#guiding wind au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kneelingshadowsalome · 8 months

Text

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 3/4

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 Part 2 Word count: 9.4 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: König takes liberties with his mouth. Dubcon is at its most dubcon in this chapter so please tread carefully <3 The actual smut happens in the next (and last) part. Long chapter because these two just can't behave!!

The days are getting warmer now.

The sun warms the tent during the day, and the sound of birds searching for a mate threatens to drive you to madness. They sing during nighttime, too, and you miss the sturdy clay walls of your hut that blocked at least some of the sounds from outside. Now you are barely sheltered from wind and rain that beat the tent every now and then and can escape the swelling song of spring and lovesick birds to nowhere. König only snores with steady content as you mull over your strange fate there in his cozy bed, wondering how crazy it is that he never lets you go when he sleeps.

If König has an early council, you spend the morning eating breakfast in bed while studying odd parchments the translator gave you. The old man was quite insulted, not because you asked, but because you showed interest in the documents that, apparently, were of least importance to him.

You don’t care that they’re “only” travel guides because they’re filled with Roman letters and numbers and usually illustrated with pictures of columns. You don’t understand a word they say and how those strange papers could ever be a travel guide to anyone, but you like to trace the letters and pictures with your finger. König clearly understood your fascination with them: he left you this morning with another smile, which told you he only thought you were simply adorable this way. He tried to tell you that the letters represent towns and the numbers tell the distances between those towns, but they still remain bizarre pieces of paper to you.

Men pass by occasionally; you can hear it from how their gears clonk and clatter and swish. You can hear the soft thump of sandals on the dirt, but you pay it no attention because you’ve always trusted that you are safe here. As long as you stay inside the tent, no one will touch you, even if they can currently see you because the flap is left open a wink.

The only times his men witness you are when König takes you out for a walk in the woods so that you can take care of your bodily needs. Everyone can see that your hands are never tied, your face is never bruised, and your posture is still that of a proud, unbroken woman. And everyone looks at you with both hunger and wonder. Apparently, you are an even tempting spoil because you are not yet spoiled.

The special treatment was rubbed in your face one time when you passed by a Roman soldier disciplining his slave, a woman who had shared your fate and clearly was having the worst of it. The other half of her face was unrecognizable, but the man kept beating her, and you stared in horror as whatever deed she had done to anger the man was now being punished far too cruelly.

“Romans very dumb,” König said from next to you without even shedding a glance at the morbid scene. No one seemed to give a shit about what was happening to that poor woman, but you would never have expected such a comment to come from König’s mouth. When you asked him what he meant by that, he only shrugged and said: “That man piss on his luck.”

You wonder if the only reason why you haven’t been raped yet is because you are some sort of a lucky charm to him. The mere thought has the effect of making your blood boil, but some distant, tender voice inside you reminds you that König is not Roman. He does not share Roman customs, even if he fights with and for them. Perhaps slaves are treated differently in his land. Perhaps in there, it is considered an outrage and an insult to the gods to beat a woman, free or not.

Whatever his reasons are for not beating and raping you to death, it was a tremendous stroke of luck that König found you first. You dropped right there on his feet when he was victorious, so of course his men allowed him to take you as his: you were clearly a gift from the gods. But now that time has passed, you understand you are by no means safe if you wander outside this tent. König can protect you only when he is present or when you are safely tucked away in his own personal space.

It’s a false feeling of safety, however, because you soon learn that out of sight is out of mind for these soldiers. Now that you are on display, sweetly and neatly on the bed, a tiny little wrinkle forming between your brows from studying the peculiar parchment, you are like fresh livestock on the marketplace, even inside the tent. You notice that someone else is in here with you only when you hear the sound of munching and turn.

A relatively big soldier is standing in the doorway, eating an apple, watching you like he would rather have a bite out of you.

And you thank all the gods and stars above you, all the spirits and the Mother below you, that he doesn’t even get to take a step before a sword impales his chest.

König kills his own man so casually that all the thoughts of him falling to the gentle side of giants disappear instantly. He even twists the sword inside the broad man from daring to cast eyes on you. And you probably should feel bad for him… But you don’t. Not at all. The apple falls into the dirt and rolls away, but the man slumps into the threshold of the outside world and the safe womb of the tent, like an offering to guardian spirits - or to you.

You look up at König, eyes wide only because you are yet again speechless, but this time because of odd, bashful gratitude.

“No touching,” he says without even blinking – it sounds like a stern explanation.

“No touching,” you agree with a whisper. König only nods, wipes his gladius clean on the dead soldier’s cloak, and carries the body into the woods.

…

You don’t know if he has lost some of the favour he enjoys among the Romans after killing one of their soldiers. You suspect he has not. Actually, you are sure his reputation only soared for it. He just showed everyone that his prize is not to be touched: you are not to be even looked upon. Romans probably respect such a thing.

A few wagons arrive one morning, carrying various supplies for the soldiers. There are many other items too, completely unrelated to warfare but all to do with pleasure and gambling and trade. You assume König gets to pick his favourites among the first soldiers, if not the first soldier, from the abundant cargo that arrived, because he brings his spoils to you with boyish excitement. There is close to nothing there for himself: only a thick, heavy cloak, made of dark wool with lush fur on the shoulders. It looks like something a northern king would wear, and you find yourself quite happy for him, but the other items he’s carrying are clearly all hand-picked just for you.

There is a dress, a pair of sandals, a bone comb, some fruit and a large, round copper dish. It serves as a mirror as you change into the dress – a Roman one, dyed ocean blue – just to appease König and get him off your back. It hurts your heart to see how happy it makes him to see you accept his gifts. He holds the dim, uneven mirror in front of you when you get the dress on, and you’re feeling strangely meek: you’re not even sure if you have put it on properly. The bone comb is milk white and has two horses carved on it – it reminds you of the offering that was never made to appease the Great Mother because it couldn’t have prevented the Titan from coming to your lands. It’s another odd omen: black horses now turned to white, but an omen for what, you can’t say.

And then… he kneels.

König falls at your feet and starts putting the Roman sandals on, tying the strings around your calves so gently that it makes you feel like you’re made of clay. The sandals are not the kind he wears: they’re made for women, apparently, because they’re so skimpy and delicate. The strings reach the upper part of your calf, and when he’s done with you, happy to have now clothed you in Roman garb, he caresses your thigh and presses a kiss above your knee.

And he looks up at you like you’re everything but his captive. He looks at you like you’re a queen. He stares at you like he’s the slave here.

“You like?”

The soft rumble catches you off guard, as does the fond caress he gives your leg. He doesn’t even try to move his hand upwards and under the dress; he just admires you from the ground, looking a bit foolish while crouched there at your feet. You swallow arduously and nod. What else are you supposed to do?

He smiles with his eyes and gives you another kiss. He presses it on the sensitive part where your calf meets the inside of your knee. He even raises his hood to do it, and you finally feel his breath as his lips meet your skin, hot but tender. You fight the urge to shrink from him, and despite it only being a soft peck, a lover’s touch, the kiss leaves a burning sensation on your skin.

Then he tucks your dress down, like a slave who simply stole a little kiss from his mistress. You’re rendered weak and silent before such reverence, but then the playfulness returns as he raises one finger, as if telling you not to say a word because he just had an idea. You look at him with odd curiosity as he crawls on all fours and reaches for something underneath the bed. You panic a little, fearing he might notice that you’ve been there, too: rummaging through his things and throwing the pieces of jewellery back there without caring to ensure that they are placed back in the same position you found them in. But he doesn’t seem to care or notice.

He tries to offer you the golden pendant first, the one that has three discs on it. It’s a little too much, and you shake your head, fearing you will upset him by declining his gift. He tries to offer you a more delicate necklace next: full of cute, filigreed beads, but you shake your head again. He wishes to give you a trinket so badly that you finally raise your hand and graze your fingertips over a leather string holding a few chunks of amber. It also bears the claws of some animal: fox, perhaps. He looks very pleased with your choice and puts your new possession around your neck. You reach for the copper plate yourself this time and hold it up to see how you look in your odd Roman dress and your humble but powerful new necklace.

“Sehr schön,” König says behind you as you take in the wobbly image. He is so, so happy - you have never seen him quite so happy. It looks like he thought this to be the prettiest, most compelling piece of jewellery too; as if the gold and beads were simply currency for him, too. As if it was obvious that you would be interested in bones and sea gold instead of the gold of men. Then he pulls out something from under his tunic: another leather string that has a large hunk of bone hanging from it. He’s presenting it to you like he wants to show how you two are now very much alike.

“What is it…?” You ask, trying to determine whether the bone came from an elk or a deer.

“Bear cock,” he says proudly while dangling it in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a man to carry the penis bone of a bear around his neck. “Makes man strong in battle and bed.”

“I don’t think you need that,” you whisper while looking up at him. It’s your first joke to him, and he laughs. Heartily.

“Kleine Fee. You have only seen me fight.”

He puts it back under his tunic as if it’s his secret amulet now. You really don’t think he needs any more luck in war, or in any other… field. He seems like the kind of man who can pleasure women all day. It’s a bitter thought, somehow, and makes your heart feel heavy. You wonder how many women he has had already when you have refused to open your legs for him.

“We can try how good it works in bed,” he offers, as cheerfully as ever.

Oh.

Oh…

“I’m—I’m hungry. I think I need to eat something,” you summon an excuse out of thin air while raising your hands against his chest to keep him away. As if you could get your breakfast down after him saying things like that…

“Hungrig? I can feed you,” he suggests, still in the happiest of moods. Then he sweeps you off your feet and carries you to the table. He’s ever generous today: you get to sit on his lap as he starts to feed you grapes.

And you didn’t think he’d actually, veritably feed you. But that’s exactly what he does. You get an entire meal: ripe fruits, a thick handful of bread, a fine slice of fat, delicious cheese. Wine to wash it down, and then some more grapes. He holds them gently on your lips until you open your mouth a little so that he can push them onto your tongue. He watches with utter content how you eat everything he offers you. He even gives you a few bounces with his knee, and every now and then, he gropes your tits: just squeezes them and plays around with them while you eat.

