he had. Adding onto this, there’s also the possible beads on his headband and the cords around his boots (which could be an attempt at a certain actual historical type of shoe that I cannot remember the name of for the life of me rn, in which case would make these not boots and actually corded shoes with very nice big fluffy socks hehe, I am forcing you to imagine him with big fluffy socks—) and yeah! I can see him making his stuff on his own :3. Which is so cool! I love this idea so much, it makes for a lot of things to imagine him doing hehe. Also gives him a hobby??? Yeah :)

No indication of if he’s got shorts or not in this one, maybe I’ll count how many have skirts or shorts and put that at the end of this lol.

But shorts get another point again cause we’re looking at Chronicles:

Oh Chronicles. Well, the first thing I wanna mention is that, this is Ayami Kojima’s design for him, so here we are seeing a very interesting mix of the visual kei style and 80s barbariancore in a way that honestly slays (figuratively and literally). And, surprisingly, there is something historically accurate about this design, and it’s not what you’d probably expect. Based on the width, material, cross rivets, and the buckle on the front, Simon is wearing an actual dog collar. Like, for dogs. Like it’s dog armor used primarily for hunting dogs I just— Again, never change Simon, never change 💀💀💀.

We also see Simon preferring to put his armor on his left side again with the torn in half coat. It’s also somewhat similar to 1600s coats, not really of any specific country in fashion that I can tell, however the sleeve being that short is not accurate, leading me to believe that he probably tore that off too lol. Very Chrom Fire Emblem of you, Simon, and another example of him D.I.Y.—ing things. The basic elements still stay similar to past designs. Shorts, distinct upper and lower half of shirt, belts, armor on said belt, sword and whip hilts, arm armor and tall boots (shout out to the heels on this one), and armor on the left, unfortunately no headband though. But that distinct bottom half to the shirt part of his outfit in this one is defined with… a corset? Yeah!!! That’s a corset!!! Though the proper name for the time period might be a stay or a girdle, but Simon is straight up wearing a belt over a corset. And said corset over a coat. Half of one. Don’t question him—

But the main entries to his 80s bara-barian half of the wardrobe, let’s get to some knightly aesthetic outfits, of which he does have a good amount, starting with SCV4:

Simon’s knightly outfits are usually a similar silhouette as his original tunic look, just in metal this time and in various colors. SCV4 has his armor as gold on the cover, blue on the Japanese cover and manual art, and green in game! And they’re all pretty much the same with mild variations. On the cover art, his shoes are corded sandals with nothing under them, but in game and in most other artwork they are these metallic boots with the classic X shape of the cords baked into them. Some art gives his middle belt armor section this cross with snakes on it, which is an odd thing to be referencing here. It’s either a staff of Mercury, usually associated now with medicine but was an alchemical symbol before that, or something else I can’t find any info on. There’s also a big ab window because these are all proper half shirts lol. Straight up a metal breastplate with nothing under it, a pretty bad idea tbh 💀.

All in all, these are generally really simple, but there’s one more thing before I stop talking about SCV4:

I LOVE this design. It’s this really nice blend of the older CV1 era style and the metal armor of the later ones, very cool. Shout out to the eye creases and the dead stare shadow over his eyes too, they really conveyed the effects of witnessing the horrors well lmaoooo.

Again, tunic, belt, arm guards, headband, the usual, but, speaking of symbols, there’s something about this one that’s been driving me nuts forever: I cannot find out what that symbol on his paldrons and belt buckle is!!! It’s this upside down triangle with a bent rectangle missing the bottom line over it and it LOOKS distinctly intentional, but I can’t find it or what it means anywhere!!! I tried searching through lists of alchemical symbols, religious symbols, nothing so far has been close (TwT ). Regardless, great design, definitely in my top 5.

And what else is in my top five? Oh yeah babey, it’s Simon’s Quest time:

Ah, Simon’s Quest with his fuck ass bob and the stolen Ravenloft image— but unironically, that armor fucks fr. Again, similar silhouette! If there’s any take aways from this post, it’s definitely that Simon is a little shirt, little pants kind of guy. A severe lack of long sleeves and long pants legs until now, and even then, these are skin tight. Heck even his boots(????) are vacuum sealed, just look at those fabric creases by his ankle!

Now, it’s honestly really hard to tell if his “gloves” and “boots” are supposed to be in some parts metal due to the shading on them and the base armor being very similar. I personally like to depict the forearm and calf parts as metal and the hand and ankle parts as not, but eh. Like most things regarding Simon, I suppose this too is up to interpretation XD. There’s some variation in color in some scans having the underclothes be white, dark blue, or black, and the armor be any range of red to purple to brown too. But towards red and black is probably the most accurate due to his sprite being those colors.

But this is a shockingly rare case of Simon being fully covered in one of his outfits, and I’m inclined to think that there’s probably a reason for that. Not only does he have a rotting curse right now and drawing straight up gore on the cover of an NES game was just not an option lol, but he’s not letting his guard down anymore after being hit. Which would also explain the sudden change to all metal armor as that can’t be cut through as easily as leather.

Speaking of all metal armor, oh I looooove the detailing on his. The gold accents to his byzantine (a nice in between color of red and purple, a color that is also reused in Smash Bros again in the middle corset section of his outfit) are what I would call stylized floral patterns, kinda in the way that fleur de les don’t really look exactly like flowers but still are supposed to represent one. Not sure what kind exactly, but possibly some sort type of angel’s trumpet? Very neat regardless. The gems inlaid in it are all green on top and around the belt, but the center belt buckle is bright red. It’s a very jewel tones color scheme!!!

Well anyway, if tumblr will let me have more images, I’d like to show off a few other random examples of outfit elements he’s had before I close this off with something :3

This was a pretty recently found scan of Simon wearing get this: a pleated miniskirt. Probably Roman armor inspired, as some of his other magazine scans have depicted him as such. One ad for SCV4 and another (live action even) for Simon’s Quest has him even wearing like a Roman helmet and everything, it’s odd. Add helmets to the list of things Simon might wear. Hmm maybe I should make a tier list of things based on how often he’s worn them…

Moving on!

This one goes for the bold choice of giving Simon not only an expected tiny belted tunic, but side slits on the legs! And uh um a little too much detail but uh— It’s also this kinda white, kinda bluish, kinda silverish color? Add this to Simon’s color palette I guess lol.

Which reminds me that I didn’t mention colors very much until now whoops. Throughout all of hie designs he primarily seems to wear neutrals like various browns, greys, and metal tones. But he also has a lot of color. Like as in there’s enough different colored designs to make a whole rainbow of Simon outfits. Common combinations like dark green, gold, and wine reds; blue and silver; brown, gold, orange, and kinda purplish greys; etc etc. And his HAIR. Oh boy, would this guy love modern hair dye X,,,,,D. He’s had it various blonds, reds, browns, even black at one point, blue, green, unnatural red, pink, and in one concept design white! Personally, I like depicting it as a nice in between of red, blond, and brown, it encompasses the most I think.

The final thing I wanna mention is the Smash Bros design, which I unfortunately can’t show because I’m on mobile and have met the 10 images limit whoopsie— (_ _ ;). This design is really a good culmination of a lot of elements. Not really definitive or anything, but very good :3. And it has something I didn’t mention earlier that I’ve noticed in some Simon designs: random belts or metal around his upper arms and thighs lol. The Smash Bros design in particular has the arm band things on both sides, Chronicles has it on the not half coat one, but this is another thing I’ve seen other characters (Christopher in particular, but his are just gold rings) have. The leg thing is less common, but yeah, that exists lol. Thank you Simon for uh bending two pieces of metal around your leg…? It’s cool XD. The corset also makes a return, as well as, once more, the same basic silhouette with the armor only on the left side, the belt armor pieces, etc etc. He’s very particular about that—

Well, anyway, Simon definitely has a vibe going on, but here’s a brief summary of things he seems to like:

Skirts, tunics, long shirts, and shorts (and skorts I guess), but nothing past about half his thigh, generally over the knees.

No long sleeves or pant legs (unless it’s tights when absolutely necessary).

Armor primarily to the left, unless it’s metal, in that case usually a full plate or paldron set.

Belts, hilts, belts on his arms, and neck, and hanging off of things, and legs, yeah belts—

Boots/tall socks, corded or not, and something on his forearms or wrists.

Headband! Seriously out of every Belmont he is the most dedicated to these lol.

Necklaces and beads and other little accessories and adornments are also cool.

Alrighty then, have fun Simon-ing and I encourage you to look through his or other characters’ designs and pick them apart a bit sometimes, even if it’s just through what’s on the wiki :3. If anything, I think it’s a good exercise in character design and consistency! But yeah, I wrote all this late at night and can’t think of anything else rn. If I do I’ll do a sequel I guess hehe. Either that or I might rant about another character hmmmmmmm—

#oh god I am sleepy #how the hell did I rant about Simon clothes for uh three hours uhhhh— #castlevania #castlevania games #castlevania chronicles #castlevania x68000 #x68000 #Castlevania 4 #scv4 #super castlevania iv #castlevania ii #castlevania ii: simon's quest #castlevania simon’s quest #simon's quest #Castlevania 1 #Castlevania nes #akumajo dracula #akumajou dracula #simon belmont #text post #incoherent rambling #does this count as character analysis #eh let’s just throw it into the theory posting tag #theory posting #analysis posting #but fr tho like it is so fun making him clothes #my dumbass wants to learn how to sew just so I can make a Simon plushie and then make him little outfits #barbarian man I am forcing you to match with me no if ands or buts— #but it will be within your boundaries and likes and nothing that would be uncomfortable :3 #I also love how this is just an extremely long rant all just to say ‘he doesn’t wear pants or long sleeve shirts’ help me 💀💀💀

[clownstho]

His name is Dissiac. He got dressed up fancy for this.

#thoth.art #digital art #digital painting #sketch #artist on tumblr #black artist #i swear i'm my own characters biggest fans like why do i make them so pretty #i literally control the pen i should know what i'm getting into and yet #Half Orc #barbarian #dnd oc #anyway i love him and his nose. i made it a little piggy snout and all i can imagine is him going snorksnorksnorksnork #let me count the ways in which i adore hogmen:

[suguru-getos]

just some over-affectionate yan!sato blabbering

yandere satoru hasn't really snapped at you, he just doesn't. always playful, always an embodiment. waking you up with peppers of kisses, making sure you have your favorite breakfast, making sure you relax around him. he even indulges in your silly little hobbies, all for the sake of making his baby comfortable. if you like painting, he is going to buy you all the colors there are, premium quality canvas boards and everything you'd ever need to bring your imaginations into reality. digital art? then you have an ipad with procreate and a pencil, anything and everything you need.

he doesn't say it but he is extremely observant, he even notices things like your skincare before you were kidnapped, and goes out of his way to upgrade it if needed. he can be a little pesky at times. what if his baby is using the wrong skin-care? probably going to fly you to the skin and beauty land 'korea' to have your skin checked, and then buy you the 'recommended' skincare.

same with aesthetics, you like wearing a certain type of fits, you have them littered in your closet room. he prefers changing styles and wouldn't mind upgrading/donating your wardrobe when you're also bored with the same ol' things.

your room is a mixture of everything you are, and trinkets of satoru in it. you are really not allowed to sleep in your room though. it's your space, just your happy corner. it doesn't have a bed. it has plush couches that are better than most beds, neon-light which speaks of your name and scented candles, perfect desks with the perfect desk mats. you just need to sleep with satoru.

he gets specifically testy when you really don't want to give him company at times. why? hasn't he done enough? most people would kill to be in your place. that's when you can see the cracks in his carefully calibrated persona he harbors for you.

he is usually very mellow, clingy and would be so playful you often forget how strong he is. "baby- but i want cuddles!" satoru whined, pulling you close to him while you squirmed when you weren't in the mood. satoru hasn't really pushed himself sexually, but he treats you like a pet in other stances. meaning - if not huggable why so cute? so you can't really escape from him during those times.

if you really, really try hard. his laughter, soft eyes, all of it drops. the usual high-pitched excitement too... "i will count to three. if you don't really come to me, there would be consequences." you haven't really checked on what the consequences are because that sets you straight instantly.

satoru HATES when you fear him, some part of him snaps so hard at that he ends up scaring you more. this happens when he's pissed about something and you flinch/wince at his tone. he hasn't done anything to make you scared... yet? though sometimes the way he comes home... reeking of dead curses, reeking of torment and torture. you automatically end up fearing him.

there was one time you took things too far, taking his leniency too far and going out without asking him. he hasn't locked the doors like a barbarian and you're making him question if he should... that's when he took you to one of his missions. shaking, quivering as you cling to him while the curse in front of you begged for death, for being exorcised while satoru made sure it healed and then continued his torture. blaming it on you as you sobbed, anxiety and palpitations all over you. "see, this is what i do... when you don't behave. you cause pain from me to others." he just wants you to know he is/can be fucked up.

would eventually feel extremely bad when you throw up from the gore and anxiety and finish the job, bringing you home and forcing you in his arms, crying with you at how bad it makes him feel to see you like this. how he would kill himself than making you cry, though a part of him is grateful that you wouldn't really go against him for a long, long while.

whenever any action done by him fucks you up, satoru takes responsibility of undoing it. even if sometimes he needs to make sure you stay with him, no matter the consequences... he would try his best to make up for it. always pestering, always kissing you, praising you for being so good to him even if you're not, behaving like an ideal boyfriend to the point where even you start suspecting if the problem is you.

he loves so sickeningly hard you end up deluded enough to consider yourself the 'toxic' one. :3

#gojo satoru #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo imagines #gojo hcs #jjk imagines #jjk hcs #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #gojo fluff

[justauthoring]

that cherished feeling.

it's a feeling you've never felt before, but bakugou shows you just how wonderful it can feel.

a/n: this is the longest oneshot i've ever written and ive been working on this for like a week lol. i really hope you guys enjoy this :)) i love fantasy au's and specifically (1) barbarian!bakugou!

pairing: barbarian!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

word count: 8,010

warnings: parental abuse, death

“Make sure she looks decent enough for him.”

With a frown, you keep your gaze held ahead even as you’re pulled and tugged in all directions without a single care for your own wellbeing. You know to keep silent, hands held tightly before yourself to stop the violent shaking that overwhelms your body caused by the fear that strikes you deep in the heart.

“He’ll be here any moment,” your step-mother continues, voice cruel, “hurry up!” Her words are hissed at the maids that fret around you, bustling about as they pin your hair back and dust makeup across your face to hide the insecurities your mother refuses to let him see. They’ve been at it for hours now, or at least it feels that way, and you’re tired of being poked and prodded at all for the sake of a man who will probably kill you the second he’s done using you.

They’re barbaric..

They fuck and kill and pillage anything within sight.

They’re monsters.

You’ve heard these whispers around the castle your entire life, maids tucked into corners whispering amongst themselves, the cruel words your step-mother has spat to her council plenty of times. Your entire life you’ve heard about how horrible the Adroghar’s are, that they came into power and nobility by killing Kings, Queens, Princes and Princess’ of different lands, stealing money and destroying villages. 

Your entire life, you’ve been terrified of them.

And now, today, you were about to be married off to one – in other words, sold.

Have you heard? The Queen means to sell Y/N off to the King of the Adroghar tribe!

To Bakugou Katsuki? Isn’t he said to be the most ruthless King they’ve ever had in power?

He’ll kill her. Or worse. Certainly.

If it’s for our safety though, I can’t say I care much…

Yes. Our Queen is doing her best to keep us all safe.

Your step-mother has hated you since the day you were born. You were a constant, living, breathing reminder of your father’s indecency towards her and the second he’d died when you were two, she’s made it her goal to remind you of this fact every day of your life. You’ve been beaten, starved, locked away and treated like garbage by every single person you’ve ever known.

You’ve never felt love. Never felt warmth.

Not a single person has ever cared for you.

And now, to stop the Adroghar tribe from trampling on your land, your step-mother has sold you off to appease them. You had no say just like you never have.

“They’re here!”

A knight comes running into the room, flustered as he calls for your mother’s attention. His words make your entire being freeze, breath caught in the back of your throat as the fear makes your muscles tense.

“The Adrogharian tribe is here!”

Everything else happens in the blink of an eye–you’re forced to move, pulled by hands that grip and pinch at you, your corset tightened around your waist and a sheer shawl draped over your face to cover you from view. Before you know it you’re being led into the main hall where quickly the sound of boisterous chatter echoes and bounces around. You keep your head dipped down as your mother ordered you to, hands clasped politely before you as your nails dig and pinch into your skin.

The second the large doors slam behind you, you know your fate is sealed if it hadn’t already been.

Maybe you could’ve run. Maybe you could’ve tried to fight.

But you know it would’ve ended the same either way.

This is how it’s been your entire life.

Your mother stands directly in front of you, blocking you from view, but you let yourself slowly peek upward, through your lashes. You see the tenseness of your mother’s back as she moves to greet your guests, before slowly letting your eyes drift to who will soon be your husband. Katsuki Bakugou. He’s been the King of the Adroghar tribe for a few years now, having taken over after his mother passed–and since then has made quite a name for himself for being one of the most ruthless and cruel Kings to ever grace the Adroghar tribe.

Considering their record of ruthlessness, this fact scared you even more.

He’s tall, buff with wide shoulders and large hands. His hair is a light blonde that sticks out in every direction, unruly on his head and yet it suits his red, piercing eyes that seem as they penetrate your very sole. He’s wearing a cloak lined with fur, his neck decorated with necklaces with what you can only assume is teeth. The fashion of the Adroghar tribe is very different from the customs of your people, as he wears only trousers and no shirt, showing the world his chiseled chest.

He’s both intimidating and terrifying.

“Ah, King Bakugou,” your step-mother calls out, bowing slowly. It’s odd to see your step-mother bend for another, but you also know she’s deathly afraid of the man before her; given that they had the ability to completely wipe all of you out. “Thank you for making the long trip this way.”

Bakugou regards her with narrowed eyes, shoulders set back as he grunts out; “what’s this offer you have for me?”

Your eyes widen, hands clutching your skirt–he didn’t know?

Letting out a nervous laugh, your step-mother nods; “I heard you have yet to take a wife, my King.”

You watch, best you can see, as his lips set into a thin line. “Our traditions are different from your own,” he hisses, “but… yes. I have not.”

“Well, then, my Bakugou, I offer you my daughter in return for the safety of our Kingdom.”

She steps back then, and you tense, nails digging into the palm of your hands hard enough to draw blood as you raise your head just slightly. Bakugou’s eyes fall on you then, narrowed and dark as he regards you, and feels as if he’s peering into your very soul as you stare back at him then.

“Let me see her face.” Bakugou calls, gesturing for you to step forward.

You move to do so, but you can’t get your feet to work. You’re paralyzed with fear, you realize somewhere along the way–terrified of this man in front of you and the men that linger around him, laughing, cheering, all staring at you with the same leering look that fills your stomach with knots and makes it hard to breathe.

You catch your step-mothers gaze when you don’t move and she’s looking at you with wild panic as she gestures for you to step forward.

You can’t.

“Is she mute or just stupid?” Bakugou hisses.

Your eyes widen, and you feel like you might puke.

Your step-mother’s hand is wrapping around your arm in the next second, grip pinching, yanking you forward as a small yelp leaves your lips in response. You’re thrown, losing your footing as you come crashing to your knees directly in front of the King, your step-mother yanking the shawl off of your head in the next second and a new sense of vulnerability washes over you.

Your step-mother had adorned you in incredibly revealing clothing, more skin than you’ve ever shown on display for all of these leering men to see.

Too afraid to raise your head, you let out a whimper, curling into yourself.

You realize your actions could have you killed but you’re too afraid to care.

I’m going to be killed anyway… raped and then killed. What does any of it matter?

A minute passes and then slowly, Bakugou shifts in front of you. Before you know it, he’s kneeling in front of you, and terror strikes at you when you notice his arm move out of the corner of your eyes, flinching, expecting to be hit or worse, maybe he’s reaching for his sword to kill you–but, neither of that happens. You don’t feel pain or a slap across your cheek, instead, the touch is light and gentle despite his coarse skin as Bakugou gently clasps your jaw, moving your gaze upwards and on his own.

It’s the first time you’ve met his gaze head on, but oddly, his eyes don’t seem so intimidating this close.

He stares at you for a moment, a deep frown etched on his face, before his gaze raises, past you and onto your step-mother.

“Do you always treat your own family like this?”

Your eyes widen. Did he just–

“Bu-but my King, she wouldn’t–”

He scoffs, not even letting her finish and your step-mother falls eerily silent as he does. It’s like his entire personality had changed in the split second you’d been thrown to the ground. He shifts, his hands moving to grab you by the arm, but his grip is gentle, just tight enough to pull you up to your feet. You let him, confused and baffled by what was happening, as your arms curl around you to cover yourself, letting him guide you behind him as you turn to face your step-mother.

You don’t see it, too focused on her harsh gaze on you, but something warm is wrapped around your shoulders a moment later and your eyes fall on Bakugou with parted lips as he clasps his cloak around your neck. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are soft as you grab his cloak gently, gripping the material close to yourself as the warmth envelops you. 

Bakugou turns to face your step-mother, his face dark and his words menacing. “I should have your head for that.”

Her eyes bulge, as do yours—you can’t believe what you’re hearing. You can’t believe what’s happening. Never once has anyone stood up for you, and the last person you ever thought that would was the man you’d been sold to. A barbarian. A monster.

Yet, despite everything you’ve been told your entire life, he didn’t didn’t seem like a monster to you at that moment.

Your step-mother sputters over her words, indignation flooding her as she stares back at Bakugou. Then, her eyes drift to yours, gaze cold and steely and you know in that moment, like everything else she’s felt has gone wrong, she blames you entirely.

“She’s just the daughter of a measly prostitute!” Your step-mother bellows, eyes crazed as she loses her composure, voice echoing across the suddenly silent hall. No one says a word as she stands there, huffing with rage. Even Bakugou’s men have fallen eerily silent. 

“She’s just the baby of a whore with not a single claim to the throne,” she laughs, hand reaching out to point towards you. “I was giving you to her as a ruse! She’s nothing more than scum on the underside of my shoe.”

The silence echoes and drags.

It feels like hours of agonizing anticipation as not a single person says anything. You can’t see Bakugou’s face but yours is burning red with the humiliation of your truth being spilled out to everyone, most of all Bakugou. Your step-mother has spent her life reminding you, never once letting you live without hearing similar words in the back of your mind. It wasn’t like your people didn’t know either—maids had spent their life leering down at you and knights had laughed at you anytime you’d drifted past them.

But it’s a new sort of humiliation having it be said in front of Bakugou and his men. 

A minute later, but it feels like eternity, Bakugou finally steps forward. It’s one single step, his wide back thoroughly blocking your view of your step-mother in front of you. It’s one step but he’s standing right in front of your mother, close enough to touch her.

“You should know,” Bakugou starts slowly, voice low. “That your background isn’t a matter of concern in the Adroghar tribe. We don’t care if you’re born from a whore or nobility.”

Your face eases, staring at his bare back.

Then, in the next second, he shifts. It feels like you blink and you miss it. There’s a flash of something red and then the thud of something falling to the ground, before your eyes lower and fall on the head of your step-mother, severed from the rest of her body. Her now lifeless eyes stare back at you, lips left parted from her attempt to scream before Bakugou beheaded her—but she never got the chance. 

“Kill the rest of them,” Bakugou orders, turning to face you, a streak of blood across his cheek.

Everyone?

He wanted to kill everyone?

“Here!”

Small hands are thrust in your face, gripping onto the delicate, beautifully made flower crown and behind the hands, rest a beaming face, staring up at you with twinkling eyes.

“For the princess.”

But– the children…

“P-Please!” You’re speaking before you realize it, your voice squeaking in panic as you step towards Bakugou. Your arm pulls out from beneath the large, heavy cloak he’d draped over you seconds ago, meeting his eyes imploringly. “The v-villagers! The children! Please, spare them.”

Bakugou turns to you, shocked eyes falling on you.

You take his expression as one of anger and with a cry, you fall to your knees, holding your hands out before you. “Please, my K-King. Spare the villagers. They’re… they’re innocent.”

A moment of silence passes. Your face is turned towards the ground, forehead all but pressed against the cold stoned floor, shaking as flashes of that sweet, innocent little girl smiling at you surface in your mind. They don’t deserve to die. You don’t care about the rest of them–not your mother who laid dead and beheaded a few feet in front of you and not the maids or the guards who have leered and laughed and tortured you your entire life. But the villagers–the children don’t deserve to die.

“Spare the villagers,” Bakugou orders, and your eyes widen, the beige of the floor flooding your vision. “But kill the rest.”

He–

“Stand up.” Hands fall on your arms, tugging you back to your feet as you stare at Bakugou bewildered. His face is blank, but there’s a hint of something in his eyes you just can’t quite make out. “If you are to be my Queen, I cannot have you on your knees. Not for anyone, including me.”

It seems the customs of the Adroghar tribe are much different than your own, the thought occurs to you. But it isn’t this fact that baffles you. It’s the fact that he calls you his Queen…

He–he still wants to marry you?

“I was promised a bride,” Bakugou calls out, as if he’d heard your thoughts and it’s the first hint of a smile you see on his face as he glances down at you. “I intend to have one.”

-

You stare at the licks of the fire before you, eyes watching the dance of the flames that heat your cheeks.  

In the dead of the night, Bakugou’s men are as loud as ever. They cheer and laugh around the fire a few feet away from you, some bustling about as they feed the horses and make sure everything is in order for travel tomorrow. 

You’d all only travelled for a few hours before Bakugou had called for you all to stop for rest. His men had seemed confused and you yourself had expected to travel for longer given that it had still been quite bright out at the time–but Bakugou had just brushed off the questioning gazes of his men and had helped you off the horse you’d been riding with him. His grip was gentle as he guided you to your feet, ordered his men to prepare a fire for you and then left you there once it was done.

You hadn’t seen him since.

You held his cloak which was still wrapped around your shoulders tightly, your grip tight as every step that sounded just a little too close made you flinch. You were confused and dazed by the events of the day, still not even sure if you’d properly registered what had happened. Your step-mother was dead, murdered in front of you, and now the rest of your family and all of your servants are dead as well. 

You’d expected Bakugou to reject the marriage at the end of it all but…

I was promised a bride. I intend to have one.

And yet he’d said those words so softly, with an odd warmth to them. Yet, you’d be taken with him as he left your castle, the only home you’ve ever known, placed on his horse right in front of him and now staring at a fire in his people’s camp. Yet, you were meant to follow him all the way back to his home and marry him.

Just how has your life changed so much in such a short amount of time?

“Have you eaten anything?”

Gasping lightly at the voice, your head snaps upwards, wide eyes falling on Bakugou’s. He’s stepping towards you, a plate in his hands as he makes his way to sit beside you on the small cot his men had prepared for you. Your eyes watch as he moves, not having properly registered his question as he takes a seat directly beside you. His leg brushes against your own and you hug his cloak tighter to yourself, body tensing.

“Sorry,” he mumbles gruffly, having caught your reaction. He pulls his leg away and then holds the plate out in front of you. “Are you hungry?”

Your eyes dance across the food on the plate, puzzled by the sight. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

“All that’s… for me?”

Bakugou’s eyes flicker to the plate, raising a brow; “yes?”

“O-oh, thank you,” with shaky hands, you grab the plate, setting it down on your lap. You feel Bakugou’s eyes on you as you ponder what to try first. It’s not just the amount of the food on the plate, it looks much different than anything you’ve ever seen back at home. You may not have been fed much and whilst you usually were given scraps, you know that this is very different to the traditional food your people eat.

Tentatively, you reach out, taking a bit of it in between your fingers once you notice the lack of utensils and place it in your mouth. Instantly, you're hit with a wave of flavour you’ve never tasted before. Your eyes widen as the taste floods your entire mouth, eyes gleaming with delight as you let out a small moan without thinking.

Bakugou chuckles beside you.

Your eyes fall on him, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Never tried Adrograhian food before, I take it?”

You shake your head, “that and… well, I’ve never had something so… full of flavour.”

Bakugou blinks, the smile fading from his lips as you turn away, trying to ignore the look on his face as you place your attention back on the food. The two of you sit in silence as you eat the rest of the food, perhaps eating faster and bit more messier than Bakugou probably would’ve expected from you–but you’ve never tasted something so decedent nor had so much food to eat all for yourself. 

When he doesn’t punish you the first few times for shoving your mouth full, you figure it’s alright too.

“Thank you,” you call out to him once the food is done, your voice a soft whisper as you smile softly over at him. “Thank you.” You bow your head.

“There’s no need to do that,” Bakugou calls out in a rush, shaking his head. “You don’t… I won’t… hurt you.”

Blinking, you stare at him, lips left parted.

Distantly, you notice red across his cheeks but Bakugou is standing before you can get a better look, pushing himself to his feet before turning, back facing you. “Get some rest,” he grunts, “we have a long day of travel ahead of us tomorrow.”

You watch him walk off, watch as his back grows further and further away, until you’re once again left alone. Except, this time you don’t feel so lonely. 

A small smile curls onto your lips as his words echo in your mind.

I won’t hurt you.

-

Adroghar is beautiful and unlike anything you’ve ever heard.

You’re not sure what you expected, but tall, ornate buildings with intricate and detailed designs across them all are not what you expected. There’s people everywhere, bustling about, and cheers echo as Bakugou comes marching through with the rest of his men, smiles on their faces as they reach out towards him, celebrating his return.

It isn’t barbaric.

And it isn’t poor and littered and destroyed like you expected.

It’s… lively and warm and inviting.

“So, this is the famous daughter of Cassian Heinrich.”

The second Bakugou pulls you off his horse and sets you onto your feet, you’re grabbed by a pair of hands and pulled into a bright smiling face that beams back at you. It’s a woman, her eyes twinkling with delight and her skin pink and her hair the same colour. She’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, and you’re shocked, confused by this sudden demanding presence but yet, as you meet her eyes, there’s only warmth staring back at you.