It is quite evident that this man really, really likes your boobs. Perhaps that is why he carries the statue of Great Mother around… To your horror, you realize the piece of carved wood is not an idol of worship for this man, just a lewd image he probably digs up and looks at when he wants to stroke his cock.

Gods... This man is even worse than you thought.

You begin to pout again, and he draws you flush against him, seeing that he somehow managed to make you displeased. Unaware as to what could have caused this, he gives you another bounce and tries to find the reason for your sudden change of mood.

“Are you fed now?”

“Yes,” you mope even more as you realize you would very much like him to continue feeding you even if you’re full. To just… do that thing with the grapes again. Just a few more.

“Gut. We have to leave soon.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “To fight.”

The camp is packed up in such haste that you find yourself under the sun in practically no time. You stay as close to König as possible without being glued to him, seeing that the new dress and hairstyle you made with the comb is high currency among the war-torn, lust-filled soldiers. Someone gives you a long whistle, which is followed by a few harsh comments you luckily don’t understand, but all the stares are cut off when König stops preparing his horse, rises to his full height, and wraps his fingers around the handle of his gladius.

You don’t get a single look after that, not even a sideways glance. Everyone acts like you don’t even exist.

The army moves at a slow pace at first, leaving a heavy dust cloud behind. It’s a fine day for travelling because there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. Everyone seems to be having a good time except for the slaves, and König is the only one who is vigilant, watching his surroundings at all times, head turning from side to side, hand never leaving his sword.

You get a horse – his horse – and a lot of hateful stares from the other women, none of whom you have ever seen before. Captive girls from other villages, you presume, and they all hate you now because you get to ride a strong black stallion while they have to march in a dust cloud with their hands bound and their feet full of blisters. Their captors don’t give much thought to feeding or giving water to these poor women, mainly because they’re too busy laughing with each other and having hearty gulps from their wine sacks. You wonder if these men have ever fed these women a single grape during their campaign.

König, on the other hand, marches next to you like he’s your servant. He offers you his waterskin, his wineskin, too, and as the march goes on, an awkward knot starts to form inside your belly.

He’s behaving so oddly. You can’t find any other reason for his behaviour than that he simply has no full understanding of Roman customs because he comes from somewhere else. (Mountains, he said, when you asked him.)

You only now notice that he has servants but only uses them to pack or set up the tent. Other high-ranking officers and commanders have their servants with them at all times, tending to their every need. König is the only one who behaves like a foot soldier: he pours his own wine, gets his rations and supplies himself, lights his oil lamps without help and never lets anyone else touch his armour or swords.

The servant he uses the most is the translator, a slave who’s clearly responsible for teaching König more and more of your words. He also serves as a mediator when König gets ready for another battle. You have naively wanted to forget the reason why these men are here in the first place, and as you see König putting on his full armour the next day, tying the swords on his waist and leaving to search for his shield, you feel like bursting into tears or a scream. You look away as he gets dressed, and refuse to give him a single kind look that morning. You stand with your hands crossed over your chest as he’s finally ready and fetches the old man to the tent again.

The Roman soon stands next to him as König takes a step and falls on one knee before you.

“He asks you to bless him,” the old translator says – weary and bored.

You stop breathing for a second and look at König, there at your feet again, head bowed, leaning on one elbow placed on a strong knee.

Bless him… For going to slaughter another clan? Give your blessing to him leaving people fatherless, childless and homeless?

Is this some sort of a joke?

“Are my words… correct? Master asks that you give him your blessing for the upcoming battle.”

You bite your lip in frustration. You want to put your hand over this proud warrior’s head and send him away with words of might and fortune, but even the thought of wanting to do that is about to make you sick.

“I will do no such thing,” you say coldly and earn a sad, confused stare from König, who raises his head to look at you with a horrifying, pleading gaze. This man doesn’t beg for anything from anyone, and yet here he is, in his full armour, armed to the teeth and looking like the God of War again, asking for a kind word or two. You turn away, not because you deny him, but because you can’t stand to be under that defenceless gaze. The Roman sighs behind you, and from the clatter of König’s gear, you can hear that he has gotten up and is about to leave.

You turn again, only to face his withdrawing back. Tense, and already beaten.

He grabs the satchel, the one that holds his Mother, but stops to look at it like it’s simply an ordinary object instead of a powerful entity. Then he places it back down on the table with a sigh. You look with horror as he leaves for war without taking his amulet, idol, fate, source of luck and joy – whatever the statue represents to this man – with him.

It doesn’t take long before you regret you didn’t give him your “blessing”.

It somehow feels wrong that he left without it. You’re his captive, but he has fed you, clothed you, kept you warm. He has practically done no harm to you except hold you through the night and have a few gropes at your tits, which you haven’t found harmful at all… The least you could do to thank him is to lay a hand upon his head or sword before he left. Just a simple little gesture, not even a true blessing… Just a little something would have sufficed, to help him go into battle with a slightly lighter heart.

Because as much as you loathe this man, you don’t actually want him dead. You don’t want him to march into battle and think you wish him ill. You don’t want König to get careless just for the sake of feeling miserable about the thought that his little slave girl despises him.

Because you don’t despise him.

You just don’t… like him.

And he’s your captor still. Why should he deserve your blessing?

But the image of him cutting through his enemies with sorrow and bleakness in his stare, walking into a spear just because he’s had enough of life and more than enough of difficult, uncaring, ungrateful women, makes your heart bleed. He could’ve taken Mother with him since he didn’t get a good luck’s wish from you, but he chose to leave even Her behind. As if his faith had failed him, as if the few things and people he has ever placed his trust in have now abandoned him.

The night rolls in, and the moon crosses the sky slowly, so slowly, as you wait for his return. The old Roman looks at you sideways every time you peek outside the flap and sigh. Your guard is a weak, old man, but you reckon that if you were to escape, the tired slave would simply follow you out of the camp and tell König which direction you have gone so that he can hunt you down when he returns. The few Romans left to guard the portable garrison would probably seize you and take you as their plaything before you managed to set a foot outside the vallus, and even if König came back to claim you, you could be a bloody heap by the time he returned.

And it’s not even caution keeping you inside the tent. You don’t actually think about fleeing at all.

In the dead of night, you go to his satchel and pull out the statue of the Great Mother.

“Dear Mother... Great Mother. Please let him have his victory. Please let him come home unhurt. Even if he fails, please let there not be a scratch on him as he falls. Please, please, please…”

You improvise your prayer as you go, thinking about something to offer Her while being captive and not having access to most of the resources you would normally go to.

“I’ll give you my next moonblood. I will give you amber and fox claws…”

Your heart hurts, knowing you just promised the necklace König gave you as your sacrifice. But it’s a small gift for his safe return, and you renew your prayer, over and over again, while squeezing the Mother between your hands and pressing Her against your forehead.

You’re not sure if She can even hear you, because haven’t you wished this man dead not too long ago? You return the Mother to her satchel and pace around the tent, about to go mad. When the first horses arrive, you almost run outside to see if you can see or hear him coming. Soldiers march into the camp: there is so much din and racket outside that you know this is the least opportune moment to go outside and show yourself to the survivors who clearly have their morale and cocks up high from the recent battle. You wait and wait and wait, thinking about whether your god is among the wounded, being carried to some other tent where they treat injuries. You go and sit on the bed; you rise up and sit on the table. Then you go and press your ear to the fabric of the tent and try to listen like a fox.

The flap is, blessedly, finally drawn aside, and you hurry to meet whoever has arrived. It’s König – of course – breathing heavy, looking slightly high-strung but primarily unscathed, and you forget yourself completely when running to him.

“Are you hurt!?”

He takes off his helmet and takes in a good breath of air, eyes melting into pure love when he sees you.

“Nein. Not a scratch.”

You swallow your relief – of course no one can get to this man. Your fears have been stupid and ridiculous. But in the deepest chasm of your heart, you thank the Mother three times. You promise to deliver her your sacrifice as soon as possible.

“You fear for me?” He asks, so excited again that you have to dig your nails into your palm so that you won’t go and clutch him and cry from joy. You don’t nod or shake your head; you only stare at him with what must look like a frightened deer stare.

Your giant comes to hug you so tight you can’t even breathe. Then he lifts you into the air, and there is nothing you can do - there is nothing you even want to do but to be there in his stout embrace. You’re so relieved that he is alive and unhurt that there are tears in your eyes, and he sees them, and smiles.

“Don’t worry, little Fee. Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen.” His voice is throaty and parched; apparently, he has shouted his throat raw on the field.

You almost say you’re sorry that you didn’t give him your blessing, but seeing how pleased, triumphant, and gleeful he is causes you to shut your mouth and shut it tight. It’s enough that you have babbled prayers for him all night, praying your knees and tongue sore.

König returns you to the ground and leaves, only to return with ample loot. Two slaves carry in a small but heavy jute sack of coin, a tiny chest filled with honey, two bottles of scented oils, three gorgeous jugs of milk, a beautiful bronze sword, all laid there at your feet.

“Für dich,” he says, throwing a wide arc with his hand to gesture that all this is now yours. You watch all the stunning, lavish, extraordinary gifts, again picked with care just for you. You remember how there was not a single coin in this tent before you were dragged in, no bronze, no gold, no milk nor honey. No fine dresses, no stolen, scented oils. How many families did he have to kill to bring all these fine goods for you?

“I don’t want your loot,” you whisper on the brink of tears.

“What…do you want?” The smile in his eyes fades, and it stabs your heart full of pain. “More sea honey?”

“No, I–”

“Slaves?”

“No,” you step forward. If only you two could have met some other time, in some other place… “I just…I want my freedom.”

“What will you do with freedom…?”

You finally get to see what König is like when he argues. He cannot understand your logic; he can’t understand what more he must do to satisfy you and make you happy.

“Your chief is dead,” he says bluntly, causing your head to feel two times too small for your anger and pain.

“You don’t have to remind me,” you blurt, equally bluntly. Because whose fault is that? This man is a thick-skulled, thick-cocked idiot.