“Oi,” Bakugou calls out, a hand resting on your shoulder as his other hand moves to the girl and yanks her back. “Don’t bombard her like that.”

“Whatever, Bakugou,” the woman scoffs, brushing him off with a wave of the hand.

Your eyes widen at the action–isn’t he the King?

Just who is this woman to regard him so casually?

You half expect Bakugou to kill her for her lack of respect towards him, but as your eyes flutter toward him, you’re bewildered as he simply just scoffs, a light smile on his head as he shakes his head.

“Mina,” Bakugou calls after a moment.

Mina. What a pretty name.

“Hm?” she hums, eyes flickering lazily to glance at him.

“Could you please help Y/N bathe and find some clothes for her to wear?” Bakugou calls out, gesturing to you. “Make sure to wash that shit off her face.”

You pause at his words, eyes flickering to the ground as you distantly reach towards your face. It wasn’t that you thought you were particularly beautiful, if anything, you’d always thought you were quite ugly and your mother had reminded you often that you were. But… but you’d hoped maybe Bakugou had thought differently.

That maybe he’d seen something in you.

Had the makeup your mother had put you made you look worse?

“You really don’t know how to talk to women, Bakugou,” Mina scoffs, stepping towards her as she pulls her arm, tucking you into her side. You stare at her, blinking, before glancing over at Bakugou who stares back, baffled. “Don’t worry,” Mina sings, smiling brightly at you as you slowly put your attention back on her. “Let’s get you bathed and cleaned, all right?”

You nod, slowly, staring back at Bakugou who watches you leave.

Oddly, you don’t want to leave his side.

-

Mina was chatty.

Very.

The entire time she bathes you, washes your face and hair and dresses you, she barely stops speaking.

It’s comforting, in an odd way. She fills in the silence where you can’t find the words, too overwhelmed by everything to know what to say. 

She’s gentle, too. Where the maids back home had pulled and prodded, sneering at you as they reluctantly helped bathed you–it was rare, only on special occasions where your mother needed you for appearances but you’d always dreaded it. They were cruel and harsh and mean and everything in between.

Mina is none of that.

You even smile as she tells you stories about Bakugou. Apparently the two of them have known each other since they were children–them and a few others that Mina tells you about and assures you’ll meet soon.

Once cleaned, dried and dressed, she politely excuses herself, assuring you Bakugou will arrive shortly. You’re left startled when she distantly informs you that it’s Bakugou’s room you’ve been led to but she’s gone before you can say anything otherwise, so, once again left alone, you take a seat on the edge of his bed, not sure what to do.

Your eyes drift across the room, but you don’t dare move.

His room is rather vacant but large. There’s a huge bed, fur carpets draped across the floors and the bed, some swords lined on the wall and a set of armor tucked away in the corner, along with a desk scattered with papers right across from you. It’s everything you would’ve expected from a man like Bakugou.

Still, it makes you feel like you learn just a little about him.

You jump as the door slams open, body freezing as Bakugou comes barelling in. There's a nasty look on his face and it’s like he doesn’t notice you as he strides right past you, throwing a piece of paper onto the desk across from the bed. Your entire body tenses, shoulders straightening as you hesitate, unsure if you should say something or not.

But before you can make the decision, Bakugou’s red, piercing eyes are on you.

However, in an instant, the anger in his eyes is gone. Instead, his gaze softens, eyes wide with pure shock at the sight of you.

“I… I told Mina to lead you to a spare room,” Bakugou explains, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

You move to stand; “I-I can leave–”

“No,” Bakugou calls out, crossing the distance between you in seconds as he reaches for you. You pause, not daring to move as his hand hovers in front of you, instinctively flinching–he halts the second you do, panicked. Your eyes meet his, and you stare, both of you silent, before your gaze flickers to his hand, and you nod.

His fingers brush against the skin of your cheek, eyes dancing across your face.

“You look… beautiful.”

It’s not what you expected. 

It never would’ve been what you expected.

No… no one has ever called you beautiful.

“They covered you with all that makeup,” he continues, voice soft. “But now that I can really see you… you’re beautiful, Y/N.”

Your eyes stare at his cheeks warming.

“You… you really think that?”

He frowns, “yes,” and there isn’t an ounce of doubt in his voice.

Tentatively, unsure, you raise your hand, setting it over his own. “No one has ever called me that before.”

“Beautiful?”

You nod.

The frown deepens, and Bakugou wants to say more but all he says instead is; “well, you are.”

You smile up at him. Soft, gentle and demure. But there’s so much feeling behind the smile, portraying every bit of emotion Bakugou has made you feel in the short amount of time you've been with him.

“Thank you.”

And he stares back, unsure of the feelings coursing through him–he’d had every intention of denying your mother’s proposal, of slaughtering them all and you included. When he’d first seen you, he’d scoffed at the sight of you, dressed in fine silk that didn’t leave anything to the imagination, your face covered as it was tradition for your people. You’d look skittish, curled into yourself, head bowed and Bakugou couldn’t deny that in that moment, he’d felt nothing.

Not a single thing towards you.

And then your mother had grabbed you and tossed you to his feet, ripping the shawl off your face and Bakugou can’t quite explain it but… something had changed.

Everything had changed.

He thinks back to the conversation he’d had with one of his men just minutes before entering his room, about what was expected of him.

“You must consummate your marriage.”

Bakugou sighs, “I’ve told you, Sero, I have no intention of–”

“Why’d you take her back with us if you had no intention of giving her a child?”

Narrowing his eyes, Bakugou turns to look at the man standing across from him. “Did you expect me to just leave her there? With her family's blood across the walls and no one to take care of her?”

Sero pauses, face twisting into an expression of bewilderment; “I expected you to kill her like the rest of them. She’s just an ordinary human.”

Bakugou can’t rightly explain it but rage seethes through his body at Sero’s word. He’s crossing the distance over to him in seconds, wrapping a hand around the man’s throat and squeezing with a manic look in his face.

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

To his credit, Sero doesn’t falter; “I don’t understand why this girl means so much to you.”

Swallowing thickly, Bakugou huffs, pulling away as he spins, scoffing. “I don’t know,” he mutters, frustrated at his own lack of understanding. Sero was right. You were just an ordinary woman, apparently born from an illegitimate relationship. You had no special qualities, had been raised as a noble by the looks of it–you were skittish and quiet and jumpy and nothing special. 

Bakugou was the King of the Adroghar tribe. He had dragon’s blood coursing through his veins, had strength unheard of and the endurance and ability of a warrior. He’s been raised to be a King, to take charge, to pillage and kill and take what he wants without a single care for anyone else.

Most of all, everyone expected him to pick an Adrogharian woman to marry.

Not a human.

Not you.

“I’m heading to my tent,” Bakugou grunts, “make sure I am left alone.”

“Bakugou?”

Blinking, Bakugou is pulled from his thoughts at the sound of your soft voice calling for him.

He leans back when he realizes you’ve leaned forward, concern etched in your eyes as you stare up at him. It’s instinctive the way his eyes trail lower, and he does it without thought, eyes drifting across your soft, supple skin, taking note of the dress Mina had dressed you in; it was thin, the edges hemmed with lace and rather sheer.

Instantly, he feels his face warm.

You must consummate your marriage tonight.

“You may sleep here tonight,” Bakugou suddenly calls out in a rush, pushing himself off the bed and turning so his back is facing you. “I will sleep somewhere else.”

He’s opening the door before you can say anything, calling out a short ‘goodnight’ over his shoulder before the door slams shut behind him. You jump as he does, lips curving down as he leaves you, once again, all by yourself.

He must’ve been repulsed, you can’t help but think despite his words.

There’s no way a man like him could think you were beautiful.

-

It’s been a few days since Bakugou took you home and you haven’t seen him once since that night.

Your days are mostly spent in the company of Mina and a handful of maids that Bakugou had assigned to you. Despite the sense of familiarity you slowly develop each day, there’s a nag at the back of your mind at Bakugou’s lack of presence–you weren’t sure what you had done, but whatever it had been clearly had been enough to cause him to avoid you.

Today’s the first day Mina has left you alone, with the excuse that there are duties she’s been neglecting that she must attend to. You brush aside her worries, assuring her that it’s alright and spend the first hour of your morning sitting in Bakugou’s room, basically doing nothing. You expected Bakugou to have you assigned to your own room since that first night he left you, given that after all this was his room you were sleeping in–but he never did and still not really knowing your way around the castle completely and not being told otherwise, you remain there.

Then again, the lack of Mina or even your handmaids, makes the experience incredibly more lonely.

You’re bored.

Incredibly so.

So, you ignore the fear striking your heart, still unsure of the limits that were expected of you, and leave his room. The whole thing is one huge maze, but eventually you find yourself outside, tucked away into a huge field lined by a huge forest, with a cave directly in the middle of it. There isn’t a single person around, and everything is entirely silent; you can hear the wind brush through the glass and leaves, can hear your footsteps as you walk and can hear your own heart racing madly against your chest.

It’s beautiful. Everything you’ve seen since arriving here has been beautiful but this… little alcove is gorgeous.

Smiling softly to yourself, you crouch, letting your hands drift across the grass, enjoying the feeling of it against your skin. This is the most freedom you’ve ever felt your entire life and you’ve never been allowed to just explore without the prying eyes of your mother watching your back, staring you down with judgement and hatred.

It’s a new feeling and one you rejoice in, laughing quietly to yourself.

But you’re quickly pulled out of your own little world at the sound of thud, one that rumbles underneath your feet. It causes you to jump, body tensing in fear, head snapping upwards, only for your eyes to fall on… a dragon.

It’s… huge.

It towers over you, a great, large beast that steps out from beneath the confines of the cave, dazzling red scales and eyes that stare right back at you. Oddly, you’re not afraid–you’re frozen in the spot, standing there as it steps towards you, hands limp by your sides and you can’t find it within you to move or walk or do anything but… but you’re not afraid. This dragon could kill you in seconds and it’s one of the most intimidating creatures you’ve ever seen, but you feel comfort as it stares back at you.

You’d known dragons had existed and somewhere in the back of your mind you’d known that the Adrogharian tribe was famous for being dragon tamers–but you’ve never seen one in person.

It… snorts? You’re not sure. Its mouth opens and a noise you’ve never quite heard before comes out, a brush of strong wind hitting you directly in the face, nearly knocking you off your feet.

And then, somehow, you find yourself laughing.

It's the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen

Distantly wondering if you’re crazy, you step forward, small, tentative steps until you’re directly in front of the dragon. Its snout is within reach, and slowly, you raise your hand, eyes flickering from its snout to its eyes, hesitant, before you let your hand fall on the front of its snout. Your hand barely covers any of the dragon, the sheer size of it massive compared to you but its scales are coarse and rough beneath the soft touch of your fingers.

Then, ever so slightly, you watch as its eyes fall shut and he pushes, gently, toward your hand.

“Oh,” you call softly, “nice to meet you too, dragon. My name is Y/N.”

It lets out a gruff, and you pull back with a laugh as it shakes its head.

“His name is Kirishima.”

A yelp leaves your lips as you spin, eyes falling on that of Bakugou who’s stood in front of you.

Panic strikes you, worried he’ll be mad you left his castle or worse, that you even left his room. Swallowing thickly, you step towards him, hands held out before you; “my K-King, I-I–”

“He normally doesn’t like new faces,” Bakugou cuts in gently, sending you a smile as he steps forward, turning his head towards the dragon. He reaches forward and the dragon, Kirishima, nudges its snout towards Bakugou, knocking into him far more aggressively than he had you. Bakugou barely nudges, staying strongly rooted to the spot as he pats Kirishima, before letting his eyes fall back on you. 

“My King, I just wanted to get some fresh air, I–”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Bakugou assures, “everything within the castle is yours.”

Every tense muscle in your body eases, shoulders falling with disbelief.

“I wanted to introduce you to Kirishima,” Bakugou continues, smiling over at his dragon. “We’ve known each other since we were children. He’s very important to me.”

Letting your eyes fall on Kirishima, you flush; “and you wanted to introduce him to me?”

“Of course,” Bakugou assures with ease, nodding. “Isn’t it normally to share these things with your wife?”

Biting your lip, you glance at your feet; “I wasn’t sure you still… thought of me that way…”

Bakugou frowns, “I apologize for disappearing for a few days. I was preparing a surprise for you.”

Turning to him, surprised, your lips part; “a surprise?”

“Yes,” he smiles gently at you. “For tonight. Mina will help you prepare as well.”

-

“A picnic?”

Bakugou’s cheeks are bright red as he stares back at you.

“Do you not like it?”

Gathering your skirt, you shake your head, moving to sit in front of Bakugou. You’d wondered why Mina had dressed you in such light, airy clothes, a pretty pale pink colour as she fretted over making sure your hair was back and out of your face. It made sense now, you realize, that she’d gone to such lengths.

All for a picnic Bakugou had prepared.

“I love it,” you admit with a gentle smile, voice still quiet as you nod at him. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Mina helped me,” he explains, looking entirely too uncomfortable for something that was his plan. He’s sat across from you, one knee up which he rests his arm on, but his face is still burning red and it’s like he can’t meet your gaze properly as he explains. “I know nothing about wooing a woman.”

Before you know it, you’re laughing.

Bakugou’s eyes snap to yours, turning red even further (if that was even possible) as you quickly press your hands to your lips, trying to muffle the giggle.

It doesn’t help.

“Are you laughing at me?” Bakugou asks incredulously, eyes bulging. 

You shake your head, despite how blatant of a lie that is. “I’m sorry,” you apologize, biting your lip as you smile over at him. “It’s just… are you trying to woo me?”

Pausing, Bakugou meets your eyes before quickly turning away. “Maybe,” he mutters, before his shoulders fall. “Yes. Is it working?”

Leaning forward, you shift, brushing your skirt under you as you get more comfortable. “Yes,” you assure. “I just didn’t expect that. Most men would’ve just married me, regardless of whether I wanted to or not.”

Bakugou stares at you. “Is that how it’s like with your people?”

You glance at the array of food, pleasantly happy when you recognize a few fruits you used to love as a little girl–it’s been ages since you’ve been allowed to taste the sweetness of a strawberry.

“Yes,” you explain, as if it’s normal. “If I were… not an illegitimate daughter, I probably would’ve been arranged to marry a few years ago.”

You pause, however, when you see the look of bafflement on Bakugou’s face.

“I mean,” you start, slowly. “That’s why my step-mother reached out to you, remember?”

You watch as Bakugou swallows thickly. “I didn’t know until I got there and I-I… well, what I said… I didn’t mean it.”

Your brows furrow before it clicks in your mind.

I was promised a bride. I intend to have one.

Lips parting, you blink at him owlishly.

“I wouldn’t ever force you to marry me.”

Hands moving to fall in your lap, you force yourself to utter the words; “and… if I said I wanted to?”

Bakugou shifts; “marry me?”

You meet his eyes nervously, nodding. “Yes.”

“Then… I’d say… I’d love to.”

The instant relief that floods you is comforting, the smile curling onto your face once more at his reassurance. “I would be honoured,” you grin over at him, “I’ve felt that way since you took me with you.”

Reaching forward, Bakugou takes your hand in his own; “it’s I who feels honoured.”

-

You were dressed in a beautiful white gown, decorated with lace and delicate designs sewn into the material. It cinched at the waist and reached the floor, with a trail that followed behind you. Your hair had been twisted and braided and pulled up into a hairstyle similar to the ones you used to wear as a little girl. 

It was exactly like the style you’d grown up with and completely different from the Adrogharian traditions you’ve grown accustomed to. The only thing missing was the makeup across the face but you hadn’t argued when Mina had purposely avoided applying any–it brought both comfort and despair to you, staring back at your reflection through the mirror in front of you.

You… felt beautiful.

More than you ever had.

And it reminded you of home–of your childhood and brought a sense of comfort and familiarity to those early years of your life when your father had still been alive, memories of things you didn’t all together remember given how young you were but was a sense of nostalgia you rejoiced in. Before it had all been stolen from you cruelly and your step-mother had made it her goal to ruin you.

In that way, at the same time, it also reminded you of everything that had been stolen from you the second he’d died.

It was bittersweet and yet, it was the sweetest, kindest thing any single person had ever done for you and you cherished it.

“Are you ready?”

Turning to Mina, you nod.

You're led out of the room and down a few halls, until eventually the warm night air surrounds you. The sight before you astonishes you. Rows and rows of Bakugou’s men, all split in the middle where a path of flowers lay and at the end of it rests Bakugou, adorned in a regal shirt and trousers, so opposite of his normal attire. It looks odd on him in the same way he looks incredibly handsome.

And the realization sinks in then.

This is your wedding.

It had come to mind before given the dress but you weren’t sure, especially since Bakugou had talked about it but never beyond that initial conversation. You also figured that the wedding would be done in Adrogharian tradition.

This though? Made everything clear.

You turn to look at Mina who smiles brightly at you, clasping your arm in her own as she slowly starts to lead you down the aisle. Everyone’s eyes are on you, watching you but your attention is solely focused on Bakugou standing in front of you, hands clasped in front of him as he watches you grow closer and closer.

And then, suddenly you’re in front of him.

“Is… all this for me?” You whisper, clasping at your skirt nervously.

“Yes,” he nods, slowly, a nervous expression crossing his face. “Is… is it too much?”

You shake your head; “no,” you smile gently, “no this is… perfect.”

“Good.” His face eases instantly, and then, he tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Because this shirt is incredibly itchy and I’m wearing it for you.”

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh. It bursts from your lips, your hand instantly raising to cover your mouth as you giggle, glancing down at your feet. Bakugou stares at you as you laugh, never having heard the sound before, before he reaches forward, tilting your head upward by the chin.

He’s smiling gently down at you, his gaze the softest you’ve ever seen.

“Shall we get married?”

-

His touch is gentle–hesitant.

You can hear every breath he takes as you stare up at him, hands hovering before yourself.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he whispers, using his arm to hold himself up. You’re splayed across his bed, the sleeve of your wedding dress slipping down the side of your shoulder, revealing bare skin that stares up at him mockingly. 

He wants you–but he won’t force you.

Pressing your hands against his chest, you try to ignore the shake of your body; “it’s not… that I don’t want to,” you confess despite the flush across your cheeks and the heat soaring through your body. “I just… I’m afraid.”

“Of me?”

And his voice comes out quiet, scared. You barely catch it but it’s there, eyes flickering up to meet him as he stares back at you, concern etched into his face.

“No,” you assure, shaking your head. “No, not of you.”

He leans back, shifting so he’s sat back and you follow his movements, pushing yourself up to face him properly. Your hands fall limp in your lap as you stare down at them, clutching at your skin tightly as nerves well inside of you, make your chest tighten and your body tense with anxiety.

“Then…”

“My K-King–”

“Katsuki,” he cuts in, reaching for you. “Call me Katsuki.”

You pause. “Katsuki… before you, I'd never known love.” The words are uttered with pain, hands moving to hold yourself as you turn away from him, embarrassed. But you wanted him to know. Wanted him to understand. “My father died when I was just a little girl and the second he was gone, my mother spent the rest of my life torturing me. I was tucked away, kept hidden from people while she beat me, starved me and told me how I would… never measure up to anything.

“The day you came, she had every intention of selling me to you as a bargain piece for the safety of herself. And she expected you to kill me.”

Licking your lips, you turn to face him.

“That or worse.”

He stares at you, lips left parted with the hesitance of uncertainty. 

“I expected the same,” you whisper, “but now I know you’re not like that. That you’re not some ruthless, barbaric man but you have a heart and your people love you. You’ve given me more happiness than I’ve ever felt and made me feel love for the first time since my father died… I’m not scared of you, I’m scared that once you see me–truly see me, I’ll lose you.”

There’s a beat of silence before Bakugou is leaning towards you. His hands fall on your waist and suddenly you’re falling back against the bed with a light huff of shock, eyes flickering up to meet his own that hover above you. He’s smiling, you realize, but there’s anger in his eyes–yet, it’s not directed at you.

There’s rage burning in his irises and you feel safe because of it.

“You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” he confesses. “The second I saw your face that day, my world lit up. I want to kill every person who’s ever hurt you, if I haven’t already. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to make you forget about everything.”

You feel your heart quicken, his words echoing in your mind as you stare up at him and see only sincerity staring back at you.

His words are warm and loving and they make you feel like your skin is on fire, a lit with a sensation you’ve never felt. Love pours from his words and he stares at you like you’re the only person that matters–that you're the only person who exists in this world for him.

He envelopes you completely and you relish in it.

“Nothing could ever make me think otherwise.”

Reaching up, you cup his cheeks, fingers brushing against the skin before holding him, the edges of your lips quirked up with a soft, gentle smile..

“You really mean that?”

He nods, thumbs pressing into the pads of your hips, as his eyes dance across your face. “More than anything.”

“Okay then,” you laugh lightly, “then I give myself to you.”

He blinks, lips parting.

“Everything.”

And the surprise fades, replaced by pleasure as he leans forward, the ghost of his lips brushing against your own.

“And I give you the same in return.”

#mha #my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou fluff #barbarian!bakugou #barbarian!bakugou x reader

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 2/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 here. Word count: 5.1 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Part two! I don't usually rec music for my fics but if this fic was a song, it would be Dead can Dance’s In Power we Entrust the Love Advocated.

You wake up with a giant plastered on your back.

His bed is far more comfortable than your own, soft and cushy, and there must be flowers somewhere in the hay because there is a surprisingly pleasant odour lingering in the air as you come to. The mattress overall doesn’t reek of too much sweat: some poor slave must change the fillings often enough for König’s stench not to settle on the bed. Actually, you’ve slept quite nicely, despite being embraced by an ogre the whole night.

König has slept like a stone, too, but stirs when you start to shift. You turn on your back and find his drowsy stare on you: it’s generous and warm as he pulls you closer to him. You could roll your eyes when you notice he’s hard down there again – he’s probably hard all the time, whether in bed with a woman or raging on the battlefield, sticking his swords into some poor man’s gut.

“Gut geschlafen?” He asks, and you reckon he’s trying to ask if you’ve slept well – in his domain, in his embrace, after he just slaughtered half of your village.

You give him another pout, which is starting to become your signature expression now. He replies to your grumpiness with a smile, his own trademark move, the one that threatens to strip you from all your arms. He squeezes you fondly against his chest, and then his hand starts to wander: he plays with your tits again, then slinks further down to brush your navel. When he crosses the border and heads straight toward your womanhood, you seize his arm.

He whines softly at your refusal, but to your surprise, he actually stops. You let him go as he moves back up and stay immobile under his touch, amidst the flowery scent and the faint stench of dirt and man sweat, sighing as he cups your breast again. He doesn’t seem to get enough of them, and they’re beginning to feel sore: he gave them so much attention last night already and is now at them again.

You pull his hand away, but this time, he doesn’t respect your wishes but resists you. Trying to hinder a man who’s as strong as a bull is futile, but you have an attempt at it anyway. It turns into a play fight: you wrench his hand down, he drags it back up. Up and down and up and down, as if your breast is a hill he needs to conquer at all costs. But he’s the only one who finds any amusement in your silly game: eyes narrowing again with a smile, a few soft chuckles under that hood telling you he enjoys it when you fight him a little.

It all ends when you finally slap him.

It’s neither a good nor a hard slap, and his mask muffles whatever sound was supposed to give you at least some measure of satisfaction. 

But he stops... And laughs.

“Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige.”

His language is harsh and throaty, abrupt, and you tell him that, safe with the knowledge that he can’t understand a word you say either.

“You talk ugly,” you complain and watch him up and down, searching for a clue that would tell you that he somehow understands your insult. König simply thunders with another mirthful laugh at your morning crank.

“Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg.”

He looks down at you like he’s the Sun God now, thoroughly life-giving and kind. Then he dares to bend forward and press a kiss on your forehead.

“Go away,” you try to push him back with your hands - the hood prevents you from feeling his skin and breath and lips, but the… intimacy is still too much.

“Brute,” you want to spit the word out but end up sounding like a child attempting to quarrel instead. And he’s laughing at you again, both with his eyes and his mouth, covered by that darned hood. You don’t know why on earth you would think that such a charming laugh must come from an equally charming mouth.

He finally retreats and rises from the bed, stretching out his arms. The broad muscles on his back are exposed to the frigid air and his cock is jutting out, long and veined, completely unaffected by the cold. This beast is ripe and ready for another day, and you swallow when you see him in his full glory again, tall and wide and strong, looking like he’s about to eat an entire boar and fuck ten women in the process.

“Schön,” he comments as he turns to look down at you, lying naked and sweet there in his bed. He looks at you like you are the most lovely, adorable, difficult little thing. He even gives his horse cock a few good strokes while taking your sleepy little pouts in.

“Ugly,” you slur back, and he winks at you. 

Gods… You’re too hot and riled to even speak.

You choose to vehemently stay in bed as König starts his day: eats some fruit from the table - still naked - pours himself some wine and washes his mouth with it, tears a handful of bread from a loaf and starts to eat with his mouth open, munching loudly under that hood, walking around without bothering to cover himself and that ungodly erection that is bouncing in the air without a care in the world.

You, on the other hand, escape back under the warm covers of the furs, but your eyes never leave König. He draws the draping flap of his tent aside - still naked - giving his soldiers a good view of his morning wood, a lovely chance to get a look at their champion. Perhaps it’s his way of saying good morning, you think bitterly. Then he leaves, probably to take a piss, and you’re more and more convinced that this man is the worst beast that has ever walked this earth.

You’re still under the furs when he returns and finally gives you the grace of clothing himself. It’s stupid that you mourn losing the sight of those shoulders and feel a bit disappointed when his cock disappears under the red tunic. His manhood doesn’t look any less intimidating even when growing soft; it’s still long and veiny and thick, and you find yourself… curious. Just curious.

He doesn’t put his armour on this time, chooses to wear only his tunic and sandals and a pair of hard-boiled leather cuffs to protect the vital veins on the wrists. He does take one Gladius with him, though - a sign of distrust in his own men or a Roman custom, you can’t tell.

He’s already at the mouth of the tent when he turns and points at you, now with a good amount of sternness in his voice.

“Du. Bleibst.”

…

He’s away the whole day. Probably drawing plans at some field war council, eating and drinking and bouncing some poor girl on his knee. 

Even the thought makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach churn. Of course there are other trophies, and of course men want to show them off, pass them around, give their commanders a chance to give each woman a good squeeze. König has probably stuck that cock into a few women by now. Moaning, screaming women. 

Or then he just settles for annoying their poor senses out of them…

You can’t deny that you’re relieved he hasn’t thrown you to the wolves yet, not even after you denied him. Wondering why on earth he would even want to listen to your wishes gives you an awful headache, and the image of him laughing at - or with - some other shy captive girl is making you uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you throw the skins away after noon, and decide you’re not going to just succumb to your fate, least of all give in to sadness and apathy. 

You eat this and that from his table like you’re not a slave girl but an honoured guest, a queen. You eat his figs and his bread and some smoked meat; you even drink some of his wine, as sour as it is. You’re a bit tipsy when you go through all his belongings, which are not as abundant or exciting as you thought they would be. 

You thought you’d find tiny chests filled with gold coins and rings. You thought you’d come by dried body parts taken as trophies, perhaps the crown of some long-forgotten Hibernian king. But there are only a few trinkets under his bed, a huge bow and some arrows, his armour and the second Gladius, perfectly stored above the ground so that rust and mould wouldn’t bite them. There are jugs of wine and some firewood and oil for the braziers, there’s water and benches and the table and lots and lots of candles in different shapes and sizes… But that’s it. There’s no hoard, no treasure, nothing to prove to you that this brute is just another Roman soldier trying to gather a fortune by raping and pillaging so that he can go and retire early from all the bloodshed.

And it makes you shiver. Does he do this just for the sake of it, only because he enjoys killing so much? What is his reason to fight?

The only item that sends an odd sting in your heart is a small wooden statue. You feel like a thief when you rummage through a small satchel you find next to his breastplate, the only place you didn’t feel like peeking into because it looked so… personal. 

Proving to yourself that you don’t care about his privacy or feelings, you end up pushing your fingers inside it anyway, meeting this peculiar carved piece of wood. There is nothing else there in the satchel, just the statue, and you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat as you see it depicts a lush, buxom woman. Her breasts are nearly the size of her belly, larger than her head, and you realize that it is clearly the statue of the Great Mother this brute carries with him.

You put it back quickly, feeling a tingling in your fingers and a rapid flutter in your heart, as if you had just poked into something quite sacred. And it is sacred, the Mother. You wonder why, for the love of all the gods, this man would keep such a divine and fertile amulet near him. The statue is supposed to be a vessel for wishes and fortune; it is an idol of worship. König seems like the last man on earth to take up worshipping women.

You just want to get out of this place but can’t. There’s no one to go back to: your chief is dead, the people have fled, the rest of the warriors are scattered across the land. You have no idea where your brother might even be. 

You have no wish to escape this tent; you have no desire whatsoever to step a foot outside and show yourself to his hungry men. 

König comes back after nightfall and is not surprised at all to find you haven’t escaped. He’s not surprised that you have eaten some of his food either; he doesn’t even scold you. But then the eternal groping starts again as he gets undressed and lays himself down next to you.

You don’t even know why you allow him to touch you. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s better to just let him caress you if he wants; it’s better to suffer the weight of his hands on you if it means he won’t rape you with that cock. If you don’t complain, perhaps he will settle for squeezing and petting and stroking you.

But your body is a traitor: it’s hungry for him, for some ungodly reason, and always craves for more. You say to yourself that you only allow this to happen because it’s a condition, a compromise, a meeting in the middle. You never acknowledge the way your nether lips puff up like a fat flower every time he fondles your breasts. You pay no attention to how wet you get when he caresses your face, your waist, even your thighs, every part of you except the place between your legs, the place you kind of want him to touch... If only he would be gentle and didn’t get too excited, you’d let him touch you there, too, as sick and accursed as it is.

And it’s all good until he starts to hum. 

It may be some song from his homeland, the land of ugly brutes, but it’s not a crude giant song… In fact, it’s a rather beautiful, melancholy tune. Your body is relaxed and your pussy is wet; your nipples are tight and pleased as he pets you slowly, lovingly - but that song is too much. You don’t want him to see you cry, not even a single tear, and now there’s an entire flood about to occur.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, trying not to choke on your sorrow. He doesn’t stop - of course he doesn’t. He gets bolder by the day, and he can see that you’re enjoying yourself. In a way.

"Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden?" He asks, soft and tender, so incredibly gentle that the tears are about to burst forth at any given moment now.

“Ich glaube das tust du,” he rumbles when you don’t answer him. His hand is heavy and broad on your hip as he finally stops caressing you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it causes the glimmer in your eyes to fall. Tears roll down your cheeks and into your hair, as you lie there next to a titan, about to shatter into a million pieces.

“Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…?”

You want to shout at him to shut up already, to stop talking so gently, asking you questions you don’t understand, to stop trying to find a way to communicate with you through song and hum and touch. The hand on your hip moves, slowly, with devastating cunning towards your core. He’s about to touch you there, to try and feel if you’re wet... If you’d like it that he pounded you a little. You wonder if he would do that gently too, and almost laugh through your tears. It will be your undoing if he finds out that you’re soaked all the way to your thighs, aching to feel him inside you, even a finger, just something…

“No… Nein,” you rule out sternly, opening a new way of communication. You don’t know if the word is correct, but he catches it immediately and stops. 

“Nein?”

He sounds both happy and sad; happy that you try to use his language, sad that you use it to give him such a disappointing command.

“No touching,” you repeat and open your eyes, finding his hazy figure hovering above you. You barely discern the gulf of sadness in his eyes, but it is there: undisguised, trying to reach out and join with yours. Gods… How strangely appropriate it is that you are both so very alive, wanting to be devoured by each other’s hunger and lust, only to find yourselves on the brink of tears and hollow loss.

“No... No touching…”

“Verstanden.” 

He takes his hand away from you and turns, not even joining you under the fur tonight.

…

The next morning, you wake up attached to him.

Somehow you’ve managed to wriggle under his furs and, on top of that, crawled to hug his side like this. You blame the spring cold for it, of course. Your heart bangs against your ribs as you notice how tightly you’re squeezing him, breasts pressed flush against his hard middle, belly fluttering against his hip. You’ve even draped your leg across his so that your poor, lonely cunt is resting right there over his thigh. 

You swear in your mind with all the words and terms you know and can think of.

How the hell are you supposed to detach from a giant without waking him up? His arm is around you, holding you loosely in a warm, pleasing shackle. He feels so, so good - blazing, big and safe, so incredibly nice. You never knew sleeping next to a man could feel so nice. You’re half asleep still, mainly because his body and scent make you feel like you’ve had too much wine again.

You allow yourself a few more moments before you rip yourself off him. Or at least, try to: the arm snares you the instant you attempt to move. It prevents you from leaving him, and you end up hovering awkwardly there, almost on top of him, tits pointing straight at his face, panicked, doe-eyed stare guided to his unwavering blue eyes, open, and regarding you with warm love.

And the damned man smirks again.

“No touching?” He inquires with silly, completely feigned shyness.

“Shut up,” you breathe and try to get off of him, but his other hand comes to brush your cheek next, and you freeze.

“Schön… Pretty,” he tries, and you nearly whimper at the sound of your native tongue in his mouth. 

Pretty… Is that what the word means, the odd ugly word he has repeated ever since he stole you?

His eyes are warm and his hand is gentle as he caresses your cheek, and the snare around your waist tightens. Softly… Invitingly.

“Stop it,” you whisper, on the brink of tears again, because this time, your shields and armour and weapons are gone. You just woke up to a feeling of odd contentment, fulfilment, even joy. 

And it’s not right. 

He has no right to be this gentle with you.

You sniffle and sigh, and cast your eyes down to the chest that belongs to a giant. But you can’t deny that there must be a heart under there. A human heart under your palm. Your hand is right there over the strong beat because you’ve tried to push yourself away, and he won’t let you go. Another tear falls somewhere in the hair of his chest, and he rumbles with such compassion that you want to slap him again, hit his chest with your tiny little fists and bawl.

What you do instead is break down and let the ocean take you. You cry and sob and wail, right there in front of him, until he turns you on your stomach and comes to rest halfway on top of you. Through your tears, you understand that he’s trying to soothe you with his weight. It’s pure insanity how well it works. It releases a whole well of grief, and you start to shake with the cries; your whole body shudders with the sorrow as you retch it all out while König continues to caress you like a pet. He strokes your hair, pets your back, he even pats your ass as if you’re just a baby.

You cry long and hard, so long that he eventually lets out a long, deep sigh. When you’ve calmed down a bit and remain still, sniffling occasionally while squeezing the furs in your fist, trying to remember what it is to be an animal with feelings other than just sorrow, he leaves you.

He simply rises, and gets dressed, and leaves.

That is very much what you don’t need right now, much to your surprise. He was good at consoling you, as odd as it sounds.

Cold starts to creep in when there is no warm body next to you, and your skin misses the calloused gentleness of his palms. You wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hum that song to you now. But the darned bastard had to leave just when you were about to turn and cup his hooded face in return...

König comes back after a short while, but he’s not alone. You gather the furs against your chest, horrified and angry when you notice he returns to the tent with a short old man, vigorous and busy, but so tiny in stature that you doubt he was ever a warrior. You wonder if this is another foreigner or if you have the dubious pleasure of meeting your first genuine Roman.

They both stare at you, quite nonchalantly, while you sit there on the bed and try to cover your nakedness with animal skins while having red eyes and a pair of uninviting, quivering, puffed-up lips. 

The short fellow looks you up and down, then turns to talk to König in what appears to be this giant’s mother tongue. It’s a curt suggestion, muttered under his breath, and you realize König must’ve fetched a translator for you.

Oh, good Mother... Great Mother.

You watch these two men before you in a state of stunned shock, as König looks at you, then back at the old man, and nods. The Roman looks slightly vexed as if he just got up too. Then he starts to speak.

“Excuse our manners... We are men at war. If you wish to get dressed, we will wait outside.”

You blink at your own language being spoken to you, perfectly discernable but accompanied by a thick accent. You nod, and the men leave, returning only after you’ve dressed and cleared your throat in the tent.

“He asks if he killed your husband,” the translator starts immediately while König goes to sit on his favourite Roman bench. You’re wide awake now, and the nauseating feeling of being suddenly in the middle of an interrogation rises to your throat with a clot.

“He… What? No,” your eyes dart to König, who is looking at you with his undying ardour. For a man with so much sadness in his soul, he’s surprisingly carefree when he wants to.

“Do you have a husband?”

You gulp at the questions levelled at you. König keeps watching you intently, and you choose to look at the old translator instead, shaking your head slowly. The men exchange a few words, and the Roman turns to scold you with his stare.

“Master reminds you that it is wrong to lie,” he says, putting a lot more weight on his words this time. Roman or not, he calls this giant master, which means that he is just another slave in this camp. You swallow again and try to think, think, think; all the while König’s stare strips you of all your pretences, garments and words.

He thinks you’re trying to hide some imaginary husband, you understand and consider whether you should say that you have a husband: if there is any benefit you could gain from such a lie. König would only probably try to hunt him down… But what if he found out you were telling him tales? Would he feed you to his horny war dogs then?

“I’m not lying,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.

There is another exchange of words before the translator turns to you again.

“Are you untouched?”

“What…?”

“Master asks if you are a virgin.”

The translator is utterly unfazed, and mainly looks like he has better things to do than get to the bottom of whether there has been a cock inside you yet.

“That’s none of his business,” you hiss. The old man turns and starts to translate your words with a dull look.

“Wait—don’t tell him that,” you take a panicked step forward. 

Oh good Father in the Sky… Strike these men down so that I may be freed from them.

They pay you no attention; a few sentences pass from mouth to mouth, and the old man nods.

“Master says you are clearly a maiden,” he declares. You peek a glance at König, who is looking at you with hunger, and not the kind of hunger people look at their breakfasts with. Your breathing is getting out of hand, and when he opens his legs wider, clearly making more room for a rising cock, you decide to throw caution in the wind.

“You know what? Your master can go fuck himself with a stick for all I care…!”

The old man turns. He doesn’t even care to sigh; he merely opens his mouth to give your words to König.

“Don’t you dare translate that!” 

Finally, the old man sighs. He looks at the ceiling as if begging his gods to take him away from this tent. König’s stare flashes between you two, and he is evidently curious. Clearly, this is the most exciting conversation he’s ever had.

“Was sagt sie?”

“Tell him that I want to be freed,” you hurry to say before the translator can tell your insults to König. After a brief conversation, König leans forward in his chair to see the effect his words have on you.

“He says he can’t do that,” the Roman informs. “His soldiers will find you and take you.”

You close your mouth and try to even your breaths. No one says, You don’t want that. Everybody in this tent knows you don’t want that.

“He asks if he killed your brother or your father.”

You sniffle, quite involuntarily.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Then why are you angry and sad?”

There is a hint of genuine interest in the man’s voice. Both of these men are confused as to why you would bawl your eyes out after the massacre of your people.

"Because… Because he…"

“He says it is a man’s duty to die in battle. You should be proud of your fallen ones, not cry and feel sorry for them.”

“Tell him that he can go fuck himself,” you shout, not giving a single shit anymore about whether he translates the words or not. 

To no one’s surprise, he does.

“He says he’d rather fuck you,” he returns to you with König’s message.

You can’t bear to look your captor’s way, and still, that’s exactly what you do. You look at the giant as he stares at you, keen and hard and patient. But you know his patience has its limits. It’s almost like a promise, the way he leans forward in that chair and looks at you from under the hood, shameless and challenging.

“Never,” you guide your words to König now. It’s a brave little whisper, but you know that it’s a lie. Even the Great Mother knows you’re lying. You almost hear the cackle of the old woman rising from the earthen ground, from the chthonic depths, to mock you and your vows.

You hear the old man’s words from somewhere far away, from underwater, as König’s stare wrestles you down and takes away your little knife. He subdues you even when he’s sitting, and shares a string of words: a harsh promise. You hold your breath as his cock gives a pulse under that tunic, and your eyes fall, fall, fall onto it, because there’s no escape…

“He says he can make you feel good,” the voice says, and you can’t even hear who speaks. Your mouth is full of water, but you swallow it down, then shoot your way up to the surface, up, up, up into the sunlight, until you can breathe again.

You rip your eyes from König and look at the Roman translator with loathing and contempt.

“You can leave now. This conversation is over.”

Then you turn, trying not to pay any attention to the hushed conversation that proceeds behind your back. The man leaves the tent: you can hear it, and you can also hear how König rises from the chair and walks right behind you.

“No… afraid,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, but you don’t even flinch. You knew he was going to touch you again. Perhaps you were even looking forward to it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you start to argue, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“You like trees?”

He speaks your words, not good, but he speaks them. You wonder if he has known parts of your tongue all along and has simply concealed it. Has he understood what you’ve said to him…? All the slurs and stupid things? Mother, grant mercy…

“Why would I like—What kind of question is that?”

“Climbed a tree,” he explains cheerfully behind you. You turn and look up, yet again rendered weak. Giants are supposed to be stupid. They’re not supposed to know the language of faeries…

“Nosy,” he brushes your cheek with a smile in his eyes.

“Nosy?” 

You huff - as if you wanted to be there and witness him.

As if you had a choice after the seer pushed you on this insane, cruel path.

“Wanted to see me so bad?” König tilts his head playfully.

Gods… You can only look at him with brows curling with helpless frustration, lip trembling from how he seems to know your every little secret. He nods when you don’t say yes or no. He’s perfectly happy to read all the answers from your eyes.

“Ich wusste, dass es so war,” he changes into his own language, and you don’t need to understand the words he says.

You know he knows. He knows you, he knows you to your core, and it doesn’t really matter in which circumstances you two met. He knows far more than you, something about souls and how they’re supposed to meet, how little squirrels and giants belong together, as crazy as it is. That there is no chance in life: no, it was meant that you two meet. To him, it was no coincidence that you practically dropped into his lap from that tree.

“Did you like what you see?”

He holds your shoulders gently as you quiver and shake inside.

“No,” you peep.

“I like what I see,” he declares; a benevolent god.

…

A/N:. Thank you so much for your love and interest in this fic! As you may have noticed the fic now has 4 parts, which is because the 3rd chapter got too chunky and I had to split it 😇 Next part might take a while because I'm moving soon, but let me tell you... These guys will be put into *situations*. Oh, and a reminder that I don't have a taglist for this so please check any future updates from my pinned masterlist post 🩷

Translations:

Gut geschlafen? - Sleep well?

Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige. - Yes, I know. I killed your people. I deserve a slap.

Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg. - It is lovely to talk to you. But now I have to go.

Du. Bleibst. - You. Stay.

Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden? - Do you like being petted?

Ich glaube das tust du. - I think you do.

Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…? - Have you ever been touched…?

Verstanden. - Understood. 

Was sagt sie? - What does she say?

Ich wusste dass es so war - I knew it was so.

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x fem reader #könig x female reader #könig cod #cod x reader #könig fluff #könig smut #historical au #Roman soldier!König

[stuffeddeer]

It's late.

Dazai feels a little ashamed, if he were to be honest. How pathetic is it that he's unable to sleep unless in the arms of his coworker? A little pathetic. His eyebrows furrow as he begins to pick the lock to your apartment.

It's late. You're probably asleep.

He's jealous. Yeah; the clenching feeling in his chest is jealousy from your ability to sleep through the nights (a feeling of his that isn't shared towards his well-rested coworkers). You're asleep, and he should be. He will be.

The door clicks quietly, and Dazai doesn't react. How many times has he broken into your apartment? The question is left unanswered as he saunters into the place, making sure to close and lock it behind him.

You're asleep. It's late.

He makes a pit stop by your kitchen, staring blankly into your fridge like he'd do if he lived here. He counts the number of half finished water bottles littering the shelves, dispersed in between random ingredients you don't open and snacks that are dwindling in number.

If Dazai lived here, maybe he could make you dinner sometime. Gather the ingredients to fill your fridge, put a pan on the stove — however people cook, he can't remember. The fridge closes quietly; It's late. You're asleep.

With a final glance towards the sink, taking note of the dirty cutlery delicately balanced around the edges, he makes his way into the hall. Three steps and he'd be outside your door, your bedroom door, where you're asleep.

Dazai pushes away the same thought that keeps appearing in his mind. Of course you're asleep, it's late.

He turns away from your bedroom and finds himself standing in your living room. It's happily lived in - cushions that have lost their fluff, a blanket strewed across the couch haphazardly. His hand runs over it; always the same blanket. Dazai can imagine sitting under this blanket on the couch with you, the couch you two would share, watching some movie on your small tv just across the small room.

If he lived here, he'd make sure to tidy up the living room before you two went to bed. You kept a basket of blankets just next to the tv, and Dazai could easily drape the blanket back into it before following you off to bed. For now, he leaves it; There'd be no trace he was here come morning.

Once again, he finds himself mere steps away from your bedroom door. You live alone, for now, and yet keep the door closed every night. Is it habit? Are you worried some barbarian will break in just to watch you sleep? (Dazai isn't here to watch you, of course; He's here to sleep as well.) If that is what you're worried about, he could always spend the night with you, just to make sure you're safe. Well, spend the whole night with you, rather than breaking in late and sneaking out early.

Dazai turns into the bathroom.

You have the cutest rug next to your shower, one that always makes Dazai smile. A tough persona is applied at the agency, so only he is privy to your cute pink Sanrio bathmat. It's not what he would have expected for you, and that's what makes him smile. Your counter holds an electric toothbrush and has a lot of clutter Dazai wants to sort through. If he lived with you, he could place his toothbrush next to yours and keep your hair care stuff in the cabinet below. Maybe one day you'd let Dazai comb your hair, with a brush or just his fingers.

It's late. You're asleep. The same thought Dazai has been pushing down since he began the walk to your apartment fills his head once more. He's not delusional, no, but what if you weren't asleep? What if you were waiting up, just for him?

His hand touches the doorknob. It's late. You have no reason to think he's coming. The door opens slowly and quietly as he peers in.

You're asleep.

Dazai's chest constricts and he can't help the frown pulling at his lips. Of course you're asleep; He's stupid to get his hopes up. If you were awake anyway, you'd kick him out and probably call the cops. He is trespassing right now, at a time when you're most vulnerable.

Still, Dazai slips into your warm, cream-colored sheets, his hands clasped together under his cheek as he lies on his side. You're so calm, so serene under the dull light of a street lamp just outside the bedroom window. Hesitantly, Dazai's hand moves to brush a strand of hair from your face, the tips of his fingers experimentally tracing your skin.

His eyes flutter shut when you move closer. Were you used to his presence? Dazai likes to think you need him to sleep as much as he needs you. Sure, you could fall asleep without him curled up beside you, but maybe he was soothing nightmares. The thought made him frown. He shouldn't care, he shouldn't be here. His eyebrows furrowed like they had when he first broke in — this is weird. This is illegal, too.

A frustrated puff of air leaves his mouth, his eyes shutting more firmly. Tighter, tighter — why isn't he asleep yet?

He curls more into himself, feeling ashamed and embarrassed and anxious and annoyed and-

Your hand moves from your chest to his, softly resting over his heart. The small smile resides back on Dazai's face as he relaxes, slowly drifting to sleep in your bed.

Light filters in through your sheer curtains, the sun kissing your face as you quickly wake up. The blaring of your alarm was the first thing you'd noticed, rubbing your eyes with one hand as you turned to shut it off. Just a few moments of peace, and then you'd get up....

Those few moments didn't come to pass before you were hit with a boost of energy, sitting up in your empty bed. Of course your bed was empty, no need to emphasize it. You live alone, did you expect someone to be there when you woke up?

#the urge to make this a yandere fic lmaooo #dazai is just soo fun to make deludedly in love with ppl . #i guess this could be read as yandere ❤️ love y'all #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #bsd scenarios #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai fluff #dazai bsd #bsd x y/n #bsd imagines #bsd x gender neutral reader #bsd fanfic #bungo stray dogs fanfic #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bsd fluff #bsd #bsd x you #dazai x y/n #dazai imagines #yandere dazai osamu #yandere dazai osamu x reader #yandere dazai x reader

[lunarw0rks]

can you write something about reader using their safe word for the first time with ghost?

getting surprised at how easily he changes from rough sex to sweet aftercare to make sure he's partner is okay

₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧ safe-word // simon riley

warning(s): nsfw + sfw, established relationship, smut/fluff, shower sex, hurt/comfort, gn!reader word count: 1.1k ꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ───have a request? ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX ˎˊ˗

You don't know why or when exactly the pleasure turned into pain, but you found yourself in a conflicted frenzy.

Your back pressed against the shower wall, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as Simon thrusted into you at a relentless pace. One of his hands remained glued to your waist, digging into your soft flesh with intensity. His other was behind your head, protecting it from hitting the tile every time you clashed against it with every plunge of his length.

He was usually so attentive, noticing every slight change in your demeanor even outside of intimacy. Sometimes, he's so concerned he'll mistake your moans of pleasure for refusal and stop completely, to your dismay.

However, Simon had yet to stop.

The shower head was too noisy, or perhaps he really lost that side of him whilst being so rough with you. Though, you had heavy doubts about the second hypothetical. Never would he intentionally harm you or continue on when you were so tense.

His touch wasn't comforting anymore, it was suffocating. Every groan into your ear, his thrusts becoming unwelcome by your stressed body.

In his defense, your gasps really could be misinterpreted. "Simon." It sounded like praise instead of a refusal — and your futile protest was drowned by the rain of the shower and bathroom fan. With every fleeting moment, you felt a rumble of discomfort build. Tears fell down your cheeks, spilling down his wet skin while you hid in the crook of his neck. Choked blubbers grew louder as you tried and failed to draw in proper breaths.

Then, came your saving grace. The safe word you had yet to use tonight, or ever with Simon. It was necessary, preferable over taking the unpleasant encounter and feeling horrible for not speaking up. And frankly, it would break Simon if you didn't voice your discomforts; he may never touch you again, and probably would feel as though he really was a cruel man. That man you spent so long convincing him he wasn't.

"Red." You blurted, feeling your lips tremble intensely.

At the speed of light, his ruts ceased. Nothing. Silence, except for the patter of the droplets around the two of you. From grunting to complete and utter silence — yet it was the loudest moment of your life.

Simon pulled back, dropping one of your legs but keeping the other secured around him for stability. Finally, he could get a look at your flushed and troubled expression. The unmistakable expression of distress; one he had only ever seen on you in other contexts. It chilled him to the core and made him feel like a barbarian for not noticing sooner. How long had you writhed? How long had he carried on like an idiot, mistaking your complaints for reciprocation?

"Did I hurt you? Are you hurt?" His series of questions were masked with deep breaths and a widened expression. Your silence made him withdraw from you completely, putting a supportive hand on your warm cheek. "Talk to me, love. Please."

You weren't mute from the pain, nor the fussing on his end. Merely the shock of how much his demeanor changed. From dominance to tenderness at the drop of the hat. Or more so, the utterance of a single word.

Quickly, you shook your head to answer his initial questions, snapping out of your stew. "No, Simon. It's not—" You stammered between reassuring touches, ones he refused to pay attention to until he was sure you were sound. "I just... It was too much, I'm sorry, Si."

Simon's face visibly cringed, hands roaming over your skin, grasping at your wrists with gentle nature. "Don't apologize. This is all on me, alright?" He replied in an alarmed slur, then your face had been pushed against his chest.

His broad chest, arms capable of snapping you in two, now cradling your body as if it was made of glass. Your palms slid up his back, returning that same tenderness to assure him of your safety. It wasn't pain because of his carelessness, nor was it the rough nature. He had done it before with no issue. Tonight's cards just weren't stacked right, bound to tumble from the start.

There was no blame to be had for either of you. Merely a hitch in the evening, and you wanted it treated as such. Though, you knew by now that convincing him of that would be a prolonged, tedious task.

Right now, all you had were reassurances that sounded pathetic amidst your trembles. "It's not your fault." You mumbled against his chest, anxieties put to ease at the caress of his calloused hand up and down the nape of your neck.

He quickly shushed you, pressing his lips to your drenched head of hair. A silent way of urging you to keep your mouth shut — but in his own blunt way.

In the following moments, he let his hands roam and massage the bits of flesh that took the brunt of his force. The indents on your hips, the patch on your shoulder blades irritated from clashing with the shower wall, all of it. The sizzling water was used to figuratively wash away his misjudgments, relaxing the muscles once over-exerted and sore.

Once he turned the knob to stop the water, he tied a towel around his waist, retrieving the fresh one he set out for you while the water was still heating up several minutes ago. Without once making eye contact, he unfolded the linen, then was running it along your dripping skin, drying every last bit to ensure you were comfortable before dressed.

With some silent convincing, you nodded, allowing him to step out and let you hold the towel around yourself. You weren't defenseless because you uttered a safe word, he knew that. But you weren't going to brush this off, either. No chance.

The drawer of your dresser scraped shut when you followed him into the bedroom, revealing your favorite pair of sweatpants. Next, one of his many black tees soon slipped over your fleshly cleaned body. You were no longer suffocated or plagued with unease, nor did you want the release you were craving moments ago. Your only desire was his presence, that safe feeling his existence gave you.

Before you settled on the bed, he cupped your cheeks, pressing his forehead against your own. "Tell me again." Simon pleaded with intense softness.

"I'm alright, Simon. Promise." A futile smile formed, clenching your eyes shut briefly with a defeated nod. You had repeated it a hundred times, it seemed. But you wouldn't take back or fib through any one of them. It was the truth— the reassurance he craved.

Softly, he scoffed at your cheesy proclamation. "Promise it, huh?"

"Promise it."

#simon riley x reader #mw2 #call of duty #task force 141 #mw2 fanfic #simon riley #task force 141 x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #mw2 ghost #ghost headcanons #simon riley headcanons #ghost x gender neutral reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #simon riley x you #141 headcanons #cod headcanons #mw2 headcanons #mw2 x you #mw2 x reader #ghost mw2 x reader #141 x reader #141 task force #tf 141 x reader #ghost smut

[comfortless]

Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

[bg3scenarios]

Gale: Wizard math is when I tap into the weave without using a spell slot, so it doesn’t really count as using energy

Karlach: Barbarian math is only counting to one, because I one-shot everything!

Astarion: Rogue math is figuring out how much I can steal from someone before they notice

Shadowheart: Cleric math is counting my spell slots to make sure I can revive the rogue who stole my red wine after I kill him for it

*Shadowheart cracks her knuckles*

Astarion: …

Astarion: Rogue math is also knowing I can dash twice! Byeeee

#gale dekarios #karlach #astarion ancunin #shadowheart #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #cw: violence

[dokidoki-muffin]

Tickletober Day 27: Monster

Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom | Link x Zelda

This is a collab with the lovely Ginny @otomiyaa 🥰✨ (previously @otomiya-tickles) We've been working on this for a while but given the recent circumstances we decided that I will post both, the two artworks and fic, on my blog as one. You can also read it on her 👉 AO3!! Word count: 1173

Zelda rubbed her eyes. How long had it been? Her stomach answered the question with a loud growl. Right. Past lunch time. For hours she had been sucked into her books and notes, investigating her latest discoveries about Hyrule and the Zonai. It was always like this when she was spending time at home, at her cozy shared house in Hateno, together with Link.

Speaking of Link… 

“Link, I think I might say yes to that lunch offer from earlier,” Zelda called out to Link who had been busy downstairs. She had heard him prepare lunch, turned down his offer to eat together despite the delicious smell. She had heard him eat, then the distant sounds of him rummaging around, and she kind of forgot that somewhere, in between all those moments, Link had announced to her that he would be going on a hunt. 

Not that the knowledge of his plans could have prepared her for the sudden sight of a… monster. Though, not a scary monster.

“Link?!” Zelda covered her mouth and literally held back a laugh. Barbarian armor. The most hideous Lynel mask she had ever seen… Link was looking absolutely hilarious.

“W-whahat are you dohohoing?” Zelda blurted out, failing to muffle her laughter as she continued to admire her boyfriend’s “monster attire”. 

“Going on a mission,” Link reconfirmed. He spread his arms. “Do you think they will fall for it?” he asked.

Well, one person was literally falling and it was Zelda, sinking to her knees as she couldn’t stop giggling.

“You look ridiculous hahaha!” she laughed. Monster Link cocked his Lynel head and scratched himself in a totally uncharming way.

“Do I?” he asked, and he slowly approached her. Eep! Zelda could immediately recognize his mischievous mood, but she couldn’t really do anything but laugh hysterically. Although, if that was laughter… Well, she wouldn’t know what to call what came next from her very own mouth. 

Squealing, shrieking, howling, whatever. But it was definitely loud. All because Link calmly lowered himself on top of her, straddling her while his fingers unleashed a merciless tickle attack on her poor stomach and sides. And Zelda happened to be very ticklish. 

“LIHIHINK! Ahahaha nohoho!” With the crazy mask that stared at her with its ugly eyes, and the relentless tickling on her lower torso, Zelda was suffering from a double laughing fit right now, and it was taking all her breath away.

“AHhhehehe Liiiiink whahaha!” Zelda cackled. Her hands failed to pry off her boyfriend’s hands that crept under her blouse, moving the fabric up to tickle her bare tummy and sides. Link’s monster act was definitely better than the looks of it. He remained quiet and proved to be an excellent tickle monster, with speedy fingers that carefully tickled their way from Zelda’s stomach all the way up her ribs and under her arms.

“EEEHEHEe nooooo Liiiink!” Zelda cried, but monster Link was serious about his little revenge - at least, that was what she thought it was. One does not simply laugh in the face of the Hero of Hyrule. 

“I gihihive! Plehehease!” Zelda laughed hysterically as Link kept scribbling persistently at her sensitive underarms. She could hear him break character under his mask: a playful giggle. Link finally stopped his attack on her and sighed. He still sat on top of her and watched her with that silly mask.

“It was that funny, hmm?” he commented when Zelda greedily caught her breath, blushing like crazy. Zelda nodded tiredly.

“Yeah,” she wheezed. They both giggled softly when her stomach suddenly growled again.

“Ah. Right, lunch. Late lunch,” Link muttered. It was so funny to hear him talk, still with that silly mask on. 

“I will get you something warm to eat,” he offered gently, moving off her, as he grabbed his mask.

“So, you’re staying around a bit longer then, Mr. Monster?” Zelda said teasingly, getting up as well and watching him walk to the kitchen.

Link nodded. “Yes, yes, I can stay a little longer. We can eat together first, and… uh…” Zelda watched him fiddle with the mask. He was tugging it, looking like he was trying to take it off, but… Zelda snorted once again.

“Wait, are you stuck?” she asked when Link continued to struggle with the ugly beast covering his face. Link shook his head wildly.

“Stuck? No, no. I just - I can’t get it off,” he muttered. Zelda slowly approached him with a smirk on her face.

“That’s the meaning of ‘stuck’, Link,” she said, and she wiggled her fingers from his exposed underarms down his sides. A delicious shriek filled their little house. 

“Hehehey! Nonono,” Link giggled nervously, stepping back and tumbling to the floor. Zelda followed him down and had him right where she wanted him for a nice and fitting payback.

“What’s this? Could it be that the tickle monster is in fact… ticklish himself?” Zelda sang, attacking Link’s tummy with fast scribbles. That’s one thing the barbarian set did well: it exposed his tickle spots and sensitive bare skin well. Way too well.

“Zehehehelda! Nohoho I’m sohohorry!” Link was quick to apologize for his tickly prank. He continued his attempts to take off the mask, flailing his free arm and kicking his legs. Link was so ticklish it was actually funny, but also the cutest thing in the world. Zelda smiled fondly, but went back into battle mode when she managed to snatch Link’s hand that tried to defend his tickle spots.

“Now I got you, little monster,” Zelda said, holding his hand tightly while her other hand tickled Link’s exposed underarm. 