“You have no husband. No village.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why angry?”

“Because you are infuriating,” you almost shriek.

He looks at you, lost and confused, not knowing how to calm you down or make you pleased again. And it must be confusing: some gifts work, some don’t. Other times, you look at him lovely and sweet; other times you sulk and pout. You have luckily stopped your crying, but now you have suddenly decided to yell at him?

He approaches you after seemingly coming to the conclusion that you must want him to either pet or fuck you. He tries to raise his hands to touch you, but you push him away.

“Don’t you fucking dare grope me again!”

He withdraws quickly, now utterly nonplussed. If you don’t even want to be held, then what is he to do? This goes against all the laws of this world: he has arrived, triumphant and joyous from the battle, clearly favoured by all the gods, above and below, and favoured in full. The only one who doesn’t grant him a boon is you. His head tips to the side - it always does that when he’s curious or thinking hard. Then his eyes light up with understanding, and you know you’re about to hear more nonsense coming out of that oafish mouth.

“You don’t want me to fight?”

“I don’t…care what you do,” you scoff.

“Ah. You hate Romans?”

“Yes, I hate Romans. I wish they would all die. I hate their stupid battles and their stupid campaigns. And I hate you too,” your spirit rises with your words, your voice gaining volume and strength as you hurl all your frustration at him.

And he’s shocked. Not at your first declaration, nor the second, not even the third. It’s the last sentence that clearly drives a dagger straight into his heart.

He steps back, nearly toppling a milk jug as he pulls away from you. Then he mumbles something under his breath, something in his own crude language. The words are muffled by the mask as he scratches the back of his neck and leaves the tent without even taking his blood-stained armour off.

His name, the name that sounds so foreign to you, never leaves your mouth. But the following words do.

“Wait, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

Not all of it.

He’s out of the tent by then, and you’re left with your beautiful gifts, your bitter sorrow and regret. You sigh and look up, hoping you could see the sky and whisper your inquiry into the night air.

Why on earth did you two have to meet like this? Why does he have to be so thick-skulled and so… So him?

You calm your racing heart and start to organize the loot he brought you. You have never liked messy places and have done your best to keep this tent from getting cluttered. You taste some of the milk he brought you and inhale the sweet scent of those oils; you dip your little finger inside the honey jar and have a taste. The golden liquid tastes like the food of the gods when paired with milk. You put the blade on the table where König usually keeps his swords and settle to wait for him.

And you have to wait for a long time, so long that you eventually withdraw to the bed, alone and with a heavy heart. When König finally returns, you can hear he has had a drink. More than one, too: he has probably drunk an entire jug of wine alone. He doffs his armour with curses and sighs, and lets it drop on the ground with a sloppy clang that makes you jolt under the furs. He eats something very noisily while throwing his helmet somewhere to the ground too, burps loudly, and sighs again: so deeply that it makes your heart burn. After getting rid of the tunic and his sandals – an operation that takes him more than a while – he crawls on the bed with a heavy breath. Your heart is at your throat as the stench of wine hits you, and his hands are clumsy and stern when he comes under the same fur and reaches for you.

“König—”

Your whisper ends abruptly as you are pulled against a familiar, broad chest. He growls at you for being awake – or at himself for waking you up with a drunken racket.

“I don’t… I didn’t…” you start weakly and have to clear your throat as he huffs against your neck, listening to what you are trying to say.

“I don’t hate you,” you finally whisper.

He grumbles against your back and buries his masked face in your neck. The arm around your middle tightens and tightens, and you hurry to praise his gifts.

“The honey is delicious. And the oils are–”

"Fee… Du machst mich verrückt."

He speaks through gritted teeth while panting laboriously in your hair. You're relieved to hear sorrow instead of anger in his voice, but it’s his body that makes you arch your back and guide your bottom to meet his crotch.

The biggest mistake you’ve ever done, surely, because the whole body behind you grows taut. He gives you a tight roll of his hips, pushing his cock against you with immediate fervour. His balls meet your bottom, tight and heavy: you have gone to bed in your ridiculous Roman dress because you were feeling cold, but you can still feel them. You can feel all of him.

“König… We–We need to sleep…”

You sound like a bitch in heat, not at all like a woman who wants to stop wherever this heated cuddle is spiralling into. König is letting out noises you didn’t even know a man could make, and it makes your cunt wetter than ever before: tight and throbbing and embarrassingly needy. You try to remind yourself that this is not the proper time or way, that you don’t want it to happen like this: with the smell of wine and blood and dirt and sweat surrounding you, with him soon thrusting that cock between your thighs and shooting his seed on the bed before he can even get it in. You don’t want him when he’s drunk, and you don’t want him when he’s clearly a bit angry with you still. You place a weak hand over his, the one currently wrapped around your middle like a bond.

“Please, I mean it…”

“Not the time for sleep, little one,” he rasps on your shoulder, mask dragged aside and mouth breathing hot against your skin. His voice is gentle but his body is not: it turns out he has only been waiting for the slightest little cue to have the permission to take you. Unfortunately for you, moaning and grinding your hips against him is more than just a cue.

“Göttin der Erde... Gib dich mir.”

He grunts odd, boorish words on your shoulder, leaving you breathless with another tight roll of his hips. It feels like a spell or a chant, the way he speaks. You want nothing more than to give yourself to him, and fear that whatever tie has been knotted between you two, whatever shackle has bound your souls together, has also granted him the ability to hear your thoughts. He must’ve heard them, or then he must smell the change in the air, because he rolls you on your back and pushes a knee between your legs.

“Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen,” he mutters more incantations in your neck, broad thigh forcing your legs further apart. He doesn’t even need strength to coax them open: they drag up and aside by themselves.

“Ah–Why can’t you talk like normal people…”

You sigh your silly thoughts out into the night air, and your fierce giant turns his head a little, now right there next to your cheek.

"Normal? Was ist das…?"

Your lips draw into a quivering little smile – you just can’t help it. Him lying half on top of you, asking what the word ‘normal’ means while smelling like an entire wine house just burned down makes your lips and heart flutter. Your soft laugh makes him raise his head a little, drunken, half-lidded eyes now fixed on you.

“The opposite of you?” You offer innocently and try not to laugh, but it’s no use. You start to snicker, then giggle, and the way he growls only makes things worse.

“You little–I will go crazy because of you,” he whispers, drunk as a heartbroken man can be. Your own heart seems to open with a flood.

“Then go crazy,” you whisper back.

And gods… He takes your sigh as a permit to go absolutely berserk. He crawls on top of you and rips your dress apart from the middle with both hands, exposing your breasts to him and the cold night air. There's a weight in his gaze that turns your nipples hard; a gaze of promise, just before he descends.

He attacks you like a starving man, devours and licks and sucks your breasts until you shake and moan on the bed, until your hands come to cradle his head with greed.

“I will make you scream tonight,” he pants roughly on your tits – you can feel the words on your skin. You’re veritably afraid that this man will swallow you before he even gets to the main event, which is no doubt to satiate the need to fill you with potent seed. He doesn’t exactly caress you, no: he gobbles you like your body is an entire feast, the generous kisses almost turning into bites when he reaches your hips.

“No–no teeth, König,” you try to whimper, somewhere on the borderline of tension and lust.

"Fee... I promise I'll fuck you like king. I'll fuck you until you cry.”

Your head goes blank from his words; from terror and love and lust. There's no time to decipher whether you should be afraid, because he scoops up your thighs, grabs you like a wrestling partner, and draws you against his face.

“Wait—What are you–”

Your words are cut off as he drives his nose up your cunt and breathes in your musk like it's divine incense. It doesn’t matter that you’re still covered by the skimpy dress he just ripped to shreds: the fabric is so thin that he could be virtually sniffing you through sheer gossamer.

There’s no escape now; he can feel how wet you are. He can practically taste it.

“König—”

You can't understand why he would want to push his face there, so you mewl and try to push him away – very weakly – but he’s immovable, glued to your scent down there, panting into your warm, wet cunt with harsh breaths and starved groans. You're lying there at his mercy, dress torn to pieces and breasts heaving, thighs spread as far as they can go.

It's futile to even try reason with a starved giant between your legs, a cunt-deprived warrior about to finally take what's his. You should've known better than to joke around and play with a man who could snap you in half – either with his hands or with his cock – and Mother was wrong: you're not smart at all, teasing a beast like this. A beast whose teeth are currently bared over your most vulnerable place protected only by a thin veil soaked with your wet.

König lashes his tongue out and presses it flat against your dress, on your throbbing womanhood, and your words turn into an ample, lewd moan.

“A–ah…”

You fall weakly back on the bed, head spinning although you haven’t drunk a drop of wine. The broad body almost trembles there between your legs.

“Ah… You want cock, ja? I can taste it,” he grunts, blunt as ever. The thought of that thing being bullied into you inch by thick inch makes your cunt clench tight. Gods, you want it, but it will never fit, never…

Unless he… Unless that's why he's down there, panting hot inside you, trying to coax you open with his mouth. Perhaps he's not that dumb after all...

“Please,” you beg for him to love you, taste you, take you, your pride melting into copper and gold, pooling somewhere down, down, down…

“Don't worry,” he speaks straight to your cunt like a man intoxicated with something far better than wine. “I will give you cock. All night.”

He lifts the dress with his nose like a dog, nuzzles under your ruined attire like it's his shelter for the night, headed back towards his plump prize. There will soon be nothing between his mouth and your poor, throbbing cunt, aching to be licked and loved by a cruel giant. A giant who brings you milk and honey and grapes and gold in all its forms…

But just when you have finally forgotten that beasts possess teeth, he sinks them into you. He sinks them into your inner thigh, waking you up from the dream with sharp, harrowing pain.

The fucking idiot actually bites you, hard.

“You fucking—Go to hell!”

You push him away in earnest now, using his shoulders to propel yourself away from him. His teeth threaten to pierce and tear skin because he's so reluctant to let go, and the horrors of the battlefield seep into your skin; the safe warmth of the womb turns into a suffocating darkness.

Your kicks have enough power to make him rise from between your legs, and the clear-cut pain in his eyes makes you want to both hug and hit him. You do the latter and hurl your fists at him, not bothering to even try to hit a target or cause pain; you just want him to stop making you afraid.

Of course, he takes your breathless state and lust-filled rage as a cue to leave – and he does precisely that, but not before he has struggled away from you and your fists in an overly dramatic manner. It would look funny in another situation, especially when he's as hard as ever, cock jutting high towards the sky just from having a little taste of your love. Drunken and slightly wobbly, he almost falls when he grabs the tunic from the earthen floor as if his tent is a site of execution where he will soon be stoned.

At the mouth of the tent, he stops, throws his head back, and roars. The guttural, booming rage echoes towards the gods like a furious curse, and you’re quite sure that the entire camp is awake by now. Every soldier nearby must be dying of a scared heart, thinking that there are either bears or Gauls upon them.

You hold your arms against your chest and safeguard your soft belly as you take in all his fury and frustration, then watch him stagger into the night, head hanging heavy between slumped shoulders. You’re left breathing, afraid and alone in the darkness, thinking about what the hell just happened… And spend the next moments in shock. Soon enough, the cold and terror fades, melting into something more palatable. You're shivering and wet, but intact, at least on the outside.

And the oddest thing is that you find yourself missing him. You miss his presence, his body, you miss his dumbness and his jokes. You fucking miss him.

The man who almost raped you.

With his… mouth.

You curl inside the furs and try to get some sleep with a hammering heart, ending up thinking about him all night. You thought he was going to pound you with that ridiculously long cock all night – and wasn't that his threat, too? – but what you didn't expect was that the giant barbarian who rips people's throats open with his teeth would want to lick and lap you into submission. You never would have thought that König wanted to bury his face between your legs, and eagerly at that.

Perhaps you understood his silly words wrong in your half aroused, half scared state. What if he meant to make you scream and cry from pleasure, not pain?

The burning bruise on your thigh reminds you that you are probably wrong, but you still wake every now and then from a thin sleep, glancing around you in despair, only to see that he’s not there. You feel so hollow that you think for a moment whether König has left the camp entirely, whether he is wandering away, towards some other adventure, exhausted with you and the war and the Romans.

The most unbearable thought in your head is not that he has left you for his dogs, however. It’s the thought that has abandoned you. That he has finally had enough. Because you realize… König hasn’t gone anywhere. He simply left to have his fun with some other woman. Perhaps he’ll be back in the morning, but his patience is gone; it has finally ended, your silly little game. A difficult slave girl who won’t even let him lick her cunt is simply no amusement to him anymore.

Just before dawn, your will breaks; it splits in half. You can almost hear it. The sound of cries is muffled in the bed that nowadays has both his scent and yours: both of your scents combined, mixing together into a wonderful haze of love and despair.

…

König comes back when the dawn is already turning into a full day.

He strolls into the tent the same way he left: with a hunched posture and unsteady feet, but the fervent vigour from last night is gone. Actually, you have never seen him so weak. The dramatic sighs, the groping and the bullying have turned into a piercing silence. His muscles have lost their strength, his head is hanging heavy between those once proud shoulders, and his eyes are cast down as if he’s hoping there wouldn’t be such a bright orb in the sky. He drags his feet as he enters the tent; he doesn’t even look your way when he goes and slumps in his chair.

You are so glad to see him that you nearly jump from the bed and fall right there at his feet. You want to kiss his thighs and grab his hands and look up at him, doting and adoring like a good little slave. You want to whimper and beg that he can give you love bites everywhere he wants.

Instead, you snap at him, voice filled with poison.

“Did you have fun raping women last night?”

There are leaves on his mask and dirt on his shins and knees. Even his hands are a little grungy, and the proud red Roman tunic could also use a wash. He sheds you a tired side stare, then sighs.

“Was?”

“Were you with women,” you spell out every word slowly like you’re talking to a child. The venom on your tongue threatens to spill out as froth. And you almost say, 'other women'. Almost.

König raises his head and looks at you with a slight tilt in his head. He’s curious again, so, so very curious. He has clearly fleed the sun into his tent rather than seek your gracious presence, which shouldn’t make you this glum... But what you just said has managed to brighten up his entire day.

“Meine Fee… She’s jealous,” he points out in a far more jovial tone.

“No. Not at all,” you hurry to say, chin drawing back from his stupid accusations.

“You are,” he says with unbridled fascination.

“I assure you I’m not.”

Your cheeks are heating up, and the nervousness inside your belly roils like a snake. How does he always manage to get you into a trap?

König leans back in his chair, now with his usual dignity on those shoulders. He even crosses his fingers loosely in his lap, looking like the conversation he’s about to have with you will, yet again, become another favourite of his. You’re not sure why you always feel like you’re being interrogated on the sly with him because König is the most simple, straightforward, blunt object of a man you have ever met. And still…

“Fucking other women is bad?” He asks innocently from that chair.

“Bad?” You huff. “Yes, if you have to force women under you, you are a brute.”

“And… ugly?”

“Very ugly. The ugliest man in the world.”

"Hm. But who say anything about forcing?"

König looks at you, calmly, as your stomach sinks from his words.

You can only stare at him as the world seems to fall apart around you, crumble into nothingness when there's sun shining and birds singing outside. Kicking him out of the tent – and almost kicking him in the face in the process – because you got afraid when he gave you a fervent little nib seems like the stupidest idea right now. If you were so willing to part your legs for him and moan under his tongue, surely some other insane woman would want to do that as well? Surely there is at least one woman in this camp who would gladly be pleased by this giant who doesn't hit or force women. Who only likes to… bite and squeeze and lick them.

You pout at him, lip almost trembling now, and he’s smiling, so, so very wide behind that mask. Gods damn him.

Then he rises and walks to you, suddenly looking like he isn’t suffering from a hangover after all. He strolls towards you with slow purpose, and you swallow the tears down, trying not to show him how they turn into ice inside your stomach.

“I have not touched women. Only you.”

He towers above you, looking down at you like you are indeed the most adorable thing in the entire world. You are not sure whether his words are to be believed, but something inside you says that this man never lies. As dense and dumb as he is, he is the most trustworthy human being you will ever meet.

“Only sleep with earth last night,” he says and starts to caress your hair. He even weighs some of it in his hand before sweeping it over your shoulder. Like you are simply his precious, silly little wife who has been spoiled too much.

“It was a cold mistress,” he laments, overly dramatic again, like a poor actor in a tragic play. Your heart aches, badly – you swear König is the most annoying man you have ever met, the most insufferable and lovable. You wonder if he has spent his seed on the cold, hard ground too. Given it to the Great Mother, who is a cold lover sometimes indeed… But not as cold as you.

You wonder how crazy it is that you have the power to drive this giant into the cold night from his own tent. König has had to face his hangover by waking up to a chilly dawn. His hand is not as warm as usual, and you start to worry that he has caught the wrath of wind spirits outside, soon rendering him weak and feverish. His skin is not supposed to feel this cold, not when he’s almost always blazing.

“I know a plant that might help,” you say diplomatically. “With your… Head.”

He looks at you, more and more curious by every passing moment. You hope he doesn’t weigh in his mind whether you are trying to poison him when he is weak. But he’s not that clever, perhaps, because he only looks at you like you’re an entire sun now, and very unlike the one that is giving him a headache today. You turn away from his hand – but not too quickly. You’re only feeling shy. And a bit uncomfortable.

“You should eat something. And drink water, not wine.”

“You care about my head?”

Gods… His voice is so, so soft. He’s seeing past all your defences again, and there is nothing you can do about it. You want to curse him but can’t. You simply can’t.

“Just… Eat some fruit, alright? And I need a kettle so that I can boil some water for the herbs.”

You rise from the bed and try to ignore his adoring stare. He doesn’t attempt to touch you again; he merely watches as you go about and eat a little something as if to show that when it is morning, people should have breakfast. Like you’re a mother trying to lead by example or a fussing young wife who is trying to help his husband. Your lips are a thin line as you search for grapes that aren’t too soft and a piece of bread that doesn’t yet have mould in it. You grab some figs: you know they are his favorite, and bring them to him to tell him you’re serious about him needing to eat.

And you feel silly.

You can’t even look at him. You’re feeling so odd, so weak, so warm inside, and it’s not because you’re disgusted; hell, it’s the opposite of being disgusted….

“I have fallen in love with you,” König says as he accepts your humble offering of food. You freeze in the middle of setting them on his palms, held upwards as if content with whatever you give him, even if it’s only a piece of bread and a few figs.

Gods. Mother… Don’t do this to me–

“That how you say it?”

You breathe in and out, calm, collected – you're not going to faint because some crazy giant thinks he's in love. Yes, that’s it… Everything’s alright. He’s just being silly again. He’s just playing his own little plays again.

But when you look at him, there is no actor there, no silly play: he’s just… König. He returns your helpless, cornered stare with warm kindness, reminding you of something, of some Roman or Greek god… Apollo. Yes, that’s it. Laureled sun god Apollo, the one everyone loves so dearly, because he always drives fear and doubt and darkness away. He’s Apollo, even though he doesn’t even prefer a bow.

And has the translator taught König the correct words? Has he memorized them so that he can say them to you when the time is right? Your lip starts to tremble, and you fight to not shudder a sigh. The old seer was wrong: this man will be your downfall.

“I’ll go get that plant,” you whisper, soft eyes wide and chest curled tight.

“Nein,” he says cheerfully, full of life and hope again. “Not alone, little one.”

…

A/N: Please don't send me death threats. Remember, big bang bang next chapter! Huge!!

Translations:

Sehr schön - Very beautiful

Kleine Fee - Little fairy

Hungrig? - Hungry?

Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen - I could never leave you

Für dich - For you

Du machst mich verrückt - You drive me crazy

Göttin der Erde… Gib dich mir - Goddess of the Earth… Give yourself to me

Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen - My Queen... I will make you very happy

Was ist das? - What is that?