“HAAAaaahh!” Link’s loud screech must’ve scared the birds away around their house, and Zelda laughed along with him. Link, who wasn’t usually this vocal, now officially sounded like the monster he tried to be.

“Convincing,” Zelda said with a smile. 

“Just one more time,” she encouraged. It didn’t matter if Link would stake his attempts at taking off the mask. She tickled his armpit and drew out the loudest most precious squeals.

“Zehehehelda ahahaah! You wihiihin hahahha!” Link laughed. It was never a competition to begin with, but Zelda decided to accept his words of defeat. She grabbed the mask and tugged it off Link’s head. 

Link let out a tiny wail in pain when the mask got finally unstuck, probably stripping his head from a hair or two, but he let out a sigh of relief. Zelda admired his bright red face, and she giggled. The mask still between her hands, she leaned down and kissed his lips. And Link kissed her back.

“Let’s eat,” she suggested when they moved apart, and Link nodded.  “G-great idea,” he said with a cute blush on his face. The mask stayed off, for now, and Zelda was more than pleased to enjoy Link in his cute barbarian outfit a little longer before he would leave for his hunt. She couldn’t stop smiling. Well, well. Maybe this whole monster dress up was something they had to do more often!

#tickletober #tickletober2023 #miya&mia's tickletober #legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #link #zelda #tickling #art #tickle fic

[too-deviant]

jackie and wilson.

previous | next masterlist.

pairing: luke castellan x unclaimed!reader

summary: you haven't been given a quest, but you have made it your personal mission to make luke castellan smile

word count: 6.2k

content: very juicy chapter. is all im gonnna say.

notes: i cant stay mad at my otps i fear

PART IV — better yet, she wouldn’t care 

“If I have to hear one more handjob joke, I’m gonna lose it. So please tell me you have good news.” 

Lee Fletcher’s dark blue eyes flitted up to yours, his lashes tickling just under his eyebrow when he did. His hands were fiddling with the bandage that wrapped around your hand, but they slowed when you spoke, “Bare with me, newbie.”

You sighed deeply, fighting the urge to fall back onto the cot that you were sitting on — you’d had the stupid bandage wrapped around your hand and wrist for what felt like eternity, but was really only five days. You should be thankful, really, since the last time you’d broken your wrist you’d been walking around with a thick blue cast on for a month, but you couldn’t help but be a little peeved. Capture the flag was today, and you hadn’t trained nearly as much as the others had due to your injury — when you probably should’ve been training twice as much, only because you were new and unfamiliar with the game. 

It was their fault for hyping it up; if they had just shut up about it, you wouldn’t have been as excited about taking part, broken wrist or not. But alas, demigods were barbarians — barbarians who thirsted to beat each other up in a controlled battle. Barbarians who didn’t have any regard for the new camper when they were climbing all over each other to see the freshly posted team setup, and trampled all over their perfectly good wrist. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been standing right in front of the notice board.” Luke had been saying all week. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have asked me to accompany you there, then.” You replied every time. 

Lee narrowed his gaze, flipping your hand around carefully in his, kneading at curtain parts of your skin while checking you for reactions. When you showcased nothing but annoyance at your own shit luck, he leaned back with a cheeky smile, “Well, it’s looking good. I don’t think you need this anymore.” 

He lifted up the knot of bandage he’d removed from your hand and threw it with perfect precision into the trash can on the other side of the room, before turning and grinning at you. You couldn’t help but grin back, “You’re the best.” 

“I’m told.” He shrugged, feigning a humble demeanour. You stood, and he did so with you, looking at you pointedly, “But you should still take it easy today. It’s your first game, and you’ve been here for a week. Nobody is gonna judge you for stepping back today.” 

You scoffed, rolling your newly healed wrist around with a small smile, “I’m not stepping back for shit, Fletcher. I’m beating the hell out of Chris Rodriguez.”

“He’s on your team.” 

“I don’t care.” You rebutted. Lee rolled his eyes, but ultimately let you off with a wave. “See you later!” 

The past five days had been fairly tame. When the team setup was posted on Sunday afternoon, everyone went immediately into prep mode for the game. You knew they took it seriously, but you didn’t realise how seriously they did until you found yourself being pulled out of your sleeping bag at five in the morning so you could get a headstart on training with Luke. Although you didn’t see the relevance — after you’d broken your wrist, the boy hadn’t even let you look at a spear, so you woke up at the asscrack of dawn to…sit around and watch him train. 

Thankfully, Hermes had paired up with Ares for once, and Clarisse wasn’t letting you off easily. Whenever she could, she was dragging you to the arena and teaching you how to fight one-handed. So you were more than ready, skipping down the infirmary steps with an easy smile. 

“I think I see you here more than I see you anywhere else.” 

You paused, looking up and spotting Evan, leaning gently on the porch railing. You rounded the steps and stopped in front of him, “Hey. I’ve only been here twice.”

“In…” He checked his imaginary watch, “One week. That’s gotta be a record.”

You narrowed your eyes jokingly, “Okay. I’m still learning, leave me alone.” 

“We’ll see how much you’ve learnt later today.” He quipped, running a hand through his hair. He smirked at you, “Good luck.” 

“Thanks.” You slid out, sarcasm evident in your tone. He laughed, and you smiled, rolling your eyes. 

“Come on, clumsy. Let’s get to training.” He began to walk off, and you followed, presumably to where the Hermes team were gathering for last minute preparations. 

For this game, they’d paired up with Ares and Athena, Apollo taking lead for the blue team with Hephaestus and Aphrodite. Red team also had Demeter, and the boys of cabin twelve were on the blue team. It seemed like a pretty good split; or at least you thought it was, judging by the reactions of everyone when they read the pamphlet. You might have been reading it wrong, though. After all, you were crying out in pain and cradling a shattered wrist when it happened. 

Athena was always a good cabin to pair up with, was what Evie had told you when she was taking your measurements for armour. You presumed so, goddess of war and all. But you were a little wary about the Cabin Ten girls — Aphrodite was also a warrior goddess, after all. 

Evan led you around the back of the pegasi stables and through a mudded path. The only reason you hadn’t taken off running in fear that he was leading you to your imminent death was because the wood nymphs were out and about, milling around like bodyguards. They eyed you up at first, but a few of them recognised you from your impromptu baseball session with Luke last week and told them to back off. 

“Here she is, the woman of the hour!” Clarisse exclaimed when she saw you break through the trees. A few people glanced back and smiled at you politely, a sentiment you returned as Evan led you to the front of the crowd where she stood. 

Luke was beside her, and only nodded at you. You nodded back, a glimmer in your eyes that made his hands twitch. 

“Okay, now that our whole team is in attendance, we can begin.” The Ares girl said, conviction prominent in her voice. She was made to lead, that much was obvious. “You all know the deal. I won’t repeat it, not with the blue team so close by, but…” She sent a meaningful look around the whole crew, “You know where to go. We’ve been practising this, and in a couple of hours it’ll be time to bring home yet another win.”

“It’s pretty much all in the cards for us.” Luke cropped himself into the speech, “Cabin Nine have their special machinery but we’ve got wit, power and numbers. We’ll be fine.” 

“Speaking of cabin nine.” Clarisse hopped down from the wooden crate she was standing on, “I grabbed this from them just before the teams went up. Had to make sure they didn’t sabotage it.”

She pulled a long spear out from behind some other boxes, and let it shimmer in the light. It was beautiful, and you couldn’t keep your eyes away from it. Despite it being made from celestial bronze, the forger had clearly done something to make it shine a mesmerising silver. You could see your reflection in it as it glistened under the sun. It was double ended and if you squinted, you could see tiny spikes coiling around the first ten or so inches of each end. The shaft was smooth and engraved with something you could only make out when she walked over and handed it to you. 

“Wait.” You took it out of instinct, weighing it in both hands but giving a shocked look to Clarisse, “This is mine?” 

“You’re damn right.” She smirked, “Jake was having a field day making that thing, couldn’t stop talking about it. Especially when he added these,” She poked one of the spikes that coiled around the shaft and rubbed the tips of her fingers together with a wince, “They’re lethal. You’ll be unbeatable out there with this thing.” 

“Cool.” You gave it an experimental swing, and everyone in your vicinity took a long step back. You shrugged, smiling anyway, “Whoops.” 

You felt very powerful with your new weapon, and now that you had it in your hands, you could marvel at the engravings. They were images, battles fought — a lot of them recognisable. There was Perseus killing Phineus and Polydectes with Medusa’s head, Heracles and the Nemean Lion. There was even an engraving of Tantalus stealing the ambrosia and nectar from Olympus, for some reason. You’d have to ask Jake about that later. 

“We have two hours until we need to gather at the pavilion, so we won’t bore you with details.” A young girl who you’d seen around camp before stood up and addressed the crowd. She was very little, but she exuded authority even at her young age. “But if I see you lazing around, I’ll put my dagger through your foot.”

There was a chorus of nods and murmured agreement, so the little girl stepped back and nodded at Luke, who told them all to go get ready. The crowd dispersed, but you stayed firmly put as the boy made his way over to you, the little girl following behind him. 

“Sunny.” He tried not to smile, but you saw his lips twitch. He gestured to the girl beside him, “This is my little sister Annabeth. Newly appointed Counselor of Athena.”

You raised a brow, impressed, before looking down at the girl with a smile, “Hey, Annabeth.” You introduced yourself, trying not to show her how kind of scared you were for her to not like you. 

Luckily she nodded, “Hi. You better be good with that spear.”

“I’d like to think I am.” You joked. She didn’t laugh, simply telling Luke she was going to brainstorm and left you both alone in the clearing you’d been gathered in. You raised your brows at him, “I think she gets her stoic indifference from you.” 

He cracked a smile then, grabbing your spear from you and weighing it in his own hands, “Yeah. She’s a firecracker.” He looked at you firmly, “Think you’ll be good for this game? It’s not too late to back out.”

You snatched the weapon right back from him, rubbing his finger prints from the shaft with your sleeve and sending him a half-glare, “You just want an excuse to use this instead of me. I’m fine, JoJo.”

He raised a single brow, “Fine. But if you end up back in the infirmary, I’m not gonna kiss your wounds better.”

You smirked, backing away and pointing your free finger at him daringly, “You wouldn’t be able to hold back.”

He laughed, hand on heart, “Right.” 

You were quick to retreat to the Arena where you knew Clarisse was waiting for you. A good chance to break in the new armoury and swing a spear around that wasn’t made of styrofoam or rotten wood. You caught yourself a good sweat in an hour and a half, and Clarisse was covered in bloody dots from those spikes. Even if you were injured, they still didn’t stand a chance against those. It was a comforting thought. 

You would’ve practised the whole time had it not started raining — something that confused you greatly since the camp had a controlled climate. Clarisse just rolled her eyes, though, claiming that Chiron was upping the dramatics for the game. You were unsure that the centaur could just…make it rain, but you went along with it. You’d only been a demigod for a week after all. 

Not wanting to be completely soaked by the time the game started, you retreated back to the Hermes cabin, shortening your spear down with a click and tucking it into your belt loop before you sat down. You were still on the floor, still next to the six year-old who almost always rolled on top of you in the night — you had now perfected your rollover technique to get him off you without waking him up. 

You were re-lacing your combat boots when two shadows loomed over either side of you. Without so much as a glance away from your foot, you said plainly, “Stolls. What do you want?”

A twin pair of scoffs sounded and you just rolled your eyes. The one on the left spoke first, and you thought it might have been Travis, “Bold to assume we want anything.” 

“I mean, we do.” Connor added from your right, and the indisputable sound of a hard slap came right after. “Ow! Asshole.”

“Cut to it.” You moved onto your other shoe now that the left one was wound tight. You were always pretty speedy at tying laces, a fairly random skill but a skill nonetheless. 

“Well…” Connor started. 

“Luke put us on second offence.” Travis continued. 

“But we sorta hate doing second offence.” 

“Yeah, it’s way too much work.”

Connor leaned over your shoulder so his stupid grin was visible in your peripheral vision, “And we heard that you are on side offence. Which has a much lower maiming risk.”

“So you wanna swap spots?” You deducted, looking up from your feet and giving them a blank glance. They nodded, and you sighed, “Ok, first of all, there’s two of you and one of me. You’ll have to find someone else to swap with too.”

“Already done.” Travis nodded, “Sabine loves second offence.”

“Second of all,” You sent them firm looks, “Luke isn’t going to let you change the layout right before the game. Neither is Clarisse and neither is Annabeth.”

“Which is why we aren’t telling them.” Connor said like it was obvious, holding out his hands like he’d presented you with the best idea ever conjured, “Luke and Clarisse are on first offence and Annabeth is on last defence, right by the flag. No one will know.”

“Plus,” Travis sang, wiggling his eyebrows, “This is a perfect opportunity to prove to everyone how badass you are.”

“Yeah, Luke’s had you on a leash since you hurt your wrist.” Connor raised a teasing brow, “Why not show him what you’re made of?” 

You looked between them, and the silence that stretched seemed to serve as an answer because they were smirking at you and pushing themselves up and out of the door before you could utter a word. 

The rain hadn’t settled — Chiron and his dramatics, although it appeared Mr D wasn’t too much of a fan. God or not, he still got wet with the rest of them. You stood between Luke and Clarisse, the former shielding both your heads with his black jacket — Annabeth ended up squeezing between the two of you when she couldn’t keep up with her I’m too good to hide from the rain facade. You took it as a win, she was warming up to you! 

“Welcome to our first capture the flag of the summer!” Chiron bellowed, pausing for the cheers that resounded. “The usual rules are enforced. Magic weapons are permitted, the flag must be prominently presented with no more than two guards no less than ten yards from the flag! No killing or maiming, and no gagging or bounding of prisoners. Let the games begin!” 

There was a loud echo of cheers and battle cries as the first conch sounded — they only had twenty minutes to get into position and then they would be permitted to cross the creek into enemy territory. Annabeth was quick to gather up the flag guards and send them off to their agreed location with nothing but a sharp eye before she was pulling together the defensive lines and sending them off too.

“Hey.” Just before you could walk off, Luke grabbed your attention, levelling his eyes with yours as best as he could from under his helmet. He adjusted yours and patted your shoulders, “You got this, Sunny.”

You nodded, “Damn right I do.” 

It was hard to navigate the woods in the rain, which was still pouring almost torrentially over them. The forest floor had grown slippery and wet with the new downpour, but the campers traipsed through it roughly, boots squelching as they moved. You followed the side defence through mud and grass, dodging branches and puddles until you couldn’t hear the chatter of Luke and Clarisse from behind you. Then you stopped, and just ahead of you, Sabine did the same. 

It wasn’t long before Connor and Travis were pushing through the trees and greeting the pair of you with wide grins. Sabine rolled her eyes, “Shove off, punks.”

Then she was storming in the direction they came from, and you had no choice but to follow. It was hard to keep up with her long strides, but whenever you lost her in the fog you just followed the sound of her annoyed mutters. 

“Stupid kids. Can’t be trusted on last offence let alone second. It’s not fair. I punch one kid for cheating and Luke sends me to side defence. Side! Stupid punk has been out of it for too long, needs a reality check.”

You didn’t bother responding — whether you were going to agree or come to Luke’s defence, you had no idea. You just followed her to the edge where the second offence was lined up just past the edge of the shore. Evie and Evan gave you the same confused look. 

“Those Stoll fuckers wanted an easy out.” Sabine spat, pushing a stray curl back under her helmet and heaving her giant club over her shoulder. 

The twins didn’t question or fight the decision, simply shrugging and going back to where they were tracing their own tic tac toe game into the wet sand. You stood idly, hands fiddling with your belt buckle before the second conch sounded. Almost immediately did the first and side offences cross the creek and disappear into the woods, while you pulled your spear from the ground and followed the twins and Sabine across the water moments after they were gone. 

Then it was a waiting game. 

“Fuck Apollo, Marry Athena and Kill Hermes.” 

Evie scoffed, shaking her head, “No. No way. Athena would be way controlling as a wife, you gotta bag Apollo.” 

Sabine hummed, “No. I think Athena and I would be unstoppable together.”

You looked up from your shoes and between the three that stood before you. It had been two hours and the most action you had was seeing one of your own teammates get flung right back over the creek by some cabin nine contraption that you were not too keen on meeting. Your spear rested across the back of your shoulders, your arms swung around the shaft at either side as you contemplated your own answer. 

“No, see —“ You huffed, “I couldn’t marry Athena, but only because she conjures babies with her brain. I could never win an argument, I know that for sure.”

“But we all agree on killing Hermes, right?” Evan butted in with a laugh that was immediately shared by the rest of them. He settled down and squinted for a moment, “Ok. Fuck, Marry, Kill. Iris, Nemesis and…Hypnos.” 

There was immediate discourse, everyone speaking up at once with their own opinions. Sabine thought Hypnos would be a terrible lay — He’d fall asleep halfway through! — but Iris would be overbearing as a wife. Evie said Nemesis would be the best wife, she’d never let anyone hurt you, and you were just about to add on that Iris could let you eavesdrop on other people’s conversations whenever you were bored when a loud crack echoed through the trees. 

Then it was quiet. You all shared silent looks, baring your weapons and facing the enemy side. 

Another crack, a snap of a twig. Then a crash, like something being dropped onto a pile of leaves. 

A scream, and a manic son of Aphrodite breaking through the trees and aiming a large Kopis at Evan, who was quick to defend with his dual wielding swords. His teammates followed, and the rest of you jumped into action — you were only slightly panicked when you realised your opponent was a Hephaestus kid who was nearly double your height. 

You’d seen him around sometimes, he was only a year or so younger than you. Same age as Clarisse, and definitely the same level of skill in battle. What made him even scarier was that he fought with nunchucks…fucking nunchucks! And he was good with them, too. 

But you had been taught well. You were quick to defend your body and use both ends of your spear to deflect each nunchuck from making contact. At one point, he clipped your arm pretty hard, and that was when you realised they were ribbed along the edges making for a harder hit. You bounced back though, swinging every which way and not letting him touch you again. 

Briefly, you could hear your peers’ own battles. There weren’t any shouts of pain, or cries for help, so you put all your focus on the boy before you. He had a height advantage, and swung his weapon down on you fairly often, which left your torso open when you held your spear over your head. But your reflexes were like lightning, and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t land that second hit. 

Fuelled by his own frustration, he lunged forward and tried to wrap the chain of his chucks around the shaft of your spear. He attempted to no avail a couple of times, but then he clicked a button on one of the shafts and released a crackle of energy along it. You were shocked momentarily by the reveal of his electric nunchucks that you faltered in your defence and he managed to wrangle your weapon in his own on the third try. You pulled back hard, trying to regain control and prevent his disarm, but he just pressed that damn button again and this time the volts ran through his chain and up the entire length of your spear. 

The crack that resounded was huge. Too huge to have come from those tiny nunchucks.  

Where you were expecting a sudden and painful shock through your hand and arms you instead felt a massive give. You stumbled back, shocked, but regained your footing before you could fall onto the wet ground. Your spear was in your hands, and the nunchucks were still wrapped tightly around the middle. You looked up from them to see their owner crumbled in a heap on the ground, nursing his painfully red hands while the rainfall soaked his clothes even more. 

You’d completely forgotten you weren’t alone until one of his teammates dropped their shield and ran to his aid. You looked up, expecting to meet the dumbstruck eyes of Evie and Evan, only to see their gazes fixed elsewhere. You turned your head. 

There in the grass was a giant streak of black, stretching along the shore for nearly five metres. It took a second for you to realise that it was embers — the ground had been burnt completely from where you stood to where it ended. And standing just before it was Luke and Clarisse — the blue team's flag in hand. They weren’t moving, they were staring at the burn in the floor, at you.

Your chin wobbled a little until the echo of the other team reached your ears. You looked at the pair urgently, “Move!”

And they did. Even when the blue team kids you’d been fighting  before tried to stop them, they were held back and Luke and Clarisse led your team to an easy victory. 

They cheered, and the conch sounded. Chiron emerged through the wood and smiled at them in congratulations — the whole spark debacle was nearly forgotten, campers too busy either cheering or groaning to notice the burn streak on the floor. Chiron did, though, and soon though the short lived celebration quieted down as he asked about it. 

Eyes turned to you. You shrugged, “I don’t…I don’t know what happened, it just —“

But then there were gasps. All around you. And suddenly Chiron wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at the space above your head. And then so was everyone else. 

When you looked up, squinting past the rain, and your eyes fixated on that glowing lighting bolt that floated above your head, the world went quiet. A week of hearing everything about the glory of being claimed — how at ease you would be, how reassured you would end up. None of it was true. Because for some reason, the symbol that hung above your head sent nothing but trepidation running through you. 

You almost missed Chiron's next words,  

“Zeus. Law Maker. Striker of Lightning. King of Olympus. All hail.” He shouted your name, but it didn’t feel right in your ears, “Daughter of the Sky God.”

When you couldn’t stand the sight of it — when it started to make you feel sick, when the picturesque summer camp you were finally finding yourself in started to feel tight and uncomfortable, you looked down. Everyone was kneeling, eyes on the ground. It was comforting that they weren’t staring at you anymore, but when you searched the crowd for those baby brows that held you down, they were fixated firmly on the mud. 

After your claiming, Chiron dismissed everyone sharply. They left, all talk about the capture the flag win long left behind and replaced by canards about you and your family. Your lineage. You were very prepared to stand frozen on the other side of the creek for the rest of the day but the centaur ushered you into his office in the big house just as the rain stopped. 

The next hour was a muffled blur. You felt as if you had just been plunged underwater and all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears — you vaguely registered Chiron and Mr. D asking you a load of questions about your childhood and whether there were any signs of your parentage along the way. You couldn’t answer that. 

They Iris-Messaged your mother — who was in her office and jumped up startled when the call came through. You might have been in a hazy funk, but you could tell the surprise on her face when Chiron informed her of your claiming was genuine. She’d had no idea. That, out of all things, angered you the most. 

“This new information will have caused quite a stir in Olympus.” Was one of the last things he said, “But you should be fine, since you’re seventeen.”

“Why does me being seventeen mean anything?” 

Zeus’ Cabin was subpar to say the least. Alright if you’re only going in there to worship the guy, not so alright if you’re planning on living there. There weren’t any beds, but there were alcoves lining the walls that you tucked your sleeping bag into so you didn’t have to look at the giant statue of Zeus that stood at the end of the room. For good measure, you chucked a spare blanket over its head — he could smite you for it, you didn’t really care anymore. 

You zoned back into reality when a knock sounded on your door, and you realised it was nightfall. Dinner time. You stood from your perch on one of the many benches that sat in the room — you thought they’d have better use in the pavilion, where Hermes kids were practically falling off the benches there were so little of them — and headed over to the huge double doors, heaving one open and breathing deep at the workout it took just to see who was at the door. 

It was Evie, and for some reason that made a pit of disappointment form in your gut. You sent her a weak smile nonetheless, “Hi.”

She smiled back, full of pity, “Hey. Just thought I’d come check on you, we haven’t seen you in hours.”

“I didn’t like them staring at me.” You said plainly, stepping out into the open air. The rain had stopped now, the sky clear, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

“Yeah, I get that.” Was her heartfelt reply. You felt bad for being so plain with her, but there was really only one person you wanted to see, “But, um, it’s dinner right about now. Wanna…come with?”

You didn’t really wanna, but you were starving and almost certain that nobody would be bringing you any food, so you shrugged, “Sure.” 

The large door shut on its own when you stepped away from it, and Evie jumped at the sound. You folded your arms and walked alongside her in silence until you were forced to part at the pavilion. She tried to say something — maybe a goodbye, a good luck. Maybe a we can’t be friends anymore because you’re forbidden. You didn’t stick around to check, walking over to the empty Zeus table where you unfortunately belonged. 

You filled your plate, hungry from the workout of capture the flag and exhaustion from the day, but your appetite was ruined when you saw Luke walk in and avoid your eyes completely in favour of sitting at his usual spot at the Hermes table. You hadn’t seen him all day, he hadn’t seen you, and yet here he was; ignoring your existence like he used to. It sort of hurt. 

So you dropped your fork, leaned your elbows on the untouched wood and stared at nothing. Only hours earlier were you at the top of your game, happy and ready to use your skills in capture the flag, show your friends what you could do. Now? You were completely alone, completely miserable, and completely ready to go back to Vermont. 

You wanted nothing more than to climb into your bed and cry. 

People started to stand. Heading in the direction of the campfire that you were definitely going to skip. Some Hermes kids stood, Luke included, and started a slow stroll down there too, past your table and down the hill. Chris was talking animatedly to his friends on either side of him, but Luke didn’t look very happy with whatever it was he was saying. Before you could build up the courage to call out for him, beg him to look you in the eyes and still stay your friend, he was shoving Chris roughly, the boy falling into your table with a grunt. 

“What the hell, man?” He sneered, brushing himself off. Luke just glared. He scoffed, “You’ve changed, bro. And not for the better.”

Then he was walking off in a huff, and his friends were following him. Luke met your eyes for half a second before storming off in the opposite direction — and with the influence of the tug on your heart, you followed. 

He was halfway to the Hermes cabin when you caught him, and you were thrown back to the time he got into that…thing with Dean from Ares and you chased him all the way up the hill. This time, it was down, and you were a lot less out of breath when you reached out and tugged on his elbow. 

He turned to you, “What?”

You paused, hand falling to your side. You swallowed, shrugged, “I…uh…”

Luke tightened his jaw, eyes flicking above your head like if he looked at you any longer his facade would break. He took in a deep breath and met your gaze once more, “Go to the campfire.”

“What —?”

“Go to the campfire.” He was backing away, “Entertain your fans, give out autographs. Conjure some more lighting. I don’t know. Do something, but don’t do it here.” 

You weren’t having that. Your gaze hardened, “Hey. You’re not allowed to say that to me after you ignored me all day.”

“I —“ He went for a rebuttal, but came up short, licking his lips in frustration. “You disappeared.”

“I was in the Big House, being interrogated.” You explained, annoyance clear in your tone, “I would’ve liked it if my best friend was waiting for me when I got out but unfortunately he decided he hated me like everyone else and I had to cry alone in my cabin.” 

He paused then, taking slow steps back towards you and meeting your saddened gaze. His brows furrowed, “I’m your best friend?” 

You cracked a tiny smile, “Of course you are, idiot.” 

His nod was barely there, but you saw it. You also saw his smile, small like yours and gone in a flash. “I don’t hate you.” He said, “I don’t care that Zeus is your dad. It’s just…”

“He forgot about me.” 

“What?”

You shrugged, folding your arms. There, standing in the middle of the cabins and staring at Luke Castellan, you admitted out loud what you’d been avoiding since you left the Big House, “Zeus. He forgot about me. That's why I never got attacked by monsters, because my deadbeat father was so busy turning his kid into a tree that he forgot he had another one.” 

Even under the tears brimming in your lids and through the lump on your throat, you saw Luke flinch. A minute movement, but you caught it like you caught all of his other details. The freckle on his eyebrow, the scar on his forehead that other people missed because they were too busy staring at his big one. The flinch when you brought up the tree. Thalia Grace, is what Chiron had called her. 

“I’m sorry for avoiding you.” He said in a low murmur. “Thalia was a friend of mine and Annabeth’s. Brought back some rough memories.” 

“Oh.” You breathed, “Oh, gods. I’m so sorry.” 

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his torso before you could think about it. Big bad Luke definitely didn’t like hugs, but there you were; hugging him and staining his camp shirt with your salty tears. You couldn’t help it — you were so full of emotions that a single hug that he hadn't even reciprocated was bringing you to tears. 

Then he hugged you back, and you started bawling. 

Bawling like a baby into his chest while he stood there and held you. Crying about your dad who forgot about you, your sister who died while you lived a happy life, your nonexistent purpose in life because you were over sixteen now and there was nothing for you. Maybe being a forbidden kid was enough, but not really. You weren’t forbidden enough for them, apparently. 

“Sorry for shoving Chris.” He spoke into your hair. You pulled your head back enough to meet his eyes, “He was saying shit about you and Thalia and it pissed me off. I know that you want me to be better, happier or whatever, and I am trying but…”

“I don’t care.”

His lips shut with a smack, “What?”

You let out a sad chuckle, “Be miserable. I don’t care, I like you for who you are. Plus, I get it. Y’know? This isn’t the happiest life.” 

Luke looked at you with an expression so genuine and heavy that it sort of scared you, but you let it burn you. You’d let him burn you forever more. Then he let out a breath, tinged with relief, and relaxed his forehead onto your own. You stayed like that, heads pressed together and arms wrapped around one another, until footsteps bled into your ears. 

You pulled away from each other and spotted Annabeth, who was making her way over very quickly, trudging through the grass that was still wet from earlier. 

“Anna Banana.” Luke squinted, his new way of smiling, “What are ya’ doing over here?”

The girl stopped between the two of you and ignored her brother in favour of looking at you, “So, you’re Zeus’ kid.”

“Yup.”

“I knew your sister. She was my sister, too, for a bit.” She said, and you thought it sounded sad, but the girl hid her emotions well. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You shrugged — it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Zeus’. You sent her a kind smile. 

She returned it, glancing at Luke then, “Don’t call me that.” 

He chucked, patting her on the head and yanking on one of her braids. She huffed and smacked his hand away, but smiled nonetheless. Then she looked back at you, “You were good with that spear today. Maybe Athena could pair up with Zeus for the next game.”

“Maybe they could.” You nodded. 

She nodded back, before announcing her departure and heading off. You looked at Luke with a proud grin, “She likes me.” 

He smiled fully, amused, “She does.”

“You like me.”

A little sheepish, “I do.”

“So who cares if daddy dearest doesn’t?” You settled on, tilting your head, “We got each other.” 

Luke nodded, and you admired the way he looked. He was handsome, that you knew, but he seemed particularly beautiful under the moon, alone with you.