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

2K notes · View notes

minniesmutt · 1 month

Text

☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

☾ ━━━ PAIRING: OT8 X READER ☾ ━━━ CONTENT: FWB TO LOVERS, POSSESSIVE SKZ, COLLEGE AU, ORAL (F. + M. REC), UNPROTECTED SEX, CREAMPIES, ALCOHOL, DEGRADING/PRAISE, CLIT PLAY, GANGBANG, LIGHT CHOKING, FACE/THROAT FUCKING, PHOTO TAKEN, OVERSTIM, ALLUDES TO AFTERCARE, PET NAMES, ☾ ━━━ WC: 3.7K ☾ ━━━ 18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog

Frat parties were the norm for almost every college. Getting pissed drunk when you were supposed to be doing homework for Monday’s class. They were great, especially when you knew the fraternity— well, fucking the frat.

Y/n knew full well that when Hyunjin told her about their frat party, she would wind up crashing in one of their eight rooms by the night’s end. She texted them to ensure it would be alright and packed a little overnight bag after her last class on Friday. Making her way over to the fraternity building. There were still a good few hours before the party started since there were still classes.

She knocked on the door and waited for an answer. A few moments later, Jisung opened the door, “You’re early,” He said, letting her inside

“Figured I’d just come early and get ready here. Plus I can help you guys set up.” Y/n shrugged

“You can stash your stuff in my room,” Jisung offered as he closed the door behind her

“Thanks. Where are the others?”

“Chan, Minho, and Changbin went to pick up the alcohol. Hyunjin and Innie are still in class, Lix is up in his room gaming, and Seungmin’s at baseball practice,” Jisung explained as he led her up to his room.

“Okay,” Y/n nodded as they walked down the hall to his bedroom. Jisung let her inside the room before him, “What time does the party start again?” Y/n asked as she set her bag by his desk

“I honestly have no idea. Hyunjin and Changbin were in charge of telling everyone about it.”

“Damn, alright.” Y/n shrugged

“Movie before getting ready?” Jisung suggested

“Sure,” Y/n said.

The two lay back in the male's bed after he turned on a movie. Neither of them got far into the movie before Jisung had his face buried between her legs. Her legs were thrown over his shoulders as he held her thighs tightly around his head.

“Hannie,” Y/n moaned, tugging at his roots.

“Gonna lock you away from the party. Eat you out all night.” Jisung grumbled as his tongue flicked against the little bud.

Y/n moaned as he dipped two fingers into her. Gently, he curled them up into her walls, searching for the secret spot inside her. His pretty, plump lips wrapped around her clit, sucking on the bud like his life depended on it. Mumbling praise as his fingers worked her open. Y/n clenched around his fingers and tightened her legs around his head. Jisung moaned, sending a wave through her body.

“Ji,” Y/n moaned

“Gonna cum all over my face?” Jisung moaned as he slipped a third finger inside her

“Yes,” Y/n moaned

Jisung smiled to himself as he thrusted his fingers in and out of her. Rough tongue pressing against her clit and switching to sucking the bud between his lips. Her thighs acted as muffles for his ear, tightening around his head the closer she got till the knot snapped.

The music major switched his fingers for his tongue. He was pushing the muscle into her and thrusting it in and out of her. Cleaning her out, nose bumping against her sensitive clit before he was finally coming up for air. His chin covered in her arousal.

“Satisfied?” Y/n joked

“Never,” Jisung answered as he sat up on his knees. Y/n watched him quickly stripped himself of his sweats. Tossing the fabric to the ground. Hand wrapping around his hard cock and pushed one of her legs up.

Jisung guided the tip to her entrance and gently pushed in. Wrapping both her legs around his waist as he slid further into her. Letting her adjust to him once he was fully inside her.

“Move ji,” Y/n begged as he planted his hands on the pillow next to her head.

“Fuck,” Jisung moaned as he slowly pulled out and quickly rutted back into her.

“So warm and tight. Just for us, right?” Jisung asked

“Only for you guys,” Y/n moaned

Jisung moaned above her before dropping to his elbows. Mouthing at the skin her arms wrapped around him. Leaving kisses anywhere he could reach as his hips snapped into her. Y/n dug her nails into his back as he hit that one spot inside her.

“Fuck!” Y/n cried

Jisung sat up a bit and adjusted his hips. Aiming repeatedly towards the spot. Y/n grabbed onto him as her orgasm approached. One of his hands moved to her clit. Pressing his thumb to the little bud and drawing circles on it.

“‘m close ji,” Y/n whined

“Please. Cum all over my cock baby.”

Y/n’s legs tightened around his waist as she got closer and closer to the edge. Barely warning him when she came. Covering his member with her essence. Jisung wasn’t far behind, trying his hardest not to cum before her. Finally letting go, cum painting her walls white as they both rode out their highs before Jisung was laying on top of her.

“If you guys are done fucking, we need Ji to help bring kegs in,” Minho’s voice came through the door.

“Give me a minute,” Jisung yelled back at his friend

There was no reply except footsteps fading away from the door. Jisung took a deep breath before he sat up again. He pulled his softening dick out of her then picked up his boxers and sweats from the ground. “Gonna shower?” He asked

“Yeah. Start getting ready now,” Y/n said as Jisung handed her her clothes

“I’ll start the water for you,” he told her as he stood up

“Thank you,” Y/n smiled as she sat up to put on the clothes he had all but torn off her.

Jisung walked out of the bedroom as she gathered her toiletries and clothes for the party along with the makeup and styling tools she had packed. She made her way to the bathroom. Jisung walked out as she was walking up. “You’re towel is in there too.”

“Thank you,” Y/n smiled and kissed his cheek before she went inside. Closing the door behind her.

Y/n set her things on the counter pulling off her clothes before hopping into the shower with her products. Letting the warm water wash away all the sweat from the round she and one of her fuck buddies just had. Taking her time cleaning herself up before finally turning off the water and drying herself off.

Y/n got dressed and opened the door to let the steam out of the bathroom while she started her skincare and makeup.

“When did you get here?” Felix asked as he walked by the bathroom

“About an hour and a half ago,” Y/n answered as he stood behind her.

“Need any help?”

“Yes please.”

Felix helped her get ready, mostly doing her hair while she did her makeup before the blond got pulled away to help get the building ready for the party. By the time Y/n was done, only a few things were left to do. Y/n helped the boys set up the bottled alcohol and cups before the last few boys came home and got ready for the party.

Pretty soon Chan had turned on the music and the place was filling up with their classmates. Y/n said hi to all of her girlfriends before Hyunjin was standing behind her.

“Come dance with me,” he inquired as he held her hips. Gently swaying to the music.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Y/n answered, taking a sip of her drink as he dragged her to the makeshift dance floor in their living room.

Y/n smiled as Hyunjin pulled her in front of him. One of his hands landed on her lower back just above her ass. Trapping her against him with a smile. Y/n smiled and wrapped an arm around his neck. Swaying to the music with him.

Gradually more bodies joined the dancing till everyone was pressed against each other damn near.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” Y/n told her dance partner

“I’ll come with you,” Hyunjin offered and let her drag him to the kitchen. Finding Changbin and Seungmin pouring a couple of drinks for what Y/n assumed was the rest of the group.

“Refill please!” Y/n smiled as Changbin took her cup.

“Just expect the princess treatment now?” Seungmin teased

“What else am I supposed to expect?” Y/n asked

“It’s Changbin’s fault for the princess treatment,” Hyunjin added

“Hey!” Changbin defended

“It’s true,” Seungmin said

“Chan feeds it too,” Y/n giggled as Changbin handed her her drink

“I feel attacked,” Changbin pouted

“Want me to kiss it better?” Y/n asked

“You better.”

Y/n walked around the island to Changbin. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his chest, attaching his lips to hers immediately. Y/n wrapped her arm around him as she moved her lips in sync with his.

“Get a room,” Seungmin scoffed after they pulled away

“Only if you join,” Y/n retorted before she walked away from the three men. “Tease,” Seungmin scoffed as he sipped his beer

Y/n disappeared into the crowd of people, quickly finding a couple of her other friends and hanging out with them for a moment before she was back on the dance floor with another guy from campus. Dancing against him for a few songs till she felt someone behind her.

“Mind if I steal her for a dance?” Y/n heard Minho behind her

“Sure,” the guy shrugged before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/n was about to turn to face the dancer when he pulled her right against his front, hands gripping her hips as he leaned into her ear. “What are you doing kitten?” Minho growled

“Dancing,” Y/n smiled

“With some random guy? We not giving you enough attention tonight?” Minho asked as he moved with her to the music, “Come on kitten. Think you need a little reminder of who you belong to.”

A chill down her spine as his hands gripped the fabric of her skirt. A gentle way of pulling her from the dance floor. Y/n followed him up to the second floor where the rooms were. Some people hanging around in the hallway and some rooms were occupied already— probably much to the boys’ dismay. Minho pulled her into his room— he’d made sure to lock it before the party so no one was inside. Quickly locking the door again and pushing her up against the wood.

His lips moved quickly over the expanse of her neck as his hands moved under her skirt. “Dressed like a whore for everyone to see?” He asked, moving one hand to cup her clothed pussy. “All soaked like one too.”

“Min,” Y/n whined as his fingers rubbed her clit through the fabric.

“Still sensitive from Hannie fucking you earlier. No one else fucks you like we do, huh?”

“No, only you guys.”

“Knees.” Minho pulled his hand and is away from her and worked on unbuckling his belt.

Y/n dropped to her knees as he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down just a bit, pulling his half-hard cock out of his boxers. He watched her jaw fall open in anticipation. Mingo tapped the tip of his dick on her bottom lip. Her mouth opened more.

“That's a good girl,” Minho said as he slipped the tip past her lips

Y/n wrapped her lips around his tip, sucking on the tip as she looked up at him. Minho grabbed the back of her head and smiled down at her. Pushing her further down his cock after a few moments. Y/n moaned around his length as she placed her hand on his thighs. Moving back and forth on his cock as she kept eye contact with him through her lash.