🏷️ @katherines-imagines @lovingjasontoddmakemewanttocry @jennapancake @cobaltskiez @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @m00ng4z3r @ma1dita @woodlandwrites @tsireyasgf @theo-notts-doll @iammightsadyall @fennecswife @csifandom @evilwrongdoer @blueberryjune @dancing-inasnowglobe @acidaciruela @solshaven @rosieandthethorns @sofiacblair @obxstiles @lukecastellanirl (comment to be removed/added!) (also sorry if some of these didn’t work idk what’s going on)

#sunny!verse #who gasped #guys tell me this is good #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #@lia’s works #luke castellan x you #thanks to the anon who gave me the idea for her godly parent

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Reborn in Baldur's Gate 3: Chapter 1

Plot: You’ve been reincarnated.  It’s the realization you come to when the tiefling offering you a health potion introduces himself as Tav.  You died and your soul revived in Baldur's Gate 3, at the beginning of the game no less.  But you only have the memories of your past life on Earth, and none of your current one.  

Tav invites you to join him on his journey, despite your lack of abilities or maybe because of it.  You might as well go along with it; where else would you go with no memory of who you currently are, or knowledge of anything that lies outside of the narrative?

There is much to discover about your life in Baldur's Gate, and what transpires relies on the tiefling leading your group as Tav.

Word Count: 2.5K

A/N: This is very self-indulgent so there will by a lot of Gale and Astarion.

-------------------

“I’m Tav.”

He’s a tiefling, you recall.  Tall and bulky with curled horns.  The dark gray skin tells you he’s descended from Mephistopheles, and his simple leather gear tells you he’s a barbarian.  Huh.  Yeah, that makes sense, he’s Tav, the hero of the game!  Or…the villain?  Your head pounds as memories flood back to you—tieflings, bards, goblins, vampires—you, sitting at a computer debating which choice would garner you the most favour with your companions in…

“Baldur’s Gate,” you mumble.  You slap a hand over your mouth, staying on your knees as you blink at the tiefling.  At Tav.  He arches his brows and kneels beside you, offering you a small vial of red liquid.

“You’re from Baldur’s Gate, too?” he asks.  “Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”

Without much thought you take the already opened vial from him and swallow it down in one small gulp.  With a deep breath the pounding in your head subsides and you can think a little clearer.  Maybe not clear enough to fully comprehend that you’re currently in a video game, or that there’s a small wriggling behind your left eye which means…

More images come to you, a mind flayer holding a worm with too many teeth to your eye,  a githyanki—Lae’zel—pointing a sword at you, and then falling from the ship.  The nautiloid.  Tav’s memories of the ship.

Tav winces as the visions fade.  “Guess you got one of those, too.”

A chill runs down your spine, through each and every bone of your body until the squirming thing behind your eye stops movement all together.  

“I uh…”  You look around at the crash area, taking in the rocks and splotches of fire dotting the land on one side and water on your left, until you meet the gaze of a raven-haired half-elf.  

“This one doesn’t seem to be all there,” she says.  Her voice is as smooth and condescending as you remember, and you find it endearing despite the insult.

“Give them a moment,” Tav responds over his shoulder.  “It’s a lot to take in.”

Yes, especially because this is most definitely a dream.  A very vivid, painful, exciting, insane dream.

“What’s your name?” 

You fear all you can do is blink.  You tell them your name, voice as shaky as your body.  There’s a tremble in your hands that you can’t control, even with a hard grip on the now empty vial.  “And thank you…for the potion.”

Tav lifts, holding a large sharp-nailed hand out to you.  “Can you stand?”

You nod, taking his hand and letting him lift you to your feet. You let your hand drop to dust off your clothes, nothing that you remember wearing.  The last thing you recall was going to bed in a tank top and shorts but you’re now wearing a dark blue overcoat atop loose fitting pants and a fitted shirt.  The borders of the coat are stitched with gold swirls, and based on the softness of everything you wear it has to be expensive.  Somehow, after everything (whatever the Hells that involved) you are quite clean.  Not to mention the bag that hangs at your hip beneath your coat is quite heavy, and another bag that wraps around your waist and sits at your back has the contents clinking together when you move.

You look like a caster of some kind, but you can’t tell which.  You can’t feel anything that would indicate your abilities, but some cold sensation at the back of your mind tells you you can do something.  Like another limb sits in your mind, waiting to be moved.

“We don’t have time for stragglers,” Shadowheart says.

“Yet I helped you,” Tav counters.  There’s a playfulness to his tone that doesn’t match his furrowed brow.  

Shadowheart concedes.  “Fair enough.  You’re welcome to join us in our search for a healer.”

You nod.  Yes, a healer!  They’ll be able to—pain strikes your temples as another memory clouds your mind.  

A truck careening at you, horn blaring—a sharp hit of adrenaline and then…here.

“Oh my God I’ve been isekaied.”  Your revelation earns you quizzical looks from Tav and Shadowheart.  Reincarnated.  Just like those cheesy but addicting books about a girl being reincarnated as a villainess in some cheesy addicting romance novel.  You press your hands to your face, feeling familiar features but still wary.  “Quick, what do I look like?”

“A lunatic,” Shadowheart answers.

Tav hesitates, but describes you.  You.  Not some other face, not a character you recall from the game but you.  Regular human you. You sigh, relief flooding over you.

“As…interesting as this conversation is, we should get moving,” Tav says.

“Agreed.”  Shadowheart doesn’t move until Tav heads to the only direction you can go, near part of the crashed ship.  

“We need to find Lae’zel,” Tav adds.

“Less agreeable,” Shadowheart says.  “She’s probably long gone by now, if not dead.”

“Well we should still keep an eye out.”

You follow the two into the still burning wreckage where they suddenly stop and draw their weapons—Tav a large axe, and Shadowheart her mace and shield.  

“Intellect devourers,” you conclude.  Three sit at the far end of the ship, scurrying towards you at a frightening speed.  With one slash of his axe Tav takes out two of them before they can get close to you, and Shadowheart smacks the other one down.  All defeated in what?  Three seconds? 

The three brains bleed out and flop to their sides, clawed limbs twitching.

“Vile creatures,” Tav says, holstering his axe.  You expect the two to keep moving and check the nearby bodies for gold and supplies, just as you do in the game, but they don’t.  They walk right past the dead man without rifling through his pockets and as you step by you feel your stomach lurch.  To see a bloody disfigured body in reality felt very different from the game. The vacant eyes staring upward, pieces of flesh torn from his stomach…It isn’t until a hand covers your eyes and directs you forward do you realize you’d stopped.  

“Just keep moving,” Tav says, keeping his hand by the side of your head so you can’t see the body.  When his hand falls you keep your eyes on his swinging tail, and follow after him as he turns and moves into the sun.

Barrels and a broken down cart let you know what’s coming next—who’s coming next.  

Your excitement strikes you then, still shaky and confused but awake.  You’re in Baldur’s Gate 3, with Tav and Shadowheart, and hopefully all the others.  

Your eyes scan the water nearby, debris scattered everywhere until you spot a dagger on the dock.  Tav and Shadowheart watch you dart over and pick it up.

“I thought you would be one to attack with words, not knives,” Shadowheart says coolly.

You stash the dagger in a boot, smiling at Shadowheart.  Gods. She was pretty as pixels but seeing her in the flesh, she was something else.  “Well, words aren’t always the best weapons.”

“Can I get some help?”

You recognize the voice without needing to see the speaker.  Astarion is just up the hill waiting to ambush Tav and…kill him depending on how he answers.  

Based on how Tav darted ahead at the sound of someone in trouble (albeit fake trouble) you figured it wouldn’t turn out too terribly.  So they had skipped over robbing the dead, and didn’t explore every corner of the map looking for treasure chests…that didn’t mean things would be different with each companion intro, right?  There’s a plot here, and it has to be followed to a certain degree…right?  There were no screen pop ups to decide dialogue and you all appeared to have free will, which was good.

Right?

Your thoughts did little to comfort you as you climbed the hill to find Astarion already pointing his blade at Tav who was apparently perceptive enough to dodge rolling around in the ground with the vampire.  You stopped next to Shadowheart, at ease just watching the situation unfold.

Both men twitch and writhe as their parasites connect.  When their visions fade Astarion questions it, and Tav answers honestly about being in the mind flayer ship and what the worms can do.

You study Astarion’s face as he realizes that he’s somewhat free, but there’s a time limit to the incubation period.  Tav offers for him to join your trio, and just like you remember, he agrees.

“Splendid,” Astarion says.  “Lead on.”

At that the vampire meets your eyes.  Icicles dance up your spine until they pierce the back of your head, making you wince and hold a hand against the spot.  

You grunt at the sudden pain, the sound quiet but drawing attention all the same.  You wave the eyes away from you with your free hand.  “Sorry.  Head still hurts a bit from…having a tadpole put inside it.”

Nobody questions that, though you know it was something else.  Every time your eyes even flit in Astarion’s direction you can feel a push at the back of your head, that phantom limb clenching as if trying to stretch and release itself.  You wish you could say it was the tadpole, but it feels nothing like when you connected with Tav.  

“Well let’s just try to keep our worms separate,” Astarion says, seemingly at you.  “I don’t need to see what’s in your head anymore than you do mine.”

His eyes linger a moment on Tav.  You nod your agreement though he isn’t looking at you now.

“I saw some footprints along another path,” Tav announces.  “There could be other survivors.”

There doesn’t seem to be any question as to who is in charge.  Shadowheart insists on searching for a healer but with a quick convincing from Tav you’re all headed towards a strange looking purple sigil.  

“Looks unstable,” Shadowheart says.

“Best left alone,” Tav agrees.  It was just like a friend's first play through that thought the sigil would kill them, so they never had Gale join their party.  It wasn’t a totally unfounded theory—swirling, sparking voids did seem like something that shouldn’t be touched but everything in this world had a purpose.  Anything out of place or, well, glowing, was important to the story.

But then the group is walking toward the bodies of three goblins discussing supplies.  

They’ll steal from goblins but not humans?  Seems odd but maybe you’re the weird one being so willing to pillage the dead, no matter their race.  You frown, looking back at the sigil and knowing who is inside.  “You sure you don’t want to see why it’s like that?”

Astarion is observing his nails while Tav loots the goblin bodies.  Shadowheart kicks one of the bodies out of her way once fully plundered and looks back at you.  “Be my guest.  But if you get sucked in don’t expect me to come looking for you.”

“I’ll come look for you,” Tav states with a cheeky grin, hands inside a dead goblins pockets. It makes you smile back, so…kind and disarming.  You recall barbarians didn’t have high charisma, but Tav seemed to have it in spades.  Or perhaps your recent head injury was clouding your judgement—after all your reaction to being reincarnated, to being dead, was quite tame. 

“Ah, a true hero.”  Astarion looks between you and Tav, eyes narrowing as if trying to solve a puzzle.

You turn your attention back to the sigil, taking a small step towards it when an arm pops out. 

“A hand?” a voice calls.  “Anybody?”

You slap the waxing hand immediately without a thought.

“Perhaps I should have been more specific,” Gale says.  “A helping hand please?”

“Oh, right!”  You quickly take his hand in yours and tug to no avail.  

“Keep trying!”

You pull harder, wondering if you were going to end up holding a severed arm in your hand as the sigil sparks brighter and buzzes with energy.  You choose to ignore those thoughts and keep trying to free the wizard. 

With one final pull the person connected to the arm comes tumbling out of the sigil.  If it had been Tav to pull Gale free you’re certain it would have been a smooth experience, and he would have stepped back and dodged getting shoved to the ground by the sudden lack of resistance.  But it wasn’t Tav, it was you, and instead of dodging the wizard your feet tangled with each other and you both went down. 

The wind is knocked from your lungs with Gale atop you, his forehead connecting with your sternum and leaving you gasping for air.  Strands of his hair fall onto your lips, soft and smelling of something spicy while his left arm is wrapped around your middle, the other braced against the ground.  You realize he’d been trying to protect you on the way down, but wasn’t quick enough to cover the back of your head, which now throbs from the fresh battering.  

“Ouch,” you croak, voice barely making it out of your throat.  Footsteps approach until Tav, Shadowheart, and Astarion are hovering over you, each with a small smile.  Well…Astarion’s is more of a smirk…

Gale pushes himself off of you and before he can say anything Tav has his hands beneath your underarms and is pulling you up.  His hands slide to your back until you’re steady enough to stand on your own and thank him, rubbing at the back of your head again. 

Throbbing is better than stabbing, you suppose.

“Apologies,” Gale says as he smooths his hair back, “I’m usually much better at this.”

You continue to rub the back of your head as he and Tav exchange dialogue, much of it going in one ear and out the other as you focus on the pain radiating in your skull.  You squeeze your eyes shut and let your hands fall to your sides, giving in to the fact you can’t rub away whatever sensation is there.

“And you my friend.”  Gale is in front of you, drawing your gaze to meet his.  “I am truly sorry for landing on you, but extremely grateful for the help.”

You can’t stop your smile at him anymore than you could with Tav.  “Happy to help.”

His eyes stay on you a moment longer than appropriate, but when they drape down your body you think he’s almost sizing you up.  For a fight, or romance, or maybe to steal your coat you aren’t sure.

You look to Tav for direction, waiting for the leader to…well, lead.  Lae’zel should be next, but that’s when you notice you have an extra member.  With you there it makes five travellers, but nobody has been sent to camp yet.  Wherever that is.  While you’d like a moment to sit and organize your thoughts, the idea of heading somewhere on your own was terrifying. 

“I hear voices over that ridge,” Astarion announces.  Everyone turns towards where he’s looking, just a few feet ahead where the path winds up and you know you’ll find two tieflings looking at Lae’zel.  But you can’t hear them yet.

“Let’s check it out.”  Tav is already moving before anyone can object.  And like ducklings you follow him with Astarion, Gale, and Shadowheart.

Taglist:

@half-poison-and-half-hope

#reborn in baldur's gate 3 with no memory and plenty of gold #x reader #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios x reader #astarion x reader

[love-toxin]

Ellie i want astarion to fuck my mouth

im SO sorry queen i had to make the meow meow a lil emotionally vulnerable while im at it pls forgive me 🐸

(cws: gn!reader, vampire fuckery, bg3 spoilers, oral (m! receiving), teasing, possibly ooc astarion bc im only starting act 2 LOL, jealousy sex, deepthroating, a touch of feral/rough sex, facefucking, astarion is so in love it makes him look stupid <3)

word count: 3.9k

Once again, an evening spent with your mind somewhere else is interrupted by something you weren't expecting. The fire gleams from the pit and washes warmth across your face, a glow cast over your skin as you sit with your fingers white-knuckling a cold mug. Your companions are off on their own save for Scratch, who despite being a bit furrier than the tavern's normal patrons sleeps quietly at your feet. It barely took any convincing to let him in considering the rather stellar reputation you've earned yourselves–not to mention you're sharing a spot around the hearth with a couple frizzy-haired barbarians and a Tabaxi bard strumming out a tune on her lute. All seems peaceful, the noise just relaxed enough that you can let your mind wander about all manner of things. Ponder all sorts of worries you have yet to deal with on your adventure.

But it seems you're destined for an interruption. The back of your neck prickles from nowhere, a chill slithering coldly down your spine…from the corner of your eye you spot him, his pale hand vanishing behind a door on the second floor of the inn.

He's watching you. That's your cue, his methods of distraction always seeming so trivial and out of the way–he could always just come over and tap you on the shoulder. But Astarion likes the chase and isn't much of a fan of sincerity, so it's only natural for you to pass your half-empty mug off to one of the barbarians, get a bumbled shout of gratitude and a slap on the back, and slip away from the night's bustle of the tavern to thump your way up the winding stairs. All four of the rooms have been rented out by you and your party but one will sit empty tonight–aside from your gear, you're fairly certain your room will be unoccupied as you find other sleeping arrangements.

Tap tap. Just in case there's danger looming too close to comfort, you and your partner have a particular signal. Just as your knuckles come away from the door the tapping echoes back, tap tap, and you smother a grin as your fist closes around the knob for you to step inside.

The oak door thuds behind you at once and clicks softly as the latch falls in place. Nothing but the ire of a god or a drunken ogre could interrupt you now….but there's not much to interrupt if there's only one of you here, and as your eyes sweep the simple room you don't spot hide nor hair of your darling creature of the night. You've got a teasing remark on the tip of your tongue, ready to let loose-

"Don't. Move."

-But before you can even take a breath, there's a blade's edge digging into your throat and a cold, lean body pressed up against your backside. Effectively caught between a rock and a hard place. Prey. Astarion's whispered commands, however deep and punctuated they are, only send shivers of delight through you rather than true fear–and you find yourself struck with a dumb grin, not at all immune to the soft touch of his lips as they graze your tender neck from behind. He's got his arm pulled so snug around your waist it feels more like the grasp of a lover than a robbery, but that's because it is.

"Light on valuables, huh?" You tease over your shoulder, your hands braced against his arm as it holds the knife so dangerously close to your pulse point.

"You aren't. Show me what you've got, or I'll look myself." He murmurs back, breath cool as it puffs shallowly against your skin. It's somehow sweet when he tries to be so hard-to-get with you–maybe, you wonder, he doesn't yet realize how attached you are to him despite all you've been through already. Enough that you don't feel the bite of harsh, real danger in your peripheral, which sooner leads him to loosen his grip and push you forward with a palm on the base of your spine–all while tugging the knife out of the way, of course. If you asked him, he'd say it's because it would be a waste to spill such divine blood all over the ground.

As you turn yourself around to face him, you come eye-to-eye with the glaring tip of the knife yet again. Astarion is half-dressed, a bit disheveled, looking as though he's on the cusp of needing a drink again. Those carmine-coloured eyes echo some deep, violent desperation, one that shakes his voice as he commands you with total sincerity to strip.

"Will you join me?" You ask, your voice tinged with adoring hope. It irritates him, hope. Usually, at least. Usually it doesn't rub him as wrong when you're the one with hope in your heart, but evidently tonight is different if his scoff is anything to go by.

"That depends." His gaze flits away as he worries his lower lip between his teeth, not as careful about nicking it with his fangs as he usually is. Something surely must be wrong if he's acting so strange, especially since nothing has happened lately that's seemed to upset him…at least not that he's told you. It could be something else entirely, or something you don't have any idea about. Once he meets your eyes again, the hand he's gripping the dagger in lowers slowly. It was just a prop, after all–never a real threat. "...So long as you don't forget who you pledged your love to. Me. I won't stand for all this…this nonsense I've seen of late."

You cock your head in reply with a raised brow, questioning and curious of what on earth he could be referring to. Astarion rolls his eyes but it's most assuredly a gesture to mask how weak your sincerity makes him, your honesty painfully boring but, at the same time, endlessly endearing. With a sigh he tosses the knife aside in an arc, the handle flipping over blade for it to fall perfectly on the tip, sunk half an inch into the table by the bed. He's got his attention locked on it for long enough that the shuffling of fabric is what turns his head back towards you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips on instinct as he watches your clothing slip off your positively tantalizing figure.

"We're gonna have to pay for that, you know." Whatever you're saying goes right through both ears, the way your giggles shake your shoulders being all that he can focus on right now. He can barely tear his eyes away once you've wiggled out of your bottoms, and you're swift to remind him of his stare when you cheekily throw the travel-worn trousers in his direction. But all he does is grab a handful of them and press them to his face, not soaking in the scent as much as the undeniable warmth from just coming off your legs. They're only an introduction, however. They're tossed right back at you without pause, and fall to the floor in a heap that Astarion carelessly steps over to get to you. To get closer. He can never really get close enough, ever.

Even an inch away from you, though, your love does nothing to close that last shred of distance between you. Where he was eager to touch you just a few minutes ago, now he keeps his hands down like he's nervous about grazing you with just his fingertips. But despite that you can clearly see how he keeps eyeing your lips, so if he won't meet you the rest of the way, you simply have to do it for him. A quick peck on the chin is too much yet not enough–he endures a noticeable quiver through his body that he tries to stifle, but he can't resist raising a hand to your neck and tilting your head higher, just enough that you won't miss this time when he plants his mouth on yours. Deeper this time, much deeper, with his tongue making an appearance to slither from a cold embrace to your unbearably hot one.

You'd love nothing more than to take it further right here, right now, but there's something stopping Astarion that you'd like to get to the bottom of. Just as he's getting a little lost in your kiss, his eyes shut and fangs scraping at your delicate tongue as it moves with his, you break it off with a warm hand pressed to his chest and bring him back to your unspoken question.

"Azzy, what's wrong?"

"Don't call me that," He snaps back suddenly, brow furrowed in immediate annoyance. He doesn't move away though–clearly you're a bit too enticing for him to rethink the embrace he has you in, nor the fact that you're bare and warm for nobody else but him. "So childish. Or did you simply forget my name already?"

"I could never forget you. Now tell me what's wrong, Az. You're acting weird."

This time, he just shoots you a glare that could kill you on the spot. It's damning, his fury terrifying enough written so plainly on his face….but it also stirs up something within you that won't be sated by words alone.

"Last time, darling. I'm warning you. And it's nothing. Just…" A shake of his head sends his perfect curls flying about, each one falling back into place more perfectly than he's coming across right now. "...I wish you had been around when I was alive. That's all."

"What do you mean?"

"The others are all…alive. Breathing. Warm. Some of them look at you like–like you aren't with me. Like they could sweep you off your feet without even a thought." He says it with so much defeat in his tone, so gently with so soft an edge that you almost can't hear it with the muffled sounds of the tavern under your feet. It's rare to hear him sound so…sad. It's a bit odd to think, but he often comes off younger than he is when he speaks this way. "Maybe, if…if I was with you, then…" He huffs, flinching away from your hand as it grazes his cheek. Yet, within a moment, he's turning back and nuzzling his face into your palm like he can't get enough, his hand coming up to brace your delicate wrist as if he's afraid you really will pull away from him. "...If I was with you, maybe I would never be what I am now."

"But I like who you are now." You insist, the smile slowly returning as it creases the edges of your lips. "I love you, Astarion. I mean it, I always will. Forever."

"Forever is a very long time, my sweet." You shoot him that naive look like you don't really get the gravity of what you're saying. You don't, on second thought–you haven't suffered through two immortal centuries like he has. "...Fine. You love me? Prove it, then."

His tone grows dark, as does the once-vibrant colour in his eyes. Something swirls about behind them like a shadow in the water of a blood-red lake.

"On your knees."

Huh?

"I said," The air grows hot around you despite the chill of his body on yours, a purr rising in the back of his throat as he pushes very gently on your shoulder. "Get on your knees."

And with his command hanging in the air, you follow so obediently you give him a pleasing shiver down the length of his spine and back. You sink down to the floor in one long, fluid motion, barely breaking eye contact as you brace yourself against his pale thighs. They don't even need your touch to come undressed, his pants falling with his thumbs hooked into the waist and tugged down just as easily as you did. He wastes no time in stepping out of them and kicking them away, but he doesn't really have the option to when you're already mesmerized by the image of what lies beneath–once the tip of his flushed, heavy cock sprung free of catching on his belt, you had your gaze glued to it like it's the first time you've ever laid eyes on him.

"I'll never get tired of this view." He smirks, all pompous and smug with no idea of the test of self-control he's about to face. Because although you may be the one beneath him, where you belong in this scenario, the haze over your eyes as you stare openly should be enough of a tell that your mouth is already watering. Astarion's gentle humming hits your ears as he takes himself in hand, tugging out a few slow strokes for your entertainment before he settles on holding it by the base, and guides it down towards your lips. He's so pale everywhere else that the ruddiness of the rubbery head is almost uncanny, but the pale pink blush that spreads throughout gives his flesh such a delicate look that you can't help but dive right in.

One slow, tentative lick up the tip, and Astarion has it written all over his face–he isn't going to be finished until you've got some bruises, that's for sure. You try another and he finally gets a grip on your head, fingers woven through your hair to keep you steady and to calm his trembling hands. Those soft kitten licks are always his weakness, each one a bit braver and deeper but peppered with hot little kisses in between. You press them all down the shaft and back, smearing the stiff flesh with spit and giving him a tongue bath that feels like it never ends–not that he wants it to, though. Those shaky breaths overhead are a telltale sign otherwise.

"More," He purrs, half-needy and half-demanding in the same breath. You kiss over his knuckles that still grip the base of his shaft, and can't help but smile up at him as he quietly taps the head against your lips, tap tap. Twice he knocks and begs silently for entry, and soon he releases a sigh from the depths of his belly as you swallow him down and welcome him in. "Show me what I deserve."

Astarion certainly doesn't need to tell you twice, he barely needs to tell you once. As soon as he's settled snugly where he belongs, he lets go of the grasp he had and watches in awe as you swallow. Every inch he thinks you can't take more of disappears inside your mouth, slid further and further until he starts to curve into the bend of your throat and loses the last vestiges of his willpower. All his strength saps into you like his teeth on your flesh–where he stole your power in your blood, you take it back just as easily with a flick of your tongue and the incessant squeeze of your throat.

"Getting impatient? Already? We've only just begun, love." You can feel the heat of his eyes shift as they turn further downward, no clothing able to serve as a boundary to hide the needy grind of your thighs together as you kneel. The reaction of your body to his rather lewd commentary doesn't help you either, and in one sweep of his gaze over your exposed figure he can see everything you're thinking like it's written across your skin in ink. "Don't stop rubbing those legs together. Show me just how badly you want me, darling."

It might be more embarrassing if you didn't know Astarion had seen it all already, and that he would most definitely be seeing much more of everything below in the future. The fact that you trust him with those fangs around all your sensitive areas is touching…and it also means he trusts you enough to be a little rougher when you're returning the favour. You've degraded yourself to a humiliating extent by being with him, by getting down on your knees for him no less, and with him wrapped so tight and cozy in your throat he's got a look like he's ready to make himself at home.

With a moan slipped in between the pauses, your beloved curls his thumbs down behind the shell of each ear, his palms laid flat against your temples so he won't let go so easily. The drawing back is easy, his cock parting less and less of the space inside until he's barely brought it back to the tip–but just as you're getting in a taste of his salty sweat and bitterly rich arousal as it sits heavy on your tongue, Astarion flashes you a wink and braces your face for impact as he thrusts back in. Your heat coddles every inch of him and shakes loose a string of raspy moans from his chest, while the scrape of your nails against his thighs and your soft, squirming tongue pressed flat against his girth only has him burning hotter. The first time is a tight fit for sure, but as he enters into a steady rhythm of pulling out and gliding past your sweet, stretched lips, each buck of his hips grows smoother and it gets easier with time. Sooner than either of you expected, you barely have to focus at all–you can sit nicely and let your attention wander up to his lusty gaze, idly suckling at whatever he manages to stuff inside for as long as he's able to keep it there.

"I know it's on your mind already, but tell me I'm beautiful, my sweet." Astarion croons like a cat to a mouse, speaking so sweetly like he isn't still ravaging the most tender areas of your throat, and fucking away any possibility of you speaking properly for the next little while. And he shows no signs of stopping, your squeaky, muffled moans as he grinds the heft of his cock against your tongue too delicious for him to think about it. But eventually he does, managing somehow to pry himself off of your beautiful, fucked-out, spit-slicked face to give you a chance. "Go on. Speak."

"Please," You croak, head hazy and your face dark with warmth. "You're so beautiful, Astarion, please. I love you."

"Will you love me forever?" You nod, the answer barely a hair's breadth from your swollen lips.

"For eternity."

Astarion takes a moment, a pause that lasts a lifetime or more, but the genuine joy that starts to spread across his smile could keep you alive for a century of centuries. It's not one you see often or ever see, but that makes it just as precious as any gold or treasure you might come across in your lifetime.

"...Eternity it is then, darling." One of those cold hands moves to stroke your hair, his touch fleeting yet his grip tight with desire as you lean in for a kiss–not on his lips, but rather the tip of his dick, of which is absolutely soaked by your influence…and of his readiness for the end, as you can see by the veins pulsing up the sides and the whole length twitching with anticipation. You can feel those little spasms through your tongue as it meets his slit, Astarion's chest heaving and fangs glinting as he gives in to the urges to nestle himself back inside. As much as he wants a proper kiss, he'll get one as soon as those frantic hips slow completely instead of picking up speed as he meets your delectable heat again. He could be using you for his pleasure alone for another two hundred years, and in your endless desire to please him you're not sure you'd oppose it–you know for a fact that once the centuries had passed, Astarion would be spending twice as long with his head down between your legs.

"One day, I'll tear that wretch of a vampire's heart out through his stomach," Astarion growls out of nowhere, suddenly sounding completely feral in the span of a moment. The ferocity with which he's fighting the tightness of your throat increases too, thought not much more than he already was–if you touched your neck you would feel the bulge of him sunk so deep he can see it, the rise and fall of that soft flesh tightening the knot in the pit of his belly. "-And we won't ever spend a day apart. I swear."

All you can do is ride with the pace he's offering, your throat cinching tight like a coinpurse the more he rams it with the full strength of his hips, nails digging into your scalp as he batters you rabidly without ever losing his grip. Soon, his query of "Ready, darling?" barely meets your ears, your attempt at not choking on each thrust and somehow sucking in a breath here and there too important for your survival.

And in a matter of moments, you're granted reprieve while also left hollow and empty at the same time, Astarion's fist yanking you back by the hair as he sucks in a huge, deep breath into his lungs. The twist of his other hand stroking himself down to the last few beats comes close to your face, your soft gasps for air the perfect background for your name to trickle out of Astarion's mouth–and with such a deep moan it rattles you through your blood down to your bones, you kneel and wait eagerly as your partner lets everything go for you. His balls tighten and squeeze as the pressure of that knot inside him snaps, and he watches with a devoted gleam in his eyes as you wear every rope of pearly cum he milks out for you in that orgasm that shakes him to the core.

"Look at that," He murmurs, voice nearly as wrecked and raspy as yours will be by tomorrow. "Painted like a canvas fit for the gods. Gorgeous."

If he could, he would save this image of you in a frame forever; your sweet, smiling face marred with the essence of him, your hair pulled back by his sweaty fingers but your eyes filled with so much love. Love, genuine and sincere, your giggles loopy and tired as you come down from the high, yet without any post-sex remorse that he fears each and every time you climb into his bed with him. It stays the same when he cleans you off and persists even once you kiss him, knees so wobbly you fall back into the sheets with the slightest push. You won't ever let him free, kiss after kiss pressed to his cold mouth as he climbs over you. Your ankles hook over his waist before he knows it, your smile desperate to be wiped off your face again once he chases that heat for the second, third, fourth, fifth, tenth time, until the sun rises and you're reminded of the downsides of entertaining a lover who never needs rest.

You might tell him you love him again when morning comes, despite the exhaustion tugging down your eyelids and the sweat pouring down your aching back. You probably will, knowing how naive and sincere you tend to be even when you shouldn't. Even so, this time…Astarion might not be able to pretend he doesn't feel exactly the same way.

#astarion #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #ellie writes #anons #3k

[chimielie]

my lover, my life, my shawty, my wife

summary: Ushijima x f!Reader. snapshots of eternal youth.

word count: 1.3k

cw: lighthearted manhandling, longterm established relationship ups (and one down), marriage talk and mention of toshi’s parents’ divorce. it’s basically all fluffy and silly tho

a/n: nobody @ me i wrote literally 99% of this a couple weeks ago and just remembered it was in the drafts today i’m working on the promised fics!!! it will just be A While i’m slow okayyy 💘 anyway enjoy some pure ushijima fluff

“Ushiwaka!!!” You shriek, voice breaking with laughter as you slam your hands against his backside. “Put me down, you—you barbarian! Kidnapper! Plunderer!”

He doesn’t say anything, just jostles you gently so your top half (currently upside-down over his broad shoulder) sways while your legs stay firmly in the grip of his arms. You know it’s as close as he’s going to get to a verbal admonishment, your current position already more than enough of an indication that he is fed up with you acting up in a public setting.

“Fine,” you scrunch up your face, sure that he can envision it just the same as you can see in your mind’s eye the near-invisible traces of amusement on his face. “Ugh, you’re going to make me sick. You are so bossy. I can’t believe you think that you can just pick me up and carry me around and tell me what to do. You don’t even say please, you know that?”

He probably gets the idea that he can just pick you up and carry you around and tell you what to do from the ten years that he's been doing all those things, since high school.

You've never gotten sick from being carried like this, either.

“You are bossy,” he says simply in rebuttal. "You say please but you know I'll do whatever it is you want. Even unreasonable things."

"I'm always reasonable," you say. He pats your butt in a way that isn't supposed to be condescending but is. You smack his in return and enjoy the way his back muscles tense up. "Ooh, you've been training your glutes."

He's been doing it in your home gym. You've always been loud about obvious things like this; he doesn't understand it, especially, but he likes it. At first, that had been much of your relationship. You were loud and obvious about your feelings for the up-and-coming teenage ace, and he didn't understand you, but he liked you.

He considers, and then revises his previous thought. He understands you better now. You talk through even things you and he know well because it helps you to process your thoughts, and you are determined to be shocked and delighted by all small things in the world.

"Hello, Bo-kun!" you wave to his teammate. Bokuto, bless him, attempts to bend over upside down to mimic you.

"Hey, Ushijima-san!" Ushijima is lucky that everyone in the facility knows you and you don't have to clarify to any security guards that you aren't in danger, for real. You take offense to the idea that you couldn't win in a fight against him, anyway.

You had been asserting this particular belief, actually, to the rest of the Japanese men’s volleyball team while they stretched post-practice and friends and family were allowed on court to distract them. Atsumu had been egging you on, urging you to try fighting another of the players since he didn’t trust Wakatoshi not to let you win currently. You had rolled up your shirtsleeves when the ace scooped you up and you had, already protesting, waved goodbye to the blond, a huge grin on your face. He had saluted you as you went.

“We’re not married yet,” you say, bonking your forehead into Wakatoshi as he stops short. “You all don't have to keep saying that. Please, call me—”

"Oh, Waka-kun said," Bokuto starts before being cut off.

“We may as well be," Wakatoshi says, turning to face Bokuto (At least turn sideways so I can see, you complain). "It'll happen eventually, so we can start practicing by calling her my wife now."

"What?!" You say. "Don't say things like that. You sound like you like me. Do you like me? Do you want to be more than friends?"

People have always talked about your relationship in begrudging terms. "Oh, opposites attract, I guess..." spoken in a disbelieving and reluctant tone. He understands. Most high school relationships didn't work out. Most people would get frustrated with him and his communication style. Then most long-distance relationships didn't work out. Most young professional athletes wanted to try new things, new people.

Wakatoshi doesn't understand why he would want to try something new when he had something perfectly fine with you. He had said that to you, once, when you were in Sapporo and he in Koganei. You had gotten very quiet for the rest of the call and then remained quiet for two weeks, sending all of his messages to read and calls to voicemail. It had taken a short flight and a shy, quiet apology to right his wrongs. He had known that he would spend the rest of his life with you, he said, forgetting to blink even as you furiously swiped away tears, a month in when you were fifteen. Barely longer than this terrible time you had stopped even fighting with him, just giving up on him. Why would he try anything else when he had never deviated from this path?

But what if you're just not seeing that there might be something better out there for you, you had said, voice angry but face already forgiving. Worse, what if you do see that someday? You’ll get tired of settling.

He had shaken his head. There isn't something better. Please, continue to be patient with me. Your breath had burst out of you in a single sob, and then you were yanking him toward you, ordering him to kiss you so you'd stop crying in front of all the neighbors.

Considering his parents' marriage, one might have thought that he would have more qualms about the concept than he did. You didn't seem interested in pressuring him there, though, and when asked just reminded him that living together long enough would result in common-law marriage anyway, so he just had to tell you if he ever wanted to stop living together. After several years separated and more reunited, he hadn't yet found any desire to do so. He definitely had strong negative feelings about being away from you for extended periods.

He was very lucky that you had chosen a career path which would allow you to travel essentially anywhere with him, find lucrative work anywhere with him. The home gym had actually been your gift to him, from the bank account you didn't share. It was the most thoughtful and horrifyingly expensive gift he had ever received. He had retaliated by hiring your most favored interior designer to rework your apartment into something both sentimentally familiar and not decorated entirely on the whim of two mid-twenty-year-olds. While they worked, he took you on vacation.

"We have to go," Wakatoshi adjusts you in his hold, nodding to his teammate. You’re quiet for a bit, so he puts you down, steadying you by your waist until your head stops swimming.

“You know we have to talk about these things,” you say, looking steadily at him.

“Yes,” he rumbles, considering his words for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about it more often recently. I still don’t feel strongly about the idea of a wedding, but I want you to be my wife. If you want to be.”

Insecurity sparks in him. You enjoyed your friend’s weddings, but perhaps you didn’t want one of your own, or one to him. Perhaps he had crossed a boundary.

“I don’t know,” you tap your lips with a finger, and a weight lifts off his chest when you smile at him. “I’ll see when you ask me. But I want it to be sometime in the future, somewhere more scenic than your athletic facility, okay? With a ring and a sappy speech.”

He smiles, then, his teeth showing. An explosive and momentous display of emotion.

“I’ll be sure to say please.”

#ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima fluff #ushiwaka x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu!! fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader fluff #hq x reader fluff #ushijima wakatoshi x reader fluff #ushijima x reader fluff

[zazter-den]

Foul-Mouthed Frit | Stained Glass Circumstances Ch. 1

Series: Snippet #1, Snippet #2, Current

Synopsis- All stained glass begins as frit, but you're not as frit of the warrior in front of you as you probably should be.(Main Scene: Bakugou, Aftercare: Kirishima).

Warnings- Coerced NonCon, Oral Knotting, CumVom, Choking, Clothes Tearing, Degradation, Overstim, Org Denial, Slap(giving), Forced Bond, King/Consort Dynamic, Alt A/B/O, Yandere Bakugou.

Tags- Fantasy AU, BarbarianKing!Bakugou, Dragon!Kirishima, KingConsort!Reader, Black Haired Reader, Isekai, Creampie, Chin Grab, Excessive Seed, Aftercare.

Word Count- 7700, Chapter 1

Your heart thumped against your ribs, unease and curiosity battling it out, as you stood before the imposing blond warrior. On a good day, you couldn't help but feel out of place in the simple hand-me-down dress, a one of few mercies you received from the cold villagers when you arrived. Standing here in front of the decorated barbarian within the confines of the grandiose war tent, you felt dressed in little more than rags. Was this man here to finish the villager's sad attempt at uprising? Surely non-lethal injuries to a handful of soldiers, even if severe, didn't warrant a general's (or whoever's) presence.

Why am I here? I wasn't even involved.

The bodice of the scratchy dress felt nearly too tight to breathe, a physical pressure to match the growing weight of dread settling in your bones. It had been a month since your watery arrival to this world, but it hadn't taken long to miss your modern clothes, modern stressors, and the familiarity of home. A pang of longing shot through you like a static shock, but you pushed it aside, focusing on the intimidating figure ahead.

A shiver ran down your spine as you met the blond's piercing blood red gaze. His throne, made from the bones of fallen beasts long dead and a patterned patchwork of leather, only amplified the imposing aura surrounding him. With each passing moment, you couldn't help but feel like a small, insignificant creature in the presence of a predator.

"Pint-sized for a dragon, aren't ya?" the barbarian growled, his gruff voice boomed in the tense silence, tone heavy with amused disdain. A predatory smirk adorned his face, highlighting his intimidating yet undeniably attractive features. "You're quite the fuckin' anomaly."

Your eyes widened at his words, and for a moment you forgot your unease. You had become so used to the weight by this point that you honestly almost forgot. A hand instinctively went to touch the base of the draconic crystal horns that jutted back from your hairline, a bizzarre feature you had woken to on the lake shore, a side effect of the magic that had forced your entry to this unfamiliar world.

All of the lakeside villagers were human, but you had learned enough about this world's inhabitants to know that that you weren't a true dragon like the ones the citizens of this realm were familiar with—those with wings, a tail, and true dragon features. You are, at your core, still human, and really the horns were the only evidence to suggest otherwise. The asshole wasn't entirely wrong in calling you a mystery.

"Can tell you're no real dragon, some sorta bastard maybe" he remarked, rumbly voice smug. "Though I admit, those crystal horns of yours are intriguing 'nough. You'll pass as an addition to my collection."

You blinked once, twice, as you struggled for a mere second to process the words coming out of the pompous man's mouth before time seemed to resume again.

Should you have been scared? Probably.

But you weren't.

Your eyes narrowed to near slits with incredulity as you peered up at him. White hot anger filled your veins, fear of the undoubtedly dangerous strange warrior forgotten. Being a newcomer to the realm, you couldn't quite comprehend the gravity of the situation in standing before the man in front of you. Being an outsider to the village and their rebellion, also meant you weren't aware yet just how low cowards will sink to save their own skin.

" 'Collection'? " You repeated, scoffing loudly at his arrogance. The gall of him had your nerves shot and common sense short circuiting. All pretenses of appearing as a polite peasant were now firmly out the window, all bets were off. After a month of biting your tongue to rude villagers as you struggled to adjust to your new life, it felt amazing to spit exactly what you were thinking. "Who the fuck do you think you are, blondie?”

The fair haired barbarian's grin only widened at your boldness, relishing the rare occurance. It wasn't often someone had a big enough death wish to challenge him face to face.

"O, sweetheart, not just any 'blondie'," he sneered, weighing the weight his words had on you. "I'm yer fuckin' king." Enjoying the way shock washed over your face, anger clearly forgotten, overshadowed by the realization that you were standing before the most dangerous man in the kingdom.

King Bakugou's amusement was evident as he leaned forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming with sadistic satisfaction at your dumbstruck face. "D'ya wanna know why you're standin' in front of me?" he asked, his tone dripping with condescension. "They offered ya to me, little anomaly," the barbaric royal continued, the corners of his lips curling into a cruel smile. "A barter for their miserable lives after a pitiful 'scuse of a rebellion."

You were shocked, your eyes meeting his with furious disbelief. "So, people I barely know, GAVE me to you to spare themselves?" your words were laced with anger and a sense of betrayal, unable to comprehend the depths of their craven desperation. Sure, they were cold to strangers, but to sacrifice you for their own lives wasn't something you had thought was even a possibility. Had it really been so foolish to want to believe they were finally warming up to you?

The barbarian king's expression hardened as he replied, his voice laced with a sharp edge. "Ya should feel honored," he snapped, his blood red eyes narrowing. Rising from his intimidating throne of giant bone and beast hide, he closed the distance between them with a purposeful stride. The sound of his heavy boots thudded against the packed ground within the war tent until he loomed over you.

“I rarely take consorts,” King Bakugou's hand shot out and firmly grasped your chin, tilting your head up to meet his piercing gaze. His touch was harsh, a firm reminder of the physical might that Bakugou wielded when he so chose. Your heart pounding in your chest as his fingernails dug into your jawline. Leaning in close, his face mere inches away from yours, his voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble as he continued speaking. “especially not runt freaks like you." The disdain in the cold blooded king's tone sent a chill down your spine.

Your heart dropped, The weight of the revelation pressed heavy against your chest. Mind racing with anger and betrayal as you grappled with the harsh reality of your situation. You had only been in this unfamiliar realm for barely a few weeks and now you stood before the formidable barbarian king, a man who held the power of life and death over countless warriors and civilians alike.

It didn't take years of education, or really much common sense, to know the dangerous consequences of defying a medieval tyrant. You knew you had to keep your anger in check, to try to bite your tongue and submit. At least for now.

Your fate was sealed the moment you stepped into that fucking tent, and survival was now officially the priority.

King Bakugou's sadistic enjoyment of the situation was plain as he ruthlessly analyzed your appearance, his gaze lingering on the translucent crystal horns with an almost dismissive glance. "Yer horns are clear, nothin' special," he remarked, his voice dripping with annoyance. It was clear that your unique crystalline features held little significance in his opinion. However, as his eyes roamed down your body, a more sinister gleam sparked within them.

"Body, on the other hand, is fine enough for a concubine," the blond added with a twisted smirk, his grip on your chin tightening slightly. The shift of the dress' neckline sent a shiver down your spine, baring your shoulder to his inspection. Your heart beat faster as King Bakugou's piercing eyes bore into you, his actions invasive and dehumanizing. Your throat constricted in response to the humiliating position you found yourself in. Even having to resist the urge to pull your chin away from his grasp, knowing that defiance would only lead to suffering of some variety.

His eyes swept over your neck and shoulder, searching for any sign of a scar, any indication that you already belonged to another. You kept your gaze to the side, unnerved by the intensity of his bloody stare, a shiver rippled down your spine as his touch almost seemed to burn your skin.

"Good," he declared, a twisted smile tugging at his lips as his hot breath ghosting over the exposed skin. "No claim."

King Bakugou wasted no time in closing the remaining distance. Swiftly leaning down, he sank his canines into the smooth flesh with a forceful bite. However, unlike true mating, the barbaric blond did not release the necessary venom that would solidify an actual bond between souls.

The lack of numbing venom caused a sharp hiss to escape your lips, a mix of agony and indignation flooding your system. You might not have been here long and you certainly were no expert, but you knew the basics of mating marks, this world's lifelong courtship. It was a deliberate move, a clear reinforcement that he had no intentions of making you his equal partner in this arrangement. After all, you were merely a plaything, to be toyed with. You should be thankful not to be bound to the barbarian's soul, and yet you couldn't ignore the obvious insult. Or the pain.

The unexpected stabbing pain of fang sinking into flesh triggered a reflexive response, causing you to shove and slap Bakugou's face in a desperate attempt to free yourself from his grasp. The crack of your palm connecting with his cheek seemed to echo in the massive war tent, leaving a bright red handprint in its wake and a streak of crimson trailing down the king's chin.

The barbarian's eyes glowed with fierce delight, his feral nature taking enjoyment in the defiance of his new concubine. Despite the stinging pain in his cheek and the split in the corner of his upper lip from the strike, a low chuckle escaped King Bakugou's lips. "You've got guts, shitty horns, I'll give ya that much" he growled, his voice laced with a dark amusement as his tongue flicked over his split lip.

If you thought your heart was racing before, it certainly paled to the drumbeat it was pounding now.

You had dared to challenge the king, to strike him in a moment of instinct. If the tyrant himself marched to this village over a few maimed soldiers, what exactly was your punishment going to be? A part of you regretted the impulsive action, aware that it would only fuel the bestial nature of the tyrant and likely add to your own suffering...But another part of you couldn't suppress the thrill that surged through you when you slapped the shit out of him. You might be trapped in this new situation but you refused to be completely meek, cowering at his feet.

You would submit. But only as much as you had to.

As King Bakugou's wicked chuckle echoed in the confines of the tent, he swiped away the droplets of blood that trickled down his split lip, relishing in the taste. "Spirited whore, ha?" he continued with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You'll learn. 'Til then, I'm gonna enjoy breaking that attitude of yours."

Your breathing grew shallow as you just stared at the king, mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You knew full well that true defiance would only bring more challenges, but still a small ember of resistance burned. You would not surrender completely, no matter the threat. And even bolstered with the courage of the dissociative haze that emotionally numbed you to the consequences of your actions, you still knew the danger was very real.

The red glistening imprint of his bite marked your delicate skin, a reminder of his sadistic tendencies and the cruel pleasure he derived from such acts. Your body trembled in frustration, mind grappling with the complex storm of emotions that threatened to take over reason. You may have to play the role forced on you but you would bide your time, until the opportunity presented itself.

And so began the balancing act.

"Your position, in this territory," the warrior king continued, his voice dripping with gruff superiority, "is t'be at my beck and call. You exist to serve my needs now, like any other fuckin' whore. An' rest assured, you will serve me well." With those words, he spun you around and pressed your abdomen hard against the tent's solid wood table, his hands gripping your hips possessively.

"Lemme show you your new role," Bakugou sneered, voice filled with dark promise. With one swift motion, he pulled the rough dress up to rest on your hips, baring your body to his gaze. His eyes hungrily took in your curves, his fingers ran up the exposed skin of your thighs and hips. Feeling his rough fingers trail over the sensitive areas of your thighs, you could feel yourself getting lost in the intensity of the touch.

The sound of fabric tearing filled the air as King Bakugou ripped apart the too-tight bodice, buttons popping off as your breasts spilled free from the barely reinforced fabric. His knees pressed painfully firm against the back of yours, effortlessly spreading your shaky legs apart. The motion trapped your hips against the edge of the table and exposed your pussy to to his gaze. Breath hitched as you felt the large tip of his hardened cock pressing against your slick entrance. Every inch of your body tensed. Judging from the thickness of his head alone, the lean warrior was larger than you expected him to be. Bakugou's girth tested your cunt's limits, forced to stretch wide. Initial entry was rough, inch by inch, as your pussy's tight walls struggled to accommodate the impressive length of the barbaric king's dick. The pleasurable ache making you fight to maintain composure.

Leaning forward on your forearms for support, your chest squished against the cold surface of the table. Fingernails dug into the smooth wood, your knuckles turning white with each of Bakugou's punishing thrusts. An unexpected surge of arousal coursed through your veins, and you decided to embrace the inevitable pleasure that his pace promised to bring.

Despite your feelings on the turn of events, your body responded to his coarse treatment, for the distracting orgasm and mind-numbing hormones that lay tantalizingly within reach. Determined to find some semblance of pleasure within your new prison, you forced yourself to shift your perspective. If you were going to be forced to be an object of desire, you may as well revel in the physical gratification it offered and claw back any benefit you could until you made your move.

As the table rocked against the packed dirt floor of the tent with each forceful thrust, the warrior royal couldn't resist mocking you. His voice was filled sadistic amusement. "Where'd all that fire go?" he taunted, amused by the contrast between your previous defiance and your current submissive state. "Don't tell me I already fucked it out of ya."

Your aching walls had struggled to accommodate his girth initially, causing you to tense up. You had to focus on consciously relaxing your body, allowing him to fuck you with more ease. The mixture of discomfort and increasing pleasure sent waves of heat coursing through your body, intensifying your arousal. At this point, you couldn't tell whether the fact that rough sex made your cunt leak like a faucet was a pro or a con.

You really couldn't help but snap back, voice loaded with a defiant edge. "You really like the sound of your own voice, huh, 'Your Highness'?" you quipped harshly, rolling your eyes knowing he would be unable to see, as you were swept up by the overwhelming pleasure of being fucked against the table.

Undeterred by your attempt at disrespect, Bakugou leaned forward over your bare back, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. The warrior king's voice dripped with amusement as he addressed your lack of fear. "You're really not scared of me, are ya?" the blond chuckled sharply, the feeling of his hot breath against your skin sending shivers down your spine. "Give it time," he sneered, his grip on your erect nipples tightening as he pinched and pulled. With a choked moan, your body arched instinctively in response, a symphony of conflicting sensations flooding your body.

Your black curls bounced with each punishing thrust, your body pressed against the dull edge of the table, the hard surface digging into your hips with a force that promised to leave bruised reminders of your afternoon in the days to come. The brutal intensity behind Bakugou's movements overwhelmed you, leaving you breathless and at his mercy.

Just when you thought you had found a rhythm, just when you though you were getting close to finally cumming- the royal bastard abruptly withdrew, his cock's sizeable head dragging along the walls of your dripping passage. A soft indignant gasp escaped your lips as the sudden emptiness left you yearning for release. Inner walls involuntarily clenched in a futile attempt to hold onto the fleeting pleasure, not that you would ever admit it out loud.

He took a moment to enjoy your needy frustration before thrusting back inside with renewed intensity. Each powerful movement caused your body to arch and quiver in response, teetering on the razor's edge between ecstasy and torment. Despite the lingering defiance in your heart, your cunt betrayed you, subconsciously craving the pleasure that Bakugou pounded into you. The aching bite at the junction of your neck felt hot, as your nipples squeezed between his vice-like fingers.

Your walls eagerly embraced the renewed pounding, tightening around him in a desperate attempt to hold onto the pleasure he provided. The overwhelming mixture of pain and pleasure sent shockwaves through your body, sparking sensations that threatened to consume entirely. As the table creaked under the combined weight, your gasps and moans filled the air, merging with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and groaning wood. The intensity of the king's pace, each thrust pushing you closer to cumming around the thick cock slamming in and out of your needy hole.

As your body neared the peak of pleasure, King Bakugou enjoyed the control he had over you, keeping that orgasm just out of reach. Each time you felt the pleasure building within you reach that breaking point, he would cruelly withdraw, denying you much needed relief. The frustration reached a boiling point,as your walls involuntarily clenched desperately around the thick ridge of his cockhead in a feeble attempt to keep it inside.

"Stop fucking teasing me!" you shot over your shoulder in irritation. The pleasure that coursed through your veins was distracting, clouding your mind and amplifying your need to cum. The denial of your orgasm left you on the edge in what felt like a perpetual state of yearning, body aching for the release that the feral blond held in his cruel grasp.

As King Bakugou repositioned himself, angling his thrusts to target your most sensitive spots, and the pleasurable torment of denial continued. The conflicting sensations pushed you further towards either heaven or hell. With how your legs trembled with both the overstimulation of your poor pussy's stretched walls and the unbearable need to cum, you weren't sure which you were closer to.

"Ha? Think ya forgot who serves who here," bloody eyes narrowing as he sneered, his arrogant tone held an unrestrained hunger. A wicked grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he drank in your frustration. He took great sadistic pleasure in this game. Knowing that, despite your protests, he had the power to bring you to the edge of cumming and keep. You. Trapped. There.

As the twisted dance between pleasure and denial continued, your body reacted eagerly to every movement, cunt walls fluttering near constantly in desperate need of fulfillment. Each time King Bakugou withdrew, your inner muscles clenched around the massive disappearing tip, another futile attempt to hold onto the pleasure that slipped through your grasp.

Wet, squelching sounds filled the air as he pounded back into your gushing pussy. The table beneath you was sticky with your juices, and his blood red gaze spotted a string of viscous slick suspended mid-air between the edge of the table and the packed dirt floor below.

With each turn of Bakugou's cruel cycle, a symphony of profanity spilled from your parted lips. Your body shook with the weight of unfulfilled lust, aching for the relief that seemed cruelly just out of reach. The rise and fall of your emotions danced in harmony with the motion of their bodies, humiliating frustration fueling your foul mouthed whimpers.

"'N fact," Bakugou laughed, gruff voice filled with sadistic glee, "I think that tongue o' yours has earned ya a punishment."

The barbarian's fingers curled around your quartz horns, his grip possessive and firm. As his grip tightened, you barely felt the dull ache spreading from the base of your horns through the haze of pleasure and overstimulation. The strain on your neck was evident, your head tilted back to reveal the garnet red bite print marring your exposed skin.

With a deliberate slowness, King Bakugou pulled back on your crystalline horns, his hold firmly guiding you until your upper body was no longer supported by the table's wooden surface. Weakened by the cruel cycle of ecstasy and denial imposed on you, your legs trembled with the effort to remain upright. The shift in position caused a head rush as you fought to remain standing upright. Turns out, you wouldn't need to fight that battle for long.

Using your horns as a guide, Bakugou yanked you down to kneel before him. Obediently following his command, your weakened knees sunk against the hard packed dirt beneath you. The shift in posture brought about a new level of submission, body now positioned at his feet, ready to fulfill the king's desires.

Bakugou's massive member hung heavy above you, his imposing figure towering over as he peered down with cruel superiority. "Ever get your mouth washed out with soap?" he sneered, a wicked grin stretching across his face.

With a snarky retort already forming on the tip of your tongue, you opened your mouth to deliver a biting response. However, in that moment of distraction, the massive cock head shoved past your lips, the sudden intrusion catching you off-guard. A muffled gag sound escaped your throat, eyes widening in surprise as King Bakugou claimed your mouth with little mercy. Musk filled your senses, the unexpected violation left you momentarily stunned. Your eyes watered as you struggled to accommodate his size, jaw stretched to its limits while King Bakugou hissed in pleasure at the feel of your hot tongue against his dick.

A gasp of surprise escaped your lips, muffled by Bakugou's large cock as he took advantage of the opening you unwittingly provided and began to thrust. The rough motion caused your tongue to press against the underside of the massive member, tasting both of you. The initial shock gave way to a mix of conflicting sensations - humiliation, arousal, and a begrudging surrender.

Your throat constricted around the tip of his dick as you fought against your body's instinctive gag reflex. The taste of your combined arousal filled your mouth, the combination of his precum and your own slick coating your tongue with every thrust. With each attempt, guided by the iron grip he held on your crystalline horns, you managed to swallow a little more of his length, throat stretching in an attempt to accommodate his girth. The barbaric king's control remained unyielding. He roughly guided your movements with an unwavering grip on your horns, forcing the pace at which you took him deeper. The sight of your struggle only made him grip you tighter, setting a faster pace.

You looked good, all fuckdrunk at his feet, submitting to his desires without question.

With each inch you took down your throat, your breathing became increasingly labored. Your eyes flitted upwards as much as possible, trying to meet his gaze as you continued to obey his every command. Teary eyes pleaded for mercy, yearning for the release that was just out of reach, as you continued to let King Bakugou's thrust into your throat. Bakugou locked gazes with you. It wasn't that he ignored your pitiful puppy eyes, all watery and unfocused, but it didn't certainly have the outcome you were begging for. His pace sped up, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he approached his climax.

Your eyes narrowed in confusion and as you felt a new ridge near the base of his cock begin to swell. It took you by surprise, lips forced to start to form an O-shape as you struggled to comprehend what was happening. You mumbled uselessly around the resulting barrier, only managing to press your tongue harder against the enlarged gland.

"Never seen an alpha before?" King Bakugou asked incredulously, the tone of his voice heavy with pompous amusement. "Ya really are a fuckin' freak, this'll be fun" he added, sadistically excited for the surprise in store for you.

The swelling knot created a tight seal against your teeth, effectively trapping your tongue in a frenzy of desperate, frantic movements. As his lust hit a peak, Bakugou looked down at you with dark satisfaction, the intensity of his gaze piercing into your very being. His words cut through the pounding of blood in your ears, his mean grin widening.

"Y're gonna want to breathe through your nose when ya can," he instructed as his hips started to stutter, cruel grin never faltering. "For the next ten minutes at least." He took great joy in the power he held over you, knowing full well the challenge he was about to present. His groans of pleasure were the only warning of his orgasm that you got besides the pulse of his knot, before waves of warm cum were cascading down your throat. You fought against the rising panic, you just needed to relax you told yourself. The taste of his seed flooded the back of your throat, your lips stretched around his swollen knot, as you braced yourself to endure the minutes to come.

Your breathing grew ragged as you tried to comply with the barbaric king's instruction, the pressure of his spurts down your throat sending your body into a state of sensory overload. Each surge of his cum filled the back of your mouth, forcing you to swallow to make room for more, so you wouldn't be overwhelmed. Nose pressed against the coarse, orange wires of his pubic hair, your breaths coming in short gasps as you struggled to find enough air.

Your sore throat bobbed with each gulp, lips sealed tightly around Bakugou's pulsing knot. You followed his instructions, taking quick breaths through flared nostrils whenever his spurts allowed a moment of respite. As you continued to swallow the seemingly never-ending load, your eyes watered and throat contracted around the royal's throbbing cock. Bakugou ran his thumb over your neck, tracing over the ridge his twitching cockhead made in your throat, causing you to choke and sputter, your reflexive gag wrapped around his dick.

The primal sounds of you gagging and swallowing seemed to fuel Bakugou, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he reveled in your struggle to regain control of your reflexes. He found the cruel game fun, knowing that you had to drink every single drop or be overwhelmed by the seed that filled your mouth. As the barbaric king rolled his hips, his cock milked one last time by your tight walls, the deflating knot slipped past your teeth with a squelching pop. You felt each inch slowly withdraw from your pained throat, eliciting a mix of both relief and a weird sense of emptiness. Your jaw ached from the strain, throat raw and bruised from the rough treatment. Cum dripped from your swollen lips, a shiny string dripping towards the ground between your knees.

You leaned back against the leg of the heavy table, body boneless and weak from the intense sex. Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, senses still reeling from the experience. The taste of his cum still lingered in your mouth, a reminder of of just how well you had performed your role.