“Think we should invite the others up here?” Minho asked as he gripped her hair

Y/n nodded and hummed in response and watched him take his phone from his back pocket. Y/n moaned as she heard the click of the camera for the sound of a message being sent. Minho put his phone back in his pants before pushing his hips forward, holding her head steady as began fucking her throat. Y/n moaned and gagged around his, gripping the fabric of his jeans.

Minho tilted his head back and groaned as her tongue run along the underside of his cock. Minho pulled her back and pulled her back up onto her feet.

“Min,” Y/n whined as he pushed her skirt up and pulled her panties down her legs

“Gonna cum in this pretty cunt, not your mouth.” Minho pulled one of her legs up around his waist as she grabbed onto his shoulders.

He quickly pushed the tip of his cock into her as there was a rapid knock on the door. “Lee Minho,” Hyunjin’s voice came from the other side.

Minho sighed and pulled out of her before pulling her away from the door. He unlocked it and let the younger boy in. Hyunjin was quick to get inside the room and lock the door while Minho turned Y/n around. “Where are the others?” Minho asked as he finally slid himself into finally.

Y/n gasped as Hyunjin stood in front of her, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “On their way up. Chan and Changbin were with me but they got stopped by Hongjoong,” Hyunjin told him before pulling Y/n into a kiss.

Y/n moaned into his mouth while Minho started positioning his hips into her. Hyunjin wrapped one hand around her neck. Y/n snaked a hand down between her and Hyunjin, palming his erection over his jeans. Both of them now moaning as another knock came up from the door.

Hyunjin pulled away and opened up the door. Changbin joined the group of three. “Already started?” he asked

“Why would I wait?” Minho asked, delivering a hard thrust into the girl, making her mouth fall open.

Minho bent her down, holding her shoulders to keep her up. The two others shuck their pants down and gave her access to their dicks. Y/n opened her mouth as Hyunjin slid himself into her throat while Changbin grabbed her hand and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

All three men moaned as they used her body for their pleasure. Minho fucked into her faster and tightened his grip on her shoulders. Each thrust made her moan around Hyunjin even as three more boys filed in.

Chan, Felix, and Han all made their way into the room and Seungmin and Jeongin weren’t far behind them either. Minho gave one final push before he was cumming inside Y/n as the two youngest boys walked into the bedroom.

Y/n whined as Minho pulled out and Hyunjin came down her throat. Jeongin was quick to take Minho’s place when he pulled out. Pushing any cum that threatened to fall out back in.

Y/n whined as Hyunjin popped out of her mouth. She swallowed the load he left inside her mouth, the salty taste mixing with the alcohol she’d drunk as Changbin moved in front of her. His tip slid past her lips as Jeongin held onto her hips.

Y/n moaned around Changbin as he sank into her throat. Jeongin slowly started to thrust into her. Gripping her hips like a vice as he picked up his pace. She could see the rest of her boys standing around her, waiting for their turn. She could pick up bits of the conversation amongst the sounds of sex and thumping of the bass down below.

If it weren't for the two holding her right now, she knew her knees would buckle from the pleasure. Changbin grabbed the back of her head as he twitched inside her. Trying to ground himself before he was coming down her throat. Adding himself to the cum and alcohol mix that had started.

Changbin thrusted a few more times into her throat before pulling out of her mouth. Felix switched places with him, but instead pulled her upright. Y/n grabbed onto the blond's shoulders as his lips connected with hers while Jeongin delivered a hard thrust into her. Hitting he'd g-spot perfectly. Y/n moaned into Felix’s mouth as his hands slipped her shirt up over her chest, pulling her boobs out of her bra. His thumbs rolled over her nipples.

Y/n’s walls pulsed around Jeongin with each thrust and time Felix teased her nipples. Y/n whimpered into his mouth as the youngest boy came inside her. Adding his load to Minho’s inside her before pulling out. Felix helped keep her standing while Chan took Jeongin’s place. One hand went underneath her, resting on her stomach to keep her up while he guided himself into her.

Felix pulled away just in time for all of them to hear the high-pitched moan of Chan stretching her out. Y/n leaned down again and watched Felix pull himself from his pants. Red tip in front of her as she opened her mouth again. Felix pushed her head down onto his cock, holding the back of her head as Chan started thrusting into her. Both his hands squeezed her hips as her knees threatened to give way.

Both men were moving in sync in and out of her just as the other four had. Y/n’s hands had slipped down to Felix’s wrists, the blond pulled her hands into his, holding them as he fucked her face. Y/n moaned around him as her walls clenched around Chan, orgasm being built up little by little. Her legs shaking under her before her orgasm finally washed over her. She could barely hear Chan groaning behind her as he kept his pace. Fucking her through her high as Felix twitched in her throat.

A few more thrusts into her throat and Felix came. Gripping her hands tighter as he rode out the high before pulling out. Y/n swallowed the third load as Jisung switched with Felix, sliding himself into her mouth right when she opened her mouth again for a breath.

Y/n moaned as Chan picked up his pace. His grip on her hips got together till he buried himself inside her. Adding his cum to the mix inside her while Jisung thrusted into her mouth, moaning along with her. Chan kept a hold of her as Seungmin switched with him, taking hold of her hips before sliding inside her, cum starting to leak out with how filled she was. Y/n moaned around Jisung’s cock, whining from the overstimulation she was starting to feel amidst her fucked out state. She heard a faint “good whore” from one of them in the room as Seungmin and Jisung see-sawed in and out of her. Jisung had picked up his pace, thrusts getting more erratic whilst Seungmin picked up his rough pace right from the beginning.

The party sounded so far away amongst her boys using her body. Mind hazy with lust as she whined with each thrust into her mouth or cunt. Jisung whined in front of her as his erratic thrusting ended as he came down her throat. Pulling out of her mouth and standing her upright as Seungmin grabbed her throat. Holding her up as he pounded into her, Y/n grabbed onto his hand as he groaned behind her with each thrust.

It didn’t take much longer till Seungmin finished inside her. Giving her a few more thrusts before moving his hand from her neck to hold her up by her hips before he pulled out. Y/n slouched forward till she felt someone else’s hands on her

“I got you bunny,” Changbin’s voice came as she was lifted off her feet.

“Hmm,” Y/n groaned

“Who’s on aftercare duty?” Hyunjin asked

“Think it’s actually Changbin’s turn,” Felix said

“Sleepy,” Y/n whined, hiding away in Changbin’s shoulder, trying to hide from the bass as well.

“We’ll talk in the morning then,” Chan said

Jisung helped Minho clean up his room as the others made their way out. Changbin took Y/n to the bathroom and cleaned her up while Chan made sure his room was free from any partygoers. Standing guard till he got there with a sleepy Y/n. Changbin changed her out of her clothes after Jisung brought him her overnight bag and changed her into some pajamas. He climbed into bed with Y/n and wrapped his arms around her.

<3<3<3

Y/n groaned as she woke up in the morning, not grateful for the sun sneaking into the room she had fallen asleep in

“Morning bunny,” Changbin’s voice came

“Mmm,” Y/n groaned

“Minho’s making breakfast. All the drunks from last night went home. Can have a lazy day with us,” Changbin coaxed her.

“Carry me down.”

Changbin chuckled and got out of bed. Giving her a piggyback ride down to the kitchen where the other seven were talking.

“How you feeling princess?” Chan asked as Changbin had set her on a free bar stool.

“A little like jelly,” Y/n groaned

“Poor thing,” Seungmin teased

“You take eight dicks and see how you feel.”

Everyone laughed a bit and shared the food Minho had made. Letting the food cure any of their hangovers.

“So, princess,” Chan said as they started cleaning up, “We were all talking the other day.”

“About?” Y/n asked

“The whole fuck buddy agreement.”

“What about it?”

“Uhm, we want to change things up a bit with it…”

“If you can’t tell her we want her to be our girlfriend I’m stuffing tissues in your mouth this time,” Minho called, hearing Chan’s bit of hesitation

“I was trying to figure out how to phrase it,” Chan told him.

“All of you?” Y/n asked, a bit shocked

“It would be odd if only one of us was dating you after we’ve all been fucking for the last seven months,” Jeongin answered

“If you’re not comfortable—”

“I’d like that,” Y/n cut Chan off before he could offer any ultimatum

“That was easy,” Seungmin sighed

“So, it’s all official?” Hyunjin asked

Everyone nodded in agreement, deciding to figure out the whole new dynamic when they weren’t exhausted from partying. For now, enjoying the morning all together.

☾ ━━━━━━ M.LIST TIP JAR

☾ ━━━ please support writers by reblogging and/or leaving feedback

☾ ━━━ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: @lakoya @luvyev @jaiuneamesolitaiire @2mins-world @caitlyn98s @puppyminnnie @mamieishere @gimmeurtummy @ilovejeongin007 @innieandsungielover @hanniemylovelyquokka @rylea08 @kpopjackie @20crowsinahoodie @kpopsstuffs @weasleys-wizard-weasleys @moonlight-the-writer @seungmonggg @fearnotfimmie @the-sweetest-rose @stars-garden @bandolls @asahisimpnation @vegetablesarefuntables @bl00dyv3inss @avyskai @kangyeonie @ninisoul-space @pynchkilledme @dessianna1 @kibs-and-bits @aaliyaoaoah @palindrome969 @realrintaro @tinyelfperson @minhwa @redstayrosie @caravm @armystay89 @skzhoes @kiko-o-luck @cookiesandcreammy @alice-went-away @boldy-49 @chrizzztopherbang @rockstarkkami @wh0re4mingi @rhonnie23 @hrskt @emollvvr-blog @tinys0ftie @soulphoenix1618 @highkeyinlovewithhanjisung @nahitzstacyy @thatgirlkay @borahae-reads @vuodbdks @4l17h4 @hyunjinhoexxx

925 notes · View notes

readychilledwine · 17 days

Note

Pleaseee please could you do obsessive acotar boys who can’t get enough of reader please?

Obsessed

Clingy ACOTAR boys headcanons

Warnings- suggestive themes, mentions of abuse, possessive vibes, death, different ideas I either tossed out or was too insecure to post in short form (including an AU where Feyre doesn't destroy Spring and Tamlin isn't turned into what he's turned into), Beron, abuse, the Weaver, Ianthe, pregnancy

Rhysand

The bond snapped after Feyre freed them from the mountain. You were walking with her, giggling about heading home to Spring.

Of course, his mate was his enemy's little sister, and of course that only further the obsession.

Rhys wanted to free you from under Tamlin's grasp, and it became his mission.

It started with daily letters that you ignored.

Then gifts brought to you by shadows.

Then he'd show up in your room. Smiling as he leaned back against your headboard. "Hello y/n Darling."

You caved after 2 weeks of his nightly visits. Allowing him to plan your "kidnapping"

He rips you from Spring with Feyre. Having convinced Tamlin that if he was so worried about his bride to be, he should send his baby sister as a chaperone.

Once he has you in his home, in your home, those soft touches you two shared at night were no longer enough

His lips were on your body constantly. Your hands, your neck, your own soft lips.

Speaking of hands, I hope you like physical contact, because he has to constantly touch you.

In public, the placement is so respectful. Lower back to the lower side, resting just about your hips, guiding you as you shop and spend his money.

When you finally warm his bed, he cancels all plans the next day to ensure he has proper time to explore your body.

He memorized every freckle, every stretch mark, every scar. He doesn't stop until he knows every ticklish spot, every spot that makes your toes curl.

His love languages are gifts and physical touch, so once you opened that box, you opened a whole can of worms.

You are pulled into unused bedrooms, his office, Azriel and Cassian's offices when they're away, supply closets. He doesn't stop until he's tasted you on every surface and in every room.

I wish you luck during the frenzy. He won't stop until you are throughly spent and bred. How else will he ensure you never leave him?

Cassian

He had admired you while you two were growing up together in Windhaven.

He watched you do your chores and got his ass kicked for it more than he wants to admit.

Even at a young age, Cassian courted you. He didn't care that the flowers he was pulling were weeds. He still turned them into a bouquet or had Rhysand's mother weave them into your hair.

That didn't change as you two grew older together. By 18, it was known you were his, and by that point, everyone knew not to fuck with what's Cassian's.

He wouldn't touch you until your chores were done, wanting to spare you what little pain he could from your father's heavy hand.

Cassian wasn't respectful with his hand placement. The male has always had high sex drive, and he found his match in you.

You and Cassian shamelessly fucked in places that had your dear mother crying. The weapon storage shed. The forest. The mess hall once it was empty.

It was no shock to anyone, especially not you and Cassian, when the bond snapped right as he was leaving for the first war with Hybern.

When he came home to you and took you to Velaris, all bets were off. Rhys settled you two into the House of Wind, Azriel into the Riverhouse, and he took the townhouse.

The two of them never flew to the House of Wind without warning you or Cassian first. To do so had them risking walking in on you riding or Cassian with his head thrown back as you screamed for him.

Cassian can't stop touching you. He can't stop talking about you. He can't stop being in love with you. Even if the only way he knows how to show it is physically.

Not that you're complaining. You didn't need to walk anywhere today.

Azriel

Azriel worshipped you the second Rhysand's mother brought you back to the cabin.

Your voice became salvation, your scent became home, and your hands healed part of him he did not even know was broken.

The bond snapped young for you two. He had just turned 18, and you were still 16. He took his distance then, allowing you to explore the world much to your own protests. You understood why after two years.

It was the most selfless thing anyone had ever done for you. He allowed you to grow without his influence, despite how painful it had to have been watching you with other males.

Your father sees this whole relationship and mateship as a benefit to him alone. He takes you and Azriel to Velaris during the war.

He unknowingly allowed the relationship to go to heights he had already said were off limits to Azriel.

The number of times you had to mask your scent during dinner because a shadow was all too happily playing in your skirts was almost comical.

The relationship between you two is never able to go beyond heated kisses, stolen touches, and lingering glances.

Even in death, Azriel comes to you, speaking to you when he's lost and lonely.

He still obsessed over you, wishing he had more time, wishing he was with you. But the pain lessened.

Being ripped from the Cauldron by Amren was painful and terrifying.

You had a new body, modeled after your old one. You were slightly taller this time, and your face was still able to send males to war.

As much as it pained Azriel, he allowed Rhysand to be the first to you. He allowed your brother to be the one to hold you as you cried, confused and asking where you were. He let Mor go next, then Amren listening as the ancient being told you it was okay and that your purpose was not finished, so she was told to bring you back. Cassian dropped to his knees before you. Holding you as he apologized.

But Azriel waited. He walked beside you in silence as you were taken to the warcamp.

All bets were off once you were in his tent.

You don't know if you rushed to him first or if he came to you, but that reunion kiss was rough. Too much teeth and tongue. Tears falling down both of your faces.

He took things slowly with you. Your first life granted you powers like the world had never seen before, and this time was no different. You could move the stars at will, silence the connect other fae shared with their magic without even having to loosen a breath.

It was final confirmation of what many already knew. Rhysand was high lord due to his cock, not his power, and that sheer fact had Azriel on his knees for you once you were ready.

You are his living goddess, and Azriel is always ready to worship.

Lucien

Eris saved both of you. He had sent you to Spring long before you could be ripped from the market in autumn.

Lucien joined you soon after. Crying to the Mother in gratitude the second you came out from hiding behind Tamlin.

You were a rare breed of lesser fae. Your kind looked similar to the high fae by all means, but your kind had the ability to communicate with every living being.

You knew the names of each tree, of each flower, every critter. You could hear the winds whispers, see the colors he asked you to, and tell them all the meaning.

Your kind had been hunted for years, much like the shadowsingers.

It made Lucien almost unbearable when it came to his protective streak. But so did this new freedom.

Lucien is shamelessly in love with you. As an emissary, he gets to travel places you will never see. But he always brings you something back because you are always on his mind.

He brings you ornaments from Winter, jewelry from Day, sea shells from Summer, clothing from Dawn.

Lucien will speak about you for hours on end. It makes Tamlin crazy at times, but seeing how naturally you two fit together quickly makes the sting of jealousy fade.

Lucien purposes under a willow tree. Your absolute favorite one that you go to for guidance. Even if the bond does not snap, he wants you as his wife.

And boy does being his wife make things interesting.

He is suddenly growling at any male who studies your body for too long. Holding you from behind at all times. Showering you with even more things.

The bond snaps after Amarantha mutilated him. It snapped as you were nursing him back to health. Reminding him his beauty has nothing to do with why you love him, but instead it is his kindness and his soul.

You two become mutually obsessed from that point forward. More often than not, you will send a bird to shit on someone if they harm Lucien in any sense.

You both can not keep your hands to yourself anymore. It was as if that scar actually sealed his place as the most handsome male you had ever laid eyes on.

He sends you away to the forest when the 50 years is coming to a close. Not caring if he dies for it.

You would be his last thought if he did. And during that second trial, you were his only thought.

Everything he had done was for your safety, and if he ever saw you again, he would whisper those one thousand words he wanted to say as he laid between your legs, and he would never let go again.

Eris

Childhood best friends to lovers? Anyone? Anyone?

Well... kind of childhood best friends.

You met Eris when he was 6 and you were 5.

Your parents were one of two shadow hound breeders, and Beron was desperate to get his hands on one of your family's pups specifically.

You had this special talent that you could use from the moment you were able to. You seemed to know which hounds needed to be bred together to create the most powerful litters. And you did it all without inbreeding.

Your family quickly took hold of the other breeder's dogs, and you, your father's pride and joy, made their lives better.

Eris becomes obsessed with you from that day forward, and Beron knows it. Hence why you two are married at the young ages of 18 and 17.

Eris is madly in love and in private is very expressive of that.

He shows his love through praise.

"You look absolutely stunning today, little fox," is a common greeting as he brings you a tray of fresh fruits, eggs, breakfast meat of choice, and toast.

The sap cuts your toast into a heart.

He's a hopeless romantic, and it kills you that no one is able to see how he is with you outside of his mother amd your parents who are waiting for the day they get to go to war for him.

The second you end up pregnant, Eris's love turned into true obsession and not the healthy normal kind between partners.

He becomes possessive and overprotective. Your suddenly moved to one of his private hunting cabins with a guard detail and private healer assigned to you and you only.

He has to have his hands on you at all times. The only exception is when he is at the Forest House.

It is love. You know that deep down, but Gods, you are lonely.

You understand why this is happening, though, when he shows up beaten and bruised, limping into your arms for any sense of comfort.

His obsession is your safety. The safety of the lives you carry.

Once you birth his twins, the game changes. The obsession is now on him not being able to get enough of your new body.

Your mom body lives rent-free in Eris's mind. He's stroked himself in his office to the thought of your fuller breasts and supple hips more times than he'd like to admit.

He loves to squeeze your hips, loving the soft feel of them.

He would have gone to war for you beforehand. He does it now.

He wants to see a crown of leaves and berries on your head, sparkling but failing in comparison to the gem he has in his bed.

He crowns you high lady during his coronation.

You are his, and he is yours, regardless of that bond never snapping. You two do not need the Mother nor the Cauldron to decide you are each other's equal and other halves. You already know.

Tamlin

You knew you were Tamlin's mate long before Amarantha. You were a well kept secret, hidden out of fear of Rhysand coming to take you as well.

You made home in The Middle. Becoming friends with the Weaver was interesting, but you two forged a relationship. You bring her food, she offers protection, so yes. You kept her fed.

Tamlin comes back for the second he allows Rhysand to take Feyre.

You two spend the week she is there in bed, fucking like rabbits until he was content.

It's dead silence when Feyre comes back. He had expected Rhysand to keep her, not hold up his end of the bargain, and he also believed their relationship to be over.

Rhys was an idiot if he thought Tamlin couldn't scent the mating bond. He was willingly handing her over, and the High Lord had to aggressively whisper that to Rhys one night in his office to get it through the other male's thick skull.

It took Tamlin tugging the bond for you for Rhysand to understand.