His cruel grin twisted with satisfaction as he held your weak chin with his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your glassy gaze to meet his blood red eyes. The arrogance in his voice was evident as he spoke, his words laced with a mocking tone.

"You did well, little whore," King Bakugou taunted, "Maybe you'll last longer than the others." His words cut through you like a knife, a reminder of your place and his complete control over the situation.

And it only got worse.

Your stomach churned, the fullness from consuming the sheer volume of cum you did, mixed with the exhaustion and strain on your body. It was rapidly becoming too much to bear. The taste of his bitter seed lingered in your mouth, adding to the increasing waves of nausea that welled up. With shaky legs, you bolted towards the clean bucket next to the table, a hand clamped over your mouth. Face contorted in anguish as you reached it just in time, hunching over and emptying the viscous contents of your stomach into the wood container, a curtain of dark curls obscuring the action.

Wave after wave of white, thick cum splashed into the bucket. Your throat burned even more from the forceful expulsion, tears streaming down your face as you tried to catch your breath between stomach spasms and hiccups.

Meanwhile, Bakugou simply rolled his crimson eyes in annoyance. He watched with a scowl as you succumbed to the ill effects of being orally knotted for first time, his own sense of satisfaction completely unaffected. The king redressed himself in his leather breeches, his muscular chest displayed proudly. He made no move to help or console you, instead commenting with a disdainful tone

"Y're gonna have to get better at that," he sneered, his dissatisfaction with the newest addition to his collection clear as day. Without a backward glance, he exited the tent, leaving you seething with roiling resentment.

As you continued to glare daggers at his retreating back over the rim of the bucket, an unbreakable determination burned in your eyes. The interaction had further solidified your disdain for the barbarian king. One way or another, you swore to yourself, you were going to find a way to make that man miserable.

Bakugou made his way through the field, his strides thudding quickly across the field. His blood red eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the lush greenery and wind rustling through the grass and leaves. In the distance, he spotted Captain Kirishima, his towering figure standing tall on a hill overlooking the lake.

The captain of the king's guard, tall and muscular, wore his signature dark grey uniform adorned with a crimson cloak denoting his station. His mane of long, vibrant red hair cascaded down his back, and his curved ruby horns glinted in the late afternoon light. Nearing a staggering seven feet, Kirishima towered over most humans and dragons alike. With a languid stretch of his wings and tail, he looked every bit the formidable dragon he was. Even though his stature was imposing- off the battlefield, there was a softness to his facial features, a warmth in his scarlet eyes that contradicted his formidable appearance.

Stretching his wings and tail with a contented yawn, Kirishima paused mid-spread as he noticed his long time friend approaching. His scarlet eyes widened in alarmed confusion as he caught sight of the split upper lip on the king's face.

"What happened to your lip?" Kirishima asked baffled, his tail and wings still unintentionally frozen extended as he waited.

Bakugou's grin widened, his blood-red eyes shining with a mischievous glint. He licked his split upper lip, savoring the sting that still lingered from your bold and unexpected slap. The memory of the defiance brought a twisted satisfaction to the king.

"Hah! The village's 'peace offering' turned out fiesty" he responded, a hint of admiration laced within his tone. The fact that you had the audacity to strike him, the mighty Murder King Bakugou, had caught the barbarian off guard at the time, but it definitely made you more interesting.

Kirishima's eyebrows furrowed in surprise, his tail flicking. "They attacked you?" he asked taken aback, “Are they still breathing?” The captain knew that the barbaric ruler was not one to tolerate defiance easily, let alone physical attempts to challenge his authority. Kirishima's mind flooded with questions, but he kept them to himself as he awaited further explanation from his commanding king.

Bakugou's smug grin widened even further, his blood red eyes sparkling with perverse delight. "Oh, they're alive," he responded, his voice dripping with a sadistic satisfaction, "Just paying for their little outburst, that's all."

The words hung in the air, the implication clear. The king's tone hinted at the punishment the new consort was enduring in the privacy of the tent.

Although he hadn't yet met the new concubine, Kirishima couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy towards them. Having grown up with the royal, he knew firsthand the levels of wrath Bakugou could reach. Despite these conflicting emotions, Kirishima's primary concern was ensuring the well-being of those in the king's care, even if it meant treading carefully in the sea of Bakugou's own volatile temper. It often fell to the loyal captain to keep the king from committing actions he would regret later. Well, less regret and more inconvenience him.

"'n fact, you're on babysitting duty while I deal with the village," Bakugou said, the murderous glint in his bloody eyes betraying his enjoyment of the situation. The king's command echoed in Kirishima's ears, causing his ruby scaled tail to stiffen and his broad shoulders to tense.

Kirishima let out a silent exhale, disappointment etched across his face as he processed the news. In truth, he had hoped that Bakugou would choose to spare the villagers and seek a peaceful resolution instead of resorting to violence. The captain believed that the actions of a few rebels should not warrant bloodshed on such a scale. After all, the villagers had made multiple peace offerings to appease the barbaric king, it felt like a breach of honor for Bakugou to now go back on that agreement.

However, Kirishima knew better than to openly challenge his friend's authority. He respected the position Bakugou held and understood the consequences of rebellion. Biting his tongue, Kirishima buried his disappointment and gave a casual bow to his commanding ruler, before making his way towards the tent on the hilltop.

Kirishima stepped into the large tent, his unfurled wings brushing against the side as he entered. His wings, magnificent and majestic, spanned wide, their vibrant ruby scales shimmering under the soft glow of the tent's filtered light. The ruby scales continued down the length of his long, sinuous tail, adding a touch of elegance to his formidable presence.

As his fiery ruby eyes landed on you, Kirishima's first thought was one of surprise. The person who had struck King Bakugou looked a lot less imposing than he had anticipated. You, unlike the powerful and intimidating dragons Kirishima was used to, stood before him at a mere average human stature. If that. The only discernible dragon feature you possessed were the crystal dragon horns that adorned your head, gleaming subtly in the low lit tent. His scaled tail swayed slightly, displaying a mix of curiosity and caution.

Your eyes widened as they met Kirishima's for the first time, and your body tensed instinctively. You had been thoroughly exhausted, both physically and emotionally, by your round with Bakugou. Your throat was raw and voice gone, leaving you unable to deliver the defiant expletives you desperately wanted to snarl at the imposing dragon that had just entered the tent. But your voice failed you, leaving you with only one avenue of expression.

With a fierce hiss, you expelled every ounce of ferocity you had left buried within. Your body tensed, lips curling back in a display of bare teeth. The hiss reverberated within the confines of the tent, a desperate attempt to communicate defiance to Kirishima, to convey that you would not be dominated or humiliated any further today.

The captain took a step back, scarlet eyes swept over your form, they couldn't help but notice the torn remnants of your bodice on the floor and the ripped dress clinging to your body. The rips and tears spoke volumes of the intense encounter you had undergone at the hands of King Bakugou. His gaze then landed on the mark that marred the delicate skin of your neck—an unmistakable claim.

Kirishima's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his mind reeling with the implications.

As a dragon, Kirishima understood the significance of such a bite - it bound two souls together, sealing their connection as life partners in a way that couldn't be severed. When done correctly.

Marking a consort with a claim without fully mating them was not unheard of, but it was generally met with extreme judgment. Claims in terms of mating were typically reserved for life partners, a commitment that extended beyond physical desire. Nobles, known for their fickle nature and ever-shifting loyalties, often chose to mark their consorts with more temporary symbols, such as collars.

The ornate collars allowed the royals to easily discard their concubines when they grew bored. The nobility were notorious for their fickleness and often left their consorts behind as they moved on to fresh pursuits. By marking a consort with a bite with no intention of making you an equal, Bakugou had not only defied what little merciful convention held by the upper class but also inflicted a cruel fate upon you in Kirishima's eyes. The mark would make it near impossible for you to find a true mate, forever branded as the king's property.

Kirishima couldn't help but feel a stab of disappointment towards his lifelong friend. While he knew the barbarian ruler's tendencies on the battlefield, he hadn't thought Bakugou would exhibit such cruelty towards a consort, knowing you would likely be discarded at some point. Kirishima's own sense of honor and loyalty clashed with the conflicting emotions he felt, itching at the back of his mind as he observed the vulnerable state you found yourself in.

The captain's gaze lingered on your throat, noticing the subtle signs of strain and discomfort. The realization for the hissing aggression struck Kirishima like a bolt of lightning. You had lost your voice, and it wasn't due to natural causes or illness. No, it became clear to him that it was likely a result of your first tryst with King Bakugou, an experience that he could only imagine had been rough and brutal, throat rubbed raw from the repetitive acts demanded of you.

Feeling a surge of empathy, Captain Kirishima decided to ease the intimidating aura he unintentionally projected. He understood that his imposing stature must be overwhelming to you, given the turn of events. He folded his wings against his back, their vibrant red membranes pressed tightly together, confining their expansive span. The act served to minimize his physical presence, making him appear less threatening. He slouched slightly, adopting a more relaxed stance, and kept his hands visible, showing that he meant no harm. It was a deliberate display of non-aggression, aimed at putting you at ease, or at least as much at ease as one could be in such circumstances.

The red dragon's eyes softened as he noticed the weary look on your face. He could see the exhaustion etched into every line, body still trembling from the recent ordeals you had endured. Determined to offer some solace in this tumultuous situation, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

With slow deliberate steps, Kirishima moved away from you and towards a pile of chests near the entrance of the war tent. These chests contained spoils from the village, items meant to appease the king after their attack on his soldiers. Kirishima knew that among them, there was a chest filled with garments. Opening one of the chests, he carefully sifted through the contents until he found a fine yet simple dress that roughly matched your size.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Kirishima's lips as he gently tossed the dress onto the table, positioning it between the tow of you. Its delicate fabric fluttering in the air before settling down over the wood. It was a small gesture, but meant to convey that he harbored no ill intentions.

It was a silent message that you deserved respect and dignity, even in this tumultuous situation.

Sensing that you needed some space to collect yourself and change, Kirishima took a much smaller chest from the pile. He left the tent, giving you room to breathe and reckon with the pent-up emotions that surely swirled like storm clouds.

As the cool mountain breeze blew through his hair, Kirishima found a suitable spot a few paces from the tent, overlooking the serene lake in the warm hues of late afternoon light. With deftness and precision, he constructed a small firepit, arranging the rocks in a circle. As the dragon exhaled softly, a gentle stream of fire escaped his lips, the light glinting off his curved ruby horns. The flickering flames danced and crackled, casting a comforting glow over the hilltop.

As the captain patiently waited for the water to heat, he glanced back towards the war tent, briefly catching sparkle of your horns through the opening. His heart went out to you. Though he understood the gravity of Bakugou's actions, Kirishima couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of responsibility in making sure you felt as comfortable as possible, despite the circumstances.

Just as the water in the kettle neared boiling, Kirishima activated his innate talent. His hands hardened, gaining an impressive durability that allowed him to handle the intense heat without harm. With a swift motion, he reached for the kettle, hands possessing the resilience of a dragon's scales. His grip was confident and steady as he effortlessly removed the kettle from the fire, preventing the water from boiling. He gently tossed the healing tea leaves into the kettle, watching as they swirled and danced in the near-boiling water. The soothing aroma of the tea began to waft through the air, carrying with it hints of delicate flowers and calming herbs.

With a careful hand, Kirishima reached into the tea chest, procuring a magnificent stained glass teacup that shimmered in hues of red and amber. Draconic stained glass was a rarity, prized for its strength and ethereal beauty. The light of the late sun cascaded through the vibrant colors, casting an enchanting glow on his hands.

Unwrapping the glass bottles, the captain uncorked the crystallized honey and yuzu peel. He slowly poured a generous amount of honey into the teacup, its golden texture illuminated by the sunlight. Next, he added a pinch of the fragrant dried yuzu peel, allowing its subtly sweet and citrusy scent to infuse the air. These ingredients held healing properties, meant to soothe and restore vitality to worn souls. The captain took extra care, ensuring that the precise balance of ingredients was met, creating a concoction that he hoped would bring some measure of comfort to your weary spirit.

With a quiet exhale, Kirishima patiently awaited the completion of the tea's steeping process. He hoped that the healing properties of the tea, combined with the warmth and tranquility of their surroundings, would provide a much-needed respite for your body and mind. In this moment of quiet reflection, he couldn't help but hope that this small act of kindness would bring some solace amidst the chaos that was now your new life in royal confines.

As the tantalizing fragrance of the healing tea filled the air, it didn't take long for you to emerge from the confines of the tent, eyes cautiously studying Kirishima's every move. Clad in the simple yet elegant dress he had provided you, features betraying a mix of cautious curiosity, before you fully exited the tent.

Scarlet eyes met yours as he poured the infused brew into the stained-glass teacup, the colors of the evening sun casting a mesmerizing glow through its amber and red hues. With a delicate touch, he extended the teacup towards you, his gentle gesture offering a sense of peace and comfort amongst the chaos.

Your gaze flickered between the beautiful teacup in Kirishima's hands and his eyes, wariness slowly giving way to a glimmer of trust. You lowered yourself onto the cushion placed by the fire, its warmth seeping through the fabric and into your tired body. Settling in, you positioned yourself to face the serene vista of the lake, where the calm waters mirrored the vibrant shades of the setting sun.

Kirishima, mindful of your nervous vigilance, kept his movements steady and reassuring. His hand extended further, confidently offering you the teacup of healing brew. The crimson colored light filtering through the stained glass seemed to dance and flicker as if carrying with it a promise of respite.

A soft smile tugged at Kirishima's lips as he spoke, his voice gentle yet filled with earnest sincerity. "Can we start over? I'm Captain Kirishima." In that simple statement, he hoped to convey that he was not just a guard but someone who, at their heart, genuinely cared. Someone who would listen and support you, should you choose to share your burdens.

He waited patiently, the teacup held delicately between the two of you, awaiting your response. In this moment, amidst the tranquil beauty of the lake and the tender offering of healing tea, he hoped that they could find a glimmer of solace and a fresh beginning.

IRL Safety Disclaimer: Never Pull A Partner Up By Their Hair Off of a Surface. You Will Injure Someone.

Taglist: @themythicaldisaster

Comments and Reblogs carry me through the week!

#please mind the tags cause I did say this series would be dark #I hope you enjoy x.x #zaz drabbles #minors dni #banners by the amazing cafekitsune #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima x reader #dragon kirishima #dragon!kirishima #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #bnha x reader #mha x reader #barbarian bakugou #barbarian bakugo x reader #yandere x reader #yandere bnha #yandere mha #yandere bakugou #yandere bakugo x reader #alpha bakugou #yandere kiribaku #cw choking #kiribaku x reader #cw noncon #alpha kirishima #cw a/b/o #cw dark content #stained glass circumstances series

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 4/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Word count: 10 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Another long chapter, but it's the last one, so... Enjoy! ^^

The next night, you dream awake.

You didn’t want to sleep with your back turned against him, and König didn’t even need to scoop you into his arms. You went there by yourself, completely willingly. You were disappointed when he didn’t even try anything; he just fell asleep like a baby after the hangover that left him weak.

Your hand is on his chest, right over his heart, as you listen to his soft snore. It’s like the whole world has shrunk into this bed, like your entire life suddenly consists of him. You can’t even hear the birds, the occasional gust of wind, or the pair of sandals outside the tent going to a nightly pee. The only thing you can hear or see or feel is him.

His heart under your palm. His chest against your cheek. The slow, steady rise and fall of it, the push and pull of it like a tide. His leg, draped across your hip, enclosing you under a heavy body that clings to you like he never wants to let you go.

And…

No. 

It’s too stupid.

“Love” is something bards sing about. There’s no time for it in the real world; lust brings people together, and they multiply like birds and beasts. They simply flock together for warmth, food and survival. Love is the property of dreams and songs, something that happened at the dawn of time but now only occurs in tales and plays. Surely, a mountain giant knows nothing about love… He just wants to stuff his cock inside you and alleviate the burn of his loins.

But his words still linger.

”I have fallen in love with you.”

You repeat them over and over again in your head, snuggling even closer to him, your heart flaring into a small bonfire when he squeezes you in return through sleep. The warmth spreads across your chest, it makes your toes tingle, and the tingles rise up to your head like ale, bringing tears to your eyes. 

Why does he have to be like this…?

There’s a sudden crack of thunder outside, and it makes you startle and clutch him tighter. It’s soon followed by a downpour of rain, the weight of it like a blanket spreading across the land. The drops beat the tent with so much noise you fear the whole abode will collapse from the force of them.

Another crackle sends you to grip him with fear; a violent rip of lightning makes you bury your head in his neck. König mostly wakes up to your distress rather than the sounds of thunder and hail, rumbling softly to the crown of your head and drawing you closer to him. You’ve always been afraid of thunder because nothing can compete with the fury of the Sky Father. You whimper as another roar shakes the bed, the very earth beneath you, and the rain begins to beat the tent in full.

“Don’t be afraid, little one,” König mutters, unafraid and clearly about to fall back to sleep again. “Only sky father making love to his woman...”

His explanation of the horrible display of the sky god’s power wipes your mind blank for a moment. He uses the same name of the god as you, but the viewpoint is thoroughly foreign. Is this the sound of lovemaking to him? 

“Safe here,” he squishes you against him until it’s difficult to breathe. Your heart is still beating in your chest as König falls asleep, the arms around you relaxing just enough to allow you to breathe again. 

In the morning, you try to correct him on his strange thoughts about Sky Father. You tell him your people believe he’s fighting his enemies when it thunders, not… making love to anyone.

“Fighting or fucking,” he only shrugs. “Same noise.”

You open your mouth to explain the difference between fucking and lovemaking next, then decide it’s no use.

The weather is warm and the land is lush after the abundant rain. König takes you to a small stream and you risk to take a dip, delighted and relieved to have the opportunity for a quick wash. When you threaten to gut him when he sleeps if he takes a peek, König only laughs. Probably thinks it’s an exciting threat. Then he sits on the bank to work on a small piece of wood while you have your cold bath. He’s been carving it for a few days and has refused to show it to you, no matter how “nosy” you’ve been. It’s an unfinished piece, yes, but it still feels silly that a grown man is so secretive about a chunk of wood. You only now begin to understand that perhaps the statue of the Great Mother is not stolen. It’s not bought, and he hasn’t had it made. He carved it himself.

Shocked, you forget to keep an eye on him while you scrub and rub yourself in the stream. You never thought of him as a sculptor or even a carpenter, but apparently, some soldiers spend their leisure time in other activities than fucking and drinking and gambling.

Your hands meet the leather string of the necklace as you wash your hair, and you remember your vow. It makes your heart sink: it’s a beautiful day, the first of summer, and you have to let go of the loveliest thing König has ever given to you. You peek a glance at him: he’s looking so peaceful while carving the small figurine, with that signature smile his that always reveals itself through his eyes, warm and jovial, like he’s just a hunter or a fisherman having a break from a day of toil.

You strip yourself from the necklace and release it with a sullen breath. The spirits accept it hungrily, pulling it underwater the instant you let it go. The current carries it far away downstream, and you find your chin trembling, and not from cold. You have given your moonblood to Mother many, many times, but this gift is infinitely more valuable. Still, the most important thing is that the man you prayed for is alive and whistling happily on that bank.

And you’re not an oathbreaker… But König is. 

When you rise from the water, he steals a glance. Actually, he stares at you like you’ve particularly asked him to never rip his eyes from you. 

You pay the adoring beast no mind and rise from the stream with the pride of a queen, only to have it all robbed from you as you notice there are flowers placed there where you left your clothes. The crazy giant has actually plucked flowers for you.

It’s an odd thing to do because in your land, only children pick flowers. Usually, people give flowers to the gods. Or, mainly just to the Great Mother... It’s because She appreciates them. 

And you also notice your old dress is not where you left it.

“Where is it?” 

He extends his hands to the sides and shrugs, faking innocence so poorly that you don’t know if you want to shove or kiss him. You’re desperately trying to cover your womanhood from his searing stare – an attempt that, of course, makes your tits press together even more cutely than before. König doesn’t even know where to look when there’s so much of your sweetness on display. 

This man is so stupid and childish and simply unbelievable; hiding your dress the instant you are vulnerable and in your thoughts. You look around you, then up, and notice that he’s thrown the dress over a pine branch far above your reach. Of course.

“You’re a bully,” you turn your accusing gaze to him, hands now slowly curling into fists by your side. You’re not even angry: you’re just feeling... hot, and frustrated, and embarrassed, having to stand here in bright daylight, dripping wet and about to have another tantrum while naked. You’re starting to suspect that he probably enjoys it when you get in a pet. Maybe it makes his cock hard: to watch you stomp your foot at him, especially if you do it without clothes.

“Bully?” His eyes smile at you like he’s the son of Sky Father himself.

“It’s someone who… who tortures people,” you blurt, a bit more dramatically than you initially meant to. He bursts into laughter and laughs for a long time, either because you just called him precisely what he is or because you called him a torturer for doing a silly prank.

“Ach… Well, you are pretty,” he says after surviving something that was veritably not meant as a joke. As if you being pretty is some kind of an excuse for doing this stupid, childish stunt...

His stare sweeps over you like you’re merely property, his eyes darting between your pouty face and the glistening sex between your legs now that you’ve blessedly moved your hands out of the way. Then he notices that something’s missing, that there is no necklace resting above your breasts anymore. He takes a step and raises a hand, and for the first time ever, you wouldn’t even dream of shying away from his touch. He brushes your bare neck with a silent question and brief hurt in his eyes.

Gods, he can’t think you got rid of it because you despised it, can he...?

“The river took it,” you explain quickly and with genuine regret. It’s a lie, but you can’t tell him the real reason it’s gone. You can’t confess that you had to sacrifice it for his safe return.

“I really liked it,” you whisper while looking him straight in the eyes, stomach heavy with both lies and the horrible, sweet truth. König recuperates surprisingly fast and nods slowly, the caress rising to your cheek to console you.

“Don’t worry. I can make you a new one,” he promises stoutly, and you bite your lip to prevent yourself from bursting into tears right there in front of him. “With wolf claws, if you like?”

“I don’t know… Sounds dangerous.”

“Hah. I kill my first wolf when I was fifteen.”

Your heart is bursting inside your chest – the songs of the bards never tell about someone being so goofy that you want to hug them until they stop speaking silly things. 

“I’m sure you did,” your lips quiver with a whisper of a smile. König takes in every crumb of your affection like it’s a blessing from the Mother below: his shoulders draw back everytime he senses you are appreciative of him or admire his strength. He’s even more proud when he presents the small carving he’s been working on. 

You’re now absolutely, vehemently sure that he has made the statue of the Great Mother himself. Because what you’re looking at is very similar to that statue, only far more detailed. The breasts and hips on this figurine are more proportional, and you could almost swear that the statue he just gave you is trying to depict you. It has your hair and your face, or then he has tried to capture the slightly pouting face of some other ungrateful woman. But you can’t shake the thought that you may very well be looking into your own eyes.

“For you,” he says above you, and you swallow tears for gods know how many times today. He even winks at you, incredibly playful, like this statue is now a cute little secret only you two know about.

“It’s–I didn’t know you… Uh. Thank you,” you stutter like a fool. You can’t ask if it’s you – you can’t ask a simple question because to hear his unabashed, proud answer would mean that you won’t be able to hold yourself back from kissing him.

You are starting to feel like… an idol of worship, almost. 

He lavishes you with gifts and flowers, he feeds you grapes and wine, he brings you his bloodied loot and asks you to bless his sword. He honours your purity and respects your wishes not to be touched and pilfered.

What else are you if not a goddess? 

Even the Mother in his satchel doesn’t get such fevered attention. He even carved a new statue for you. Of you.

Your senses become eagle-sharp as you realize just how much your suspicions are proving true. You think about the way he is always at your tits, as if calling forth good luck and abundance when he squeezes them every day and night. It’s almost like a ritual. Or how he tries to dress you in fine clothes, not just to show you around, but to make you feel appreciated. The way he protects and shelters you and lets you – no, demands you to – ride his horse while he exhausts himself on the road. How the selecting of the necklace now seems like a test, to prove whether you are a true goddess who favors a gift of bone and blood and amber over the pathetic shiny trinkets of men. 

And the way he hasn’t touched other women all this time; no, because he doesn’t keep other goddesses...

Just you. 

Only you.

…

He knows your tongue so well that you don’t practically need the translator anymore. König sends him away after you whisper in his ear that you don’t like him.

It’s another lie because what you really don’t like is how bothered he looks when forced into the company of you two. You don’t like the deep sighs and the weary looks he gives both you and your supposed lover who always insists that you sit on his lap even if there are other people in the tent. You don’t want to make the poor man uncomfortable, so you come up with a reason for König to send him away. It's quite apparent that you could ask for the moon and stars, and he’d figure out a way to give them to you.

When you ask him why, for the love of all the gods, does he even want to keep a Roman slave, he says it amuses him. You always thought it was an odd thing to do because you’ve never seen König spend time with his soldiers. He never gambles with them, never eats with them, never hunts with them. By separating himself from them he keeps up an illusion of himself as a walking, fighting myth who has forced half the world to its knees, and whose quirks are to keep a Roman slave and, now, a foreign fairy in his tent.

You start to understand that it's because he doesn’t feel like he belongs.

He doesn’t even want to belong. He doesn't make an effort to be a Roman even if, legally, you suppose he’s a citizen or at least a free man. You wonder if it’s his only weakness: being so different from everybody else. 

You walk in and out of camp like a free woman with him. To the forest, to the stream, and one day, to the ocean, not too far from where you used to gather clams. If you walked the shoreline long enough, you would end up near your old village.

You spend your entire day there, collecting pink and white shells, giggling as König takes a dip in the shivering sea. He even throws the hood away before walking into the foaming waves. You have to hold your breath as he comes out because his face is the complete opposite of what you thought you would see. He has stern features and some prominent scars above his lip and crossing the bridge of his nose; there’s one above the left eye, and his nose has been broken at least two times. He looks mean and dangerous and suffering, it’s true, but you’re not scared at all. In fact, your embarrassingly wet while he furrows his brows and looks down at his feet, otherwise proud and happy in his skin but now suddenly concerned that you might not like what you see.

“Ugly?” He asks bluntly, with such distanced but sharp pain that your breath leaves you entirely. The vision of him might have frightened you on the first night, it’s true, but now, you only think he’s handsome. In a crude way, perhaps... But still handsome.

“No,” you shake your head slowly, never taking your eyes off him. König takes in air as if he has been granted a pardon from a horrible crime, and your heart hurts – is this the reason he has clung to that hood? To conceal some old scars and to appear more menacing to friends and enemies?

He’s stronger than ever as he walks to you, unclothed and smelling of seabreeze and salt, like he was just born from there, sired by the ocean and the wind. You ought to pray to Mother but you know it will do you no good. It’s a rotten joke to want a man who has massacred your people, the ones you used to call friend and neighbour and kin. You feel like you’re betraying the memory of your whole village by wanting to sleep with the enemy. The enemy who worships you; who looks at you like you’re a goddess when you lean back to watch the night sky come alive with indigo and stars. The enemy who teaches you their names in his own tongue...

He points you to the Head of the Serpent and the Smith’s Street, then to the Nail that holds the sky in place. You have your own names for the stars but you like it when he introduces them to you, clumsy and excited. When he shows you the long cock of the hero your people call Hunter, your cheeks heat up. You try to repeat the name in his tongue (whatever lewd, brash northern hero it may be), and it makes him happier than ever to hear you speak his words.

“König,” you ask him when he's shown you all the stars he knows. “Why do you fight…?”

He turns to look at you, perplexed, and you word the question differently.

“What do you want?”

“...What do I want?”

“Yes. In this life.”

His brows furrow as he starts to think, and your love for him only grows. Has no one ever asked him that before? Has he ever even given it a thought...? 

He grabs a handful of grass and rips it from the ground, absentmindedly and deep in thought. He fiddles with it for a while, then throws it away, looking somewhere to the distant, generous sea.

“I want…children,” he says. “I want a home.”

König turns to look at you, so stern that it forces you take support from the earth beneath you.

“Home. Richtig?”

“Yes,” you whisper, “A–a home.”

But it can’t be...

It can’t.

It’s simply too crazy that the brutal, callous giant has been searching for a home all along. That the man who cuts off heads and spits out the flesh of his enemies is simply someone who has lost his home and has yearned back ever since. It’s too wild a thought that the Titan wants to raise a family and have many children.

“Don’t you have a home somewhere in Rome…?” 

“It’s only a house.”

He fidgets with more grass, then turns back to you again with honest curiosity.

“Do you want children?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Fee. You would be a good mother,” he determines right then and there, saying it so casually that you have no choice but to believe it. You want to change the topic, and quickly, now tugging at the grass yourself because you're feeling shy.

“König… What is Fee?” 

“Fee is… They are small women? Live in trees. Or flowers. Or everywhere,” he gestures vaguely all around you.

“You mean fairies,” you whisper, and he shrugs. If you say so. But you know you're talking about the same thing: curious little earth spirits, lively and wild. 

Your heart is burning; it’s scorching until there’s nothing left but sweet molten gold. Usually, this kind of burning has stirred in your chest when some old crone has told a good story at the fire during the turn of the year. Usually, you’ve felt this kind of thrill when you’ve heard the piper play for the forest during springtime, lulling the devious spirits back to the trees so that they wouldn’t enter lambs and goats and make them sick. You’ve only felt so alive when you’ve walked at the beach during midsummer with a desperate aching between your legs because you’ve felt so alone and yet so, so alive.

“They said you were a Titan,” you whisper, another hushed question on this night of nights. You feel like you’re having a conversation of the ages, even if it’s clumsy and plain. The night sky is blooming with stars, the sea is whispering its secrets, and there are so many unsaid things between you two, finally washing up on the shore. König is ripping out more tall grass, but only because he’s searching for the right words.

“No. No titan. Just king,” he shakes his head as if sorry that he has to disappoint you. “I was the king’s son. Before Rome came…”

He’s suffered the same fate as you then, a long, long time ago. You wonder where his people are now or if they are even alive anymore, if he is the last giant standing, the last remaining man of his folk from the mountains. If the ruins of his proud house have already turned to dirt and dust and soil, if his father’s head was left to rot on a Roman spear, his riches and wealth taken back to Rome as spoils and exchanged for wine and whores and slaves.

You can only imagine the fury and despair when a tall boy’s future and dreams crumbled into dust, to blood and tears and screams, to a tale that no one ever told.

“You’d make a great king,” you say, meaning it with all your heart. His whole face lights up with a smile; the sorrow is still present in his eyes, and you know the depth of its roots now. But the Romans never managed to kill his will to live.

“If I was king… I would choose you for my queen,” he says softly, and you thank the wind for drying an escapee tear that rolls out. Fate is shaking your ribcage like a rattle; the wind steals your tears like they’re a long-withheld gift.

He tells you his tale under the safety of the vast starry sky. It's only bits and pieces, but you understand enough from his clumsy words.

He tells you how he was brought to Rome as a slave, sold to the pits and how he rose to manhood and fame there. He fought in the great arenas you’ve heard so many gruesome tales about; he fought until he could buy his freedom. He forgot his people, his revenge, that he was a king. Not knowing what else to do, he took up arms again and became the thing he hated the most: a Roman soldier. 

He tells you about a woman who can see things that have not yet happened. He asked this seer if there was anything else for him in this life but death; he would give any offering that was needed if only he could find more life instead. He had already given money and offerings to all the fertility goddesses of Rome, to no avail. He had carved a statue of Venus to attract love, but it didn’t work. So many times he had wanted to throw it in the sea. Until the woman who sees told him he would find what he was looking for in his next campaign. When he promised he’d come back to kill her if she lied, the old crone had only laughed at him. 

The next day, he was discharged from his old unit and separated from those who spoke the same language as him. Everyone was afraid of an uprising that would have a giant at its head, so he was offered money and whores, even a position in politics, and lastly, a place in an elite unit with a better wage. They told him the troops were about to leave for the harsh frontier: a new campaign to bring glory to Rome. He chose the latter option immediately.

He turns to look at you. Bloodless, thin-lipped, shivering you.

“She said you would be pretty. Like a fairy.”

You hear the distant rumbling of the sea, endlessly soft. You feel the wind suddenly passing through the field, filling the cloak of a northern king who came all this way just for you. Even the stars are waiting for your next move. 

“I…” you start, already breathless. “The necklace… König, I’m so sorry. I had to give it to Mother.”

“Mother?”

“To the gods. So that you wouldn’t die in battle.”

Realization dawns on his face, driving away all doubt and confusion. He’s just as pleased as the day he gave you all those gifts, if not even more so.

“You make sacrifice for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You can’t help it: a sob wrenches out of your chest as the first tears fall. “I’m sorry. I really liked it... I’m so sorry–”

König rises immediately, only to come to you and fall to a crouch. He draws you against his chest, your weeping face soon held right against his heart.

“Never say sorry,” he kisses your head, over and over again. “Never say sorry…”

The wind surrounds you both, soft and warm, as he rocks you back and forth. You hug him with all the strength a little fairy can muster, then raise your chin to look at him. You’re probably the most pathetic creature he has ever seen – you could swear there is no woman alive feeling as weak as you feel now. König cups your face gently, the look in his eyes that of a hunter who has finally caught up with his prey. Warm, merciful, loving.

“Fee… I can still taste you,” he says.

“I can still feel you,” you whisper back. A deer, felled. “But I don’t… I don’t like biting.”

“Biting…?” 

“Teeth.”

“Ja. I noticed.”

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You would let him bite you anywhere and everywhere now. You would actually kill for it if he only laid his mouth on you...

You laugh with leftover tears in your eyes, and your giant smiles back at you, so endearing that you feel like it’s the first day of the rest of your life.

“Do you like bath?”

…

You ease into the warm, almost too warm water with a sigh.

The slaves have had to toil the better half of the evening to heat such a large body of water, and you can’t even begin to imagine where König has gotten the pretty little clay bathtub. It’s the largest pottery you have ever seen; far too small for a giant like him but just enough for a fairy woman like you.

You wash yourself languidly, feeling like the queen of the whole wide earth. Someone has even poured some of the scented oils into the bath, and you could cry from happiness as the sweet scents envelop you. You wonder if the wife of any chieftain has ever experienced such luxury and warmth. 

König has the most pleased smile on his face when he sees how much you appreciate yet another gift of his. He pampers and spoils you so much that you threaten to turn into an overripe grape, too soft and sweet and juicy, unable to keep intact anymore. But there’s a price to be paid, apparently, as he watches you from across the tent, sitting in his chair and pulling back the tunic to reveal the the erection between his legs. It’s the biggest cock you've ever seen, and already standing tall and proud, like a soldier about to go to war.

Your lips part on their own; heat shoots between your legs so fast it knocks the breath out of you. He seems to love your attention and awe, because his cock gives a few pulls just from you staring at it. Pearl-white seed leaks out of the tip as he grabs it inside a strong fist and gives himself a few unhurried strokes. 

“König…?”

You’re breathless, but he’s not: he’s breathing heavily in that chair, powerful thighs spread wide, stroking the thick weapon between his legs while you feel like fainting in your bath.

“When will torture end?”

He's dark, dark and done with patience, and you don't know how to answer such a question. You don't even know where to look.

“Hm? You like to torture men?”

“No,” you whisper, cheeks hot and cunt ridiculously wet.

“Yes you do. A little bully, hmm?”

“König–”

“I’ll show what happens to bullies.”

He lets himself go and rises from the chair. Your mind is of no use to you now: all you can do is stare at that thing between his legs, pointing towards you like a road sign.

He walks to you, cock and gaze equally heavy, and gets rid of his tunic. Then he gestures for you to rise from the tub. You’ve spent enough time there in his opinion, and the water is indeed turning unpleasantly cool – but if you go to him now, you won’t be able to fight him. Not when you’re in such a pleased, lax, purring state. Perhaps that was the whole idea...

You rise slowly, then step out carefully, taking support from the edge of the tub and from his shoulder – and still almost collapse all over him as you try to remain on your feet. He holds you upwards while you try to avoid the murder weapon between his legs, but your giant is not as shameful as you: he grabs your butt and guides you flush against him. You meet his chest with a gasp, the length of him now trapped between you two.

“Wait, I’m—I’m still wet,” you try to peep, but it’s no use. He sweeps you off your feet, no doubt with the intention of carrying you to the bed. 

“I will lick you clean,” he looks at you like you’re already trapped, caught, and bled: such a weak little creature in his arms, trying to beg for mercy with its last dying breath. You cling to him as such, that’s for sure.

“Just... No biting. Please?” You whisper as he lays you on the bed.

“No biting,” he gives his valiant promise, accompanied with a confident flash of a smile.

Gods…

If he’d gotten rid of that stupid hood earlier, your legs would’ve been pudding. They would’ve been as far apart as the two villages east and west of here. That smile would have allowed him to infiltrate everything in between. Perhaps it’s a good thing he is not that clever… 

“Oh gods–” you gasp as he shifts down and lowers himself for worship. His breath hits you first, and the next thing you feel are his lips – still smiling – then the gods-forsaken beast gives you a kiss.

“Oh–”

There is a sudden silence following your moans, then you hear soldiers bursting into laughter outside your tent. They’re warming themselves by the campfire, no doubt, sharing stories about war and women, and now they’ve heard the first mewls of surrender from their hero’s tent, after weeks of quarrelling.

Your cheeks heat up as one of the soldiers utters a hurried sentence and mentions König’s name, after which the merry crew booms to laughter again.

Gods take the Romans and their stupid, lewd jokes...

You try to concentrate on the warmly lit burgundy ceiling as König carries on without paying any attention to what’s happening outside. They could march into the tent and try their best to rip him off your cunt, but you doubt if they would get him to move an inch. He's simply that drunk on your taste.

You wonder if his chin is already covered in your juices because his kisses are open-mouthed and hungry – he even tries to push his tongue inside you. The man has absolutely no shame when he's buried down there, groaning with approval as you roll your hips. You're rutting his face as shyly as you possibly can, and it makes him purr and rumble with bliss. The noise he makes is enough to make you sing too, so filthy that it earns you a whistle from outside.

Shit... They probably think he's fucking and hurting you with his cock – a scary prospect, yes, but you'll have to cross that bridge when you get there – and they couldn't be more wrong. If they only knew what their champion is doing to his slave, lapping and sucking his disobedient woman like a starved dog...

“You like mouth?”

It’s hungry, so dark, the way he asks if you like what he’s doing to you. It’s not the mad lust of a drunken man from a few nights ago; it’s sober, fierce greed with a clear purpose behind it. Your fingers find his hair and tug at it weakly, not to cheer him on, but to take support from something relatively stable. 

“Yes… Yes, just–"

“Gut,” he grins into your folds, coarse stubble scraping you deliciously raw. “I like this too. After I lick you enough, I will fuck you.”

Your fingers curl around his hair, giving him another involuntary tug.

Gods, make him stop talking... Just tie his tongue or something, make him shut up.

Please…

“I will bully you all night with cock. I know you will like. Hm?”

He prattles more nonsense in your cunt, and you can’t hear the men outside anymore. You can’t even see the lamps. You’re in a womb of pleasure, which is funny because there’s a grown man between your legs, dragging his tongue over your slit until you're shaking and crying on the bed. Yes, if this is a womb, you never want to leave...

And he’s not eloquent; you don’t even know what he is trying to do to you. He probably doesn’t know it himself. He’s not trying to fish for cues on what you like: he just does what he feels like doing, which is everything. He tries every single thing. He’s just happy to be down there, flicking and circling his tongue over your nub until you can’t take it anymore.

You're dangerously close, and rise halfway to push his head away because it’s just too much; it’s too much pleasure in one go. He gives you a husky laugh and fights your weak attempts to make him stop, the damned bastard. You’re too frail to resist him, and he knows too much already, repeating the torture until your hips buck up.

“Gut... Like that...?” He asks again, so eager to please that you have to stifle a sob.

“Yes... Yes, just like that,” you sigh while trying to stay in one piece.

“Guide me, little fairy,” he demands, excited like a young, hot recruit. Apparently it's no big deal for him to have his head tugged and shoved and dragged just for a woman's pleasure. It doesn't take away an ounce of his power to be your toy for a moment. Your sharp tongue has left you completely; it is you who is humbled as you guide him back to the right spot, jerking when he licks you just the way you wished.

It’s bad enough that you make a mess on his bed and moan like a paid woman, giving everyone in this camp a taste of what it sounds like when a giant bullies his fairy to the full. But can’t he keep his stupid, lovable mouth shut...

He’s making so much noise that you can both feel and hear him. His moans are hoarse, needy and deprived; they echo somewhere in your core, somewhere inside your most sensitive, aching place, just before he finds it, the right spot, and pushes his tongue inside you.

“Wait…” you gasp, convulsing on the bed now. What the hell does he think he’s—

“Wait—I’m…”

And then you cum, right into his mouth, with an arched back and quivering thighs, with such lewd sounds shooting out of your mouth that complete silence follows outside.

Whatever those soldiers had thought to happen here tonight, they clearly didn't expect to hear that… Nor the cries that follow, so nasty and wanton that König doesn't withdraw, not before you have clenched and cried your fill. He enjoys your peak to the last tremble, but you barely get to catch your breath before he leaves you. He doesn’t even give you a chance to caress his head as thanks for what he just did to you.

His mouth leaves you empty and cold as he rises, watching you like you're his best conquest. His cock is so hard it juts out, immovable like a rock and so intimidating that you stop breathing for a moment.

And he doesn't allow your breathless, shocked state go to waste: he grabs that horse cock and sets it on your flush, soaked lips, and pushes the head inside. More than just the head inside.

“Oh gods, oh fuck–”

Your legs are completely useless, falling to the side as he eases himself into you. He looks at you curiously, tilting his head when he hears you curse for the first time in his presence. More than just amused, he goes deeper still, delighted that he made you say a naughty word with his cock.

You can feel the stretch; you can feel every ridge, every vein, all his thickness filling you with purpose. You can do nothing but flutter your eyes as he takes you, finally, as his own.

And it must be some cruel joke of both Mother Earth and Father Sky that it prolongs whatever bliss he just gave you with his mouth. Your body won't stop having its pleasure; it welcomes him with a string of helpless whimpers. Even your cunt starts to squeeze him like it's the best thing in this world.

And he sees it. He feels it.

“Ja, little one. Time to fuck.”

He continues his journey inside, one massive palm landing on each side of your head as he leans over you.

“Einfach so… Trust me. Hmm?”

You only nod, completely silent and tame, waiting for him to give you more gifts. Mother knows this man is your downfall: your heart and soul are about to burst into flame when you look at him. You want him with your whole being; you want his love and praise so much you could cry.

“You want cock?”

“Yes,” you look up at him, eyes surely shining like stars. “Yes, yes, yes–”

“I will give you. Don’t worry.”

You sob as he withdraws, pulling the long, delicious cock almost completely out. He returns immediately when you whine from the loss. He feels so good, and so, so big… Fulfilling you entirely, every bit of you that was hollow and empty, every little space that needed loving is now his and filled with love.

“Verdammte… Götter, du bist zu eng,” he huffs and looks down as if to check if it’s true that he’s finally inside you. It could never fit in fully; you both probably knew that. But he’s trying his best.

“What does that mean?” You pant, impatient that he stopped moving.

“Too small... For me...” he laments. Or brags.

“Any woman is too small for you,” you mope underneath him, thinking about whether he has had women who have been able to take him fully in. Women who haven’t been “too small”.

König raises his eyes to you and smiles, revealing a row of white teeth, the scarred lip making his grin look pure and sweet even if he is a menacing man.

Stupid mountain giant… He's just proud of not being able to fit inside you. Your lower lip juts out with a pout, and the cock inside you responds immediately with a pulse. You can feel it — he's fucking excited about you getting angry at him again.

There is a flash of mischief in his eyes – darned bastard – just before he swoops down to attack your neck. Your tits get crushed under a solid chest as he nuzzles close to your ear and gives you lots of love and little bites. He starts to fuck you slowly, and there's nowhere you can escape now, nowhere you can flee his mouth or teeth or cock.

“König, you promised–”

“Aber… You are more tight this way?” 

The breathless laugh that follows leaves you blinking. Of course he can feel the way you tighten around him every time he gives you a little bite.

“Gods, I hate you…” you whisper on his shoulder, thinking about biting him there in return. König laughs in your neck again – your threats of hate have long past lost their intimidating nature and are more like love confessions to him now. And perhaps that’s what they are.

He makes love to you hard and good, and it’s embarrassing, how you're about to cum again around his cock. You were supposed to have your revenge by showing him you have teeth too, but find yourself biting your lip instead, trying to tone down at least some of the filthy sounds that try to escape you.

He's not too rough, at least not yet, happy with listening to the poorly stifled whimpers that follow his every thrust. You thought he'd rail you like an animal, but he seems to settle for making love to you while biting and groping you all over. He savours every thrust like he savoured those grapes you fed him: slowly and intently, with passion instead of greed.

You're squeezing him with everything you have as he rocks you back to the edge. His grunting only make it all worse: he doesn't even try to be quiet and decent, and it's driving you to madness. Why does he have to be so noisy? Why does he have to fuck you so that everyone can hear just how good you feel?

Every soldier in this camp can hear both your moans, his hoarse ones and your weak ones, merging together until you do sound like animals in heat... You’re so wet that some of the men must hear the music of that, too. You never knew your cunt would be so hungry and needy, least of all for a man like him. You grip him as the waves approach, rich moans turning into pathetic little cries as his cock works you open.

“Again…?” He smiles a surprised laugh on your neck. The waves hit you before you can tell him to shut up.

The noise you make is even more obscene this time, and you barely catch a glimpse of his drowsy, victorious stare before your head falls back. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to take in the most powerful orgasm and the most powerful cock of your life without having to see that stupid, happy face of your lovesick giant.

“Nein,” he grabs your jaw inside a huge but gentle hand. “Eyes open.”

He won't even let you cum in peace, but you do as you’re told, finding him watching you like a stormcloud or a god. He watches your every tremble, every whimper, every sigh. He sees the full-blown love in your eyes, and you wonder… Is this what the bards sing about in their stupid songs? 

…Weakness?

Because your heart hurts and your eyes sting, your thighs tremble and your cunt is far too wet and open for him to plough. If this is love, it hurts; it burns far too sweet. It leaves you utterly weak.

“Little one is needy,” he comments softly on your second downfall.

“You’re the one who’s needy–”

Your already weak argument ends in a gasp as he reminds you who you belong to with another good, deep thrust.

“I will put a child in you,” he rumbles, a threat or a promise. “If we do this every night… You will have my child.”

“Then let’s do this every night,” you whisper beneath him, your own purr of a threat. As if you didn’t know how babies were made… To your silent joy, König stops to catch his breath or your words; you’re not entirely sure which. You decide to up the stakes, just to make him fall with you.

“And every morning too?”

“Ach, du kleine–” he crumbles, voice turning to dust from your innocent suggestion.

If you thought he was a little too in love with you before, the look on his face now is worth all the gold in the world. You could swear that your kind question is the sole reason for this man cumming on the spot. Perhaps your body is to blame for it too; he couldn't keep his paws off when you were being sulky and difficult, so how could he take it when you're pleased and loving and all puffed up?

You see the brief flash of vulnerability, the mortal fragility in his eyes just before he shoots his load with a painful-sounding groan. The sound that leaves him is a mixture of desperation and release – even giants can cry, you think as you watch how beautifully he comes undone. He makes sure his seed is sent deep inside you by burying his cock into you, as far as it can go; the intention behind it is so clear that you wouldn't be surprised if you got heavy with a child after this first time.

He falls on top of you after, drained and spent and body heaving from exertion. There’s no other sound in the night but the satisfied panting of you two: the soldiers outside are rendered silent by the sounds of true lovemaking, even the wind spirits are hushed tonight.

You’re completely filled, and with his cock still inside you, he’s preventing any precious seed from escaping. You’re only glad he’s too weak to move because you’d happily keep him here forever, inside and on top of you like this.

“You are pleased…?” He turns his head a little, sounding worried enough to make you hug him tight.

“Yes. Very much,” you whisper, and he moves to rise and look you in the eyes. 

“Gut.”

It’s cute to be nose to nose like this with him, eyes locked together, lips only a hair’s breadth apart. He looks so intoxicated and happy without even being drunk that you break into a small laugh, eyes brimming with happy tears, the washing away of relief. He smiles too, then laughs with you.

The soldiers outside might think it an odd business: to make a woman moan and laugh with a cock. You were brought to this tent screaming, and he made you scream again, just not the way they thought.

The sound of your mutual laughter rises in the tent, up towards the heavens, surely making even the Sky Father smile above.

…

You do it every night, and every morning, too.

Sometimes, you do it during the day after bathing in the stream. After washing and playing in the water, you rush to the shore together, but König is always faster than you. He throws your dress away or holds it up above his head, far from your reach, smiling like the most innocent man in the world. He's far from innocent, though: his cock hangs heavy between his legs, swelling just from seeing you angry and flustered and wet. 

“Bully,” you accuse, utterly in love and out of breath, earning you another attack of a love-hungry giant. You forget the dress when he kneels on the grass, kisses your stomach and your thighs, keeps you in place for his mouth with two strong arms and a love that turns your whole body weak. 

“Pretty,” is the only thing he breathes as an answer before he scoops up your leg and spreads you open for his mouth.

Your head rolls back with a choked sigh, the drops on your skin dry on their own. Somehow, you end up on the grass with his mouth glued on you. The sun plays in your hair; it dances on your face as he gives you more and more until you know, you just know that if you do this every night and morning and day, you will definitely have his child.

He tells you his real name, his true name, the one his mother gave him. You moan it in his ear just before you cum around his length. Sometimes, it makes him purr; other times, it makes him grunt. Once, you hear a soft, pitched whine. 

He’s more rough when you’re on your knees. You’re shy and wet when he commands you to prop yourself on your elbows and show him your cunt. He licks you from front to back, feasts on you until your breaths turn to shivers. You squeeze your eyes shut from how obscene the scene must look; you hope to all the gods the Roman slave won’t come to ask his travel guides back when König finally rises and takes a wide stance behind you. He sets himself on your opening and pushes in, fat and greedy. 

You can only whimper as he starts the thrusts, starved and slow, picking up the pace and holding you in place by the hips when you approach the brink of another collapse. You fear you will lose your mind if he keeps doing this to you every day. The only thing you hear are the breathless, warm grunts of encouragement behind you.

“You can take it. You can take it. Already took it, little one…”

He won’t stop, not even as you cry out loud, the cock hitting you in places that make your legs nearly give in. He won’t stop even as tears brim, not even as you start to sound like a tortured animal; no, he just tightens his grip on your waist and pounds you harder. You cum with a moan that would make Roman whores blush, but your lover doesn’t mind at all. He cums right after you, with a roar that could raise the reverend dead from their mounds.

Afterwards, he’s gentle again. He gathers you in his arms like his most valuable possession, caressing and breathing you in, giving you a soft kiss behind your ear.

“You’re... mean,” you try to remember how to breathe as he gives you more of those hungry kisses. You already know he likes it when you’re so spent you don’t have the strength to squirm or fight him.

“Ja. And you become more nice when I bully you,” he whispers in your ear. “More calm… Less difficult.”

“Well, you don’t,” you turn inside his hold, eyes shining brighter than the stars or even the sun. “Crazy man…”

“You have robbed me of my sword and shield, it’s true. Robbed my heart too. Little thief.”

“Thief? You’re the one who stole me…!”

“And I’ll never let you go.”

You wriggle a hand to cup his face, meeting his eyes with such helplessness that it’s not even funny anymore. If he’s joking or playing with you now, you’ll kill him with his own swords.

“You promise?”

“I make a vow,” he declares ceremoniously, with a hand on his heart. But you doubt that he’s playing any games; you wonder if this man is even capable of lying or deception. You hug him so tight that he has to let out a grunt – surprised and pleased – after which you have to bury your face in his neck so that he won't see your tears.

“I am in love with you, Fee,” he whispers in your ear while caressing your hair, ever poetic for such a simple man. “Tell me. Do you like me too…?”

“Yes,” you breathe a half-cry, half-laugh in his neck. “Yes, you crazy giant. I like you too.”

You rise just enough to kiss him. It’s hungry and delivers everything you can’t say. You can’t tell him you love him; you simply can’t. You’re not ready for the painful happiness it would bring forth. He stabs you full of it anyway.

“I will never let you go. Never. Not when I finally found you, little one...”

…

Summer comes.

The camp moves lazily to its next destination, but when the next battle comes, König refuses to fight. 

His soldiers blame you, of course. You have bewitched him with your softness, making him soft and spineless as well. It is unheard of that a warrior like him would fall like this: out of some woman’s underhanded spell rather than dying gloriously in the field by a barbarian blade or two. Even poison is considered better than this.

No one understands that there is no hex. The war is still being fought, this time inside his soul. It’s not just you preventing him from taking up arms; it’s something else, something old and deep-rooted you've managed to stir in him. Something ferocious, something that has been asleep for a long time, something that is far from all things soft.

You two sneak out from the camp after the bulk of the army has marched away. He takes you to the seaside again, to a wild, roaring shore. You laugh and bask in the sun, swim in the sea and eat the first berries of the season. You lie on the tall grass, naked as the day you were born: it's simply too hot to wear anything except your glowing skin. König starts to ask you peculiar questions while tracing the soft line of your spine. 

He asks what kind of house you would like to live in, and tries to find out in a roundabout way if you would like to live in a forest or in the hills. You treasure the sound of waves, and König likes the sound of the wind in trees, but you both love steep hills and the open view of plains. You get the idea that he may want to retire somewhere in the near future. 

He tells you he is not a good fisherman but can hunt everything that moves. He is good with a spear, with traps and the bow, and he’s tired of hunting humans who only wish to live in peace. The arena he could understand, but the war on foreign lands, not. And if you begin to swell with his offspring, the Roman encampment at war is the last place for a sweet little fairy like you. He asks what kind of village you used to live in and is somewhat sad to hear all the things you tell him. He says it sounds like home, the one he was taken from many years ago. 

When you return to the camp, it’s like you two are a different species altogether, two wild animals who sneak from the gates back to the flock, back to being human, back to being caged and tamed and stunted. The grumpy, tired soldiers witness your wildness and happiness with sullen distaste. To them, your appetite for freedom is the filthiest, most treacherous thing in the world. 

The commander of the troops summons König at his feet and threatens to flog him if he ever skips a battle again. He’s told that only barbarians ignore orders like this: at the turn of a whim or a woman or wind. If he doesn’t remember who he is, not the reckless murderer of his youth but a man reborn, a noble Roman citizen, he will risk descending into apathy and greed again. Was this the case, Rome will guide him back to fold again by the crack of a whip if it has to.

That night, you tell him that you love him. Wherever he goes, you will go. That night, when you’re lying in his arms, sweaty and spent and thoroughly happy, he speaks words so wild it shakes the whole tent with a wind.

“If I kill the soldiers, will you come with me?”

It’s only a mutter, a murmured, careful whisper, but it makes you rise to sit and place a hand on his chest for extra support.

“Kill the soldiers? You mean… Kill the Romans?”

“Ja. All of them.”

The shock quickly makes way to disbelief. Can such a thing even be done? He’s a giant, but he’s still just one man. But König doesn’t look restless at all; he looks like a man who has finally made a decision he should have made years ago. He looks like someone who is at peace with their soul.

"Where would we go?" You whisper weakly, unsure if he has given this enough thought or thought at all. It’s now the wanderer in him who speaks, the adventurer who fears nothing because he has already lost everything – and found the most precious, essential thing. 

You. Himself…

Free will.

“Wherever you want.”

“What if you get killed…?”

“You take treasure and horse and go.”

…

Your mother always said that it's useless to sway a man if he has chosen to stand up and fight. She told you that the best you could do is go grab a sword and join him.

That is why you give him your blessing – your full, ardent blessing.

It makes him stronger than ever: were he to go out there with nothing but his skin, he would be victorious. The oak that hears your magnificent spell shivers from fear above you as you call down earth, fire and wind. 

You call the spirits from below to guide his feet and make them swift and silent as a feather in the wind. You call down the lightning from the sky to accompany his sword as he deals his blows. You cloak him with the fury of the dead; they will smite down his enemies when they catch even a glimpse of him. You shroud him with the Mother's blessing so that he will be untouchable, unstoppable, invincible as he deals death among the Romans.

It’s a terrible spell; even the moon withdraws into a cloud when She hears it. Not even the lady of silver twilight dares to reveal this giant to the Romans as he’s about to descend upon them.

He rises with the power of fifteen men and gives you a kiss that nearly topples you. He smiles before he leaves you, and never looks back as he goes to do the deed of a legend.

You watch the massacre up from a hill. A safe distance from the camp, but close enough to see how König destroys a whole cohort by himself. The plant you mixed into the “reconciliation wine” he gave his soldiers and the commander before nightfall makes it laughably easy because most of the men are still half asleep when they burn inside their tents. The oil spilt on the dry dirt and linen roars aflame now with the help of the wind and earth spirits as König torches the camp. The occasional few soldiers that rise to meet him with fear in their stare are already broken by your spell before his swords impale them. 

The old translator is the only Roman who wasn’t given a cup of foxglove wine because he was König’s slave, and now he can see that he is blessed among men. The God of War faces him with swords pointing to the ground, fury planting his feet wide, and it takes the old Roman a while to understand that he’s the only man who gets to walk out of this camp unharmed. As grumpy and unsociable as he is, you wish him good fortune on his future journeys, even utter a quick protection spell to shroud him as he leaves towards his destiny on enemy land.

The slave women, sober, confused, and free, run amock to gather weapons, cloaks, food, and valuables before escaping the camp. König doesn’t even notice them, and they pay little mind to the enraged god ramming through puny mortals because they’re too busy getting out of the burning castra.

How fitting it is that the only people escaping the hellfire are a few beaten women and an old, weak-calved Roman – every able-bodied soldier burns inside his tent or meets their end at your lover’s blade.

The wind spirits help spread the fire so eagerly that you begin to fear that König won’t make it out in time. You whisper prayers into your fist, curled around the Mother who has already given you so much. She has also taken away everything; like seasons, she has reaped and sown, but if she reaps your lover now, you will walk into the sea.

Mother is merciful and returns him to you, unharmed and glorious. He's the same ferocious beast you saw half a moon ago, and also the same ferocious man who was inside you this very morning. You see a god of war, and he sees the mother of life and death, perhaps, because his first words to you are a ripe offering.

“I avenged them all,” he says when he reaches you, thrumming with victory and smelling of smoke and ruin and blood.

He has been born again; he has walked to a new dawn through fire and death and returns to your arms like you two have known each other since the beginning of time. You’re not sure if he talks about his fallen ones or your fallen ones, or everyone who has fallen to these particular Roman spears. You’re not sure if this is his downfall because what you’re looking at is only the downfall of the Roman campaign on your lands. You and König are very much wild and spirited and free. If this is a downfall, it feels like being lifted towards the sky. You see in his eyes that he feels the same as you.

The whole world is new as you leave towards a new life. Sun rises, and takes years off your backs. You wash him in the sea and kiss the salt away from his lips, and it feels only right that he takes you on the grass after slaughtering your enemies.

You bury the statues and the bronze sword in your old village, long abandoned and thoroughly looted. The old woman is in her hut, dead as a stone, and she finally looks happy, with a calm little smile on her face and flowers in her hand. She looks like a young girl, almost, ready to meet the spring of her life.

"Ready for adventure, little one?" König smiles as he raises you to his horse. He takes direction from the sun while you look down at his happy, golden form – your god, your life, your love. 

Your new beginning.

...

Translations:

Richtig? - Right?/Correct?

Einfach so - Just like that

Verdammte… Götter, du bist zu eng - Damn… Gods, you are tight

Aber… - But…

Ach du kleine… - Oh you little…

Scheisse - Shit/Fuck

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