The Lord of Night was almost disgusted by the love and mutual need you and Tamlin shared. He felt the two of you marked him in the scent of roses and petrichor.

The two of them sat Feyre down 3 days later, and she eagerly went to Night after Tamlin finally got her to understand that while he loves her, he cannot help her and love her the way Rhys will be able to.

That freed you two up, much to Ianthe's anger, to make up for lost time all over again.

He lives between your thighs. No one can change my mind, but Tamlin is a munch, and he cannot get enough of the taste of you.

When you find out Ianthe put her hands on him, on Rhysand, on Lucien you and Feyre become a force. Ianthe selling Feyre's sisters to Hybern had been enough for you and Tamlin to begin the process of banishing her. But much to Tamlin's delight, this made you feral.

Feyre crippled the priestess, and you dragged her by her bleach and tone blonde hair to the Weaver, smiling to Stryga.

"Feyre's apology present for stealing the ring, dear friend." Feyre held a breath, fingers squeezing your wrist as the Weaver moved, scenting Ianthe's fear, blood, and tears.

"And what is this?"

The two of you look at each other, mirrored cruel smiles before speaking in unison, "Dinner."

Tamlin, Lucien, and Rhysand watched from a distance as Feyre retreated to them, and you stayed to ensure the priestess did not somehow escape. "I can see why you love her," Rhysand started slowly. "She's-"

"Everything," Tamlin stated softly. "She is everything."

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects

586 notes · View notes

comfortless · 3 months

Text

Only Other

chapter two of three.

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 violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

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

648 notes · View notes

upsidedownwithsteve · 3 months

Text

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.6K]

THE TIMELINE

“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a ‘matching half’ of a human whole…and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”

- Aristophanes, Plato’s Symposium.

I. ATHENS, GREECE: 8TH CENTURY BC

The gods were angry.

Or so you’d heard. It started with whispers. Murmurs from the town and its people. Rumours spread across Athens the same way the breeze did at the start of summer. They said the gods were angry, furious.

How could the mortals be so silly? How could they possibly rile their gods like this? Again?

Stupid humans, foolish humans.

You didn’t understand.

But then one morning before the sun rose, you awoke to a reddened sky and a heavy wind, a storm brewing over the horizon, a dark mass you could see above the sea from your bedroom window. Preachers took to the streets then, standing on the cobbles with bells ringing above their heads, warning every person listening about the end of times. It had happened before, they said, their faces masks of horror. It was happening again.

The gardens all died, grass turning black, crops to dust, life fleeing from the ocean as Poseidon uprooted the seafloor, waves crashing against the cliff's edge. Athens turned to decay, colour slipping from the world as the gods ruled over it from the skies and sea. A punishment fit for the crime, the elders said, telling stories at the marketplace, of how their own grandparents had once been born together, joined at the heart, four arms and four legs.

One soul.

They said Zeus came from Olympus, that he’d crashed down to earth riding a bolt of lightning and he ripped the mortals apart. They said it was a bloodshed, rivers of red running through the plazas, wells turning thick like tar.

Zeus cursed everyone, you heard. Your kind had been getting too prideful, too full of ego and greed and want for more. The gods feared an uprising, they sat on their thrones and they resented to power you all craved.

So they did something about it.

With their wounds left to heal on their own over months and years, each half of a mortal was thrown to different corners of the earth, destined to spend the rest of their lives searching for the other half of their soul.

It seemed nothing more than a fable, a horror story for children, something you would never have believed. Soulmates? Someone made just for you? An impossible notion, you were sure you would have once thought, if you hadn’t already met yours.

He was at the forge when the first bolt of lightning hit the ground.

The concrete split and temples on the cliff sides shook, the tiles on each home shattering as they fell. You heard people yelling from your garden as the ground shuddered and an eerie quiet followed. A hollow silence, a calm before a storm and then something else hit the ground too.

Bigger, heavier, more powerful.

You dropped your basket and ran.

Still barefoot, you left the sodden clothes on the grass and fled, passing the sanctuary of your home, the temples beyond the rivers, the forests that came before the sea. You ran to the plaza, through the marketplace that was buzzing with fear, shoulders burning with pain as you slammed your way past everyone who ran against you. You were battling a tidal wave of townsfolk, each one crying and yelling.

You heard shouts of Titans! Furies!

People yelled out names they once didn’t dare whisper, each word said like a curse. Cronus, Crius, Oceanus, Thea. Standing on the marble steps of the Parthenon, a preacher in guided robes had blood running down the side of his face, a cut on his head matting his greying hair. He was ashen, clutching at his scribes and shouting at the frenzied crowd below.

“Tartarus has risen!” He yelled, “the gates of Hades have opened and we, foolish mortals, shall pay for our sins! The father of gods shall come for us, he shall feast upon thy flesh and bone and—”

The preacher's harrowing words were cut off abruptly as another crack in the earth opened up. The shining marble split and the man fell through, the world itself swallowing him whole. You didn’t have time to react more than a strangled cry coming from somewhere deep in your chest. You clasped your hand to your mouth, fearing you’d lose your breakfast, that you’d become too dizzy to keep moving.

The ocean was growing closer, too tall waves and swirling, dark pools buried into its depths. Ships were being sucked under, their white sails the last thing you saw before they were swallowed by Poseidon’s fury. A golden chariot raced down from the sky, sparks flying in the air as it landed on the roof of the Acropolis. More marble shattered and Ares, the god of war, had landed on earth to do his duty.

By the time you reached the forge, the plaza was running red, just like the elders had said it would. The bronzed statue of Hephaestus that guarded the entrance to the blacksmiths had come to life, the god himself taking its form as he spewed fire across the village, molten heat and steel dripping from his large hands, coal crumbling at his feet. The air smelled like ash, like fire and death.

As you searched for him - your other half - eyes wide and frantic, your chest heaving, Hades stood in the shadows across the cobbled road. Inky black dripped from him, from his robes, his skin, his mouth. He looked ghoulish until he stepped into what was left of the daylight, a trick of the sun turning his gaunt face handsome. He grinned at you, each tooth pointed and sharp and he held out a hand. A pomegranate was placed in his palm, the fruit cracked open and the ruby seeds spilling out of it like tiny jewels. He beckoned you, a voice in your head whispering, silky, sultry, full of promises that couldn’t be real.

Surely eternal damnation was better than a fate like this?

You moved, your body not your own, one foot in front of the other, your hand outstretched. Images flashed through your head, dark swirls of three headed dogs, rivers made of souls and gates of bones. But when they opened, there was a garden, more beautiful than the ones in Athens, with their marble pillars and fountains that led into ponds. In this garden, temples stood gleaming and tall, with maidens dancing amongst rose bushes, naked and with hair to their waists. They waved to you, more scarlet coloured fruit held in their hands and they were laughing, singing, pulling you closer--

Another bolt of lightning - bigger and louder and brighter than before - hit the ground and the maidens disappeared. The god of the underworld grinned once more before he stepped back into the shadows and turned to smoke, melting into the bloodied ground.

Zeus had landed in Athens.

And you couldn’t find Steve.

Steve Harrington, son of the town’s head blacksmith, was tending to the forge when the first god came to earth. He’d left you in bed, the threadbare sheets around you still warm, your skin littered with his leftover kisses, marks from his greedy fingers the night before. The sky had been scarlet when he walked across the plaza and in the far distance, a plume of smoke rose from what seemed like the ocean. The Methana volcano was simmering, waiting, spewing fumes of gas and dust.

A warning.

The forge cracked when Zeus arrived, the bricks splitting along with the forge floor, cobbles and bricks turning to rubble under the men’s feet. Fire and coal tumbled from the cast iron cages, half made swords of burning steel falling at their feet. The sky above rumbled, the windows shattering as bolts of lightning hit the land and people screamed, torturous sounds that made Steve run blindly out into the plaza.

Some were kneeling, their heads bent and their palms open to the sky, to the gods. A sacrifice that was ignored. Others ran, diving into buildings that immediately fell on top of them and Steve watched in horror as people dropped before him, falling like sacks, crumpled to the ground as they clutched their chests in agony. They called out their lovers' names, their voices hoarse, pleading, desperate and all at once, a crowd surged behind Steve, carrying him with them, his shoulders burning at the momentum.

He had to find you.

The market was in ruins, once fresh vegetables and fruits now smashed into the concrete, the smell of baked bread hidden under burning embers. Panicked horses fled their owners and carts, almost knocking Steve to the ground as they tried to escape the carnage. The sea level was rising, the shadows of boat sails towering over marble buildings, the hulls of ships teetering closer to pillars that once held the statues of the gods now seeking revenge. Steve had been raised to honour them, to covet them, to fear them.

And he’d never felt as scared as he did when he spotted you across the square, eyes wide and not yet finding his, your gaze too trained on the statue of Aphrodite that was crashing down too close to you. The white marble hit the floor and shattered, sending clouds of dust and dirt into the already smoke filled air and you disappeared from Steve’s sight once more.

Panic flooded him, a fear like no other and suddenly the gods that reigned from the seas and skies didn’t seem as terrifying anymore.

He yelled your name, choking on the fumes from the fires that had started to rage all around, Hephaestus riding a cloud of black coals and burning embers as he let fire pour from his palms and open mouth, a gaping maw of molten lava that dripped from and melted everything and everyone it touched. Steve flung himself to the ground to avoid the flames, crawling desperately forward before he caught himself and began to run again, hissing as the gaps in his shoes filled with shards of broken stone. Red poured from the soles of his feet but he didn’t think anything could hurt as much as the thought of losing you.

Again, he screamed for you, the letters of your name hitching in his throat, scratching like glass and more people tore in front of his path, running from the destruction. Bodies fell before him, couples forever trapped in a lovers embrace, their faces hidden in each other's chests. They became one again, four arms, four legs, two faces.

Joined at a heart that was no longer beating.

Steve didn’t want to die without you.

He found you in the rubble as Zeus moved closer, a grey and white shadow of a man, a huge hulking figure that didn’t seem real. He didn’t look like his marble castings, the statues that were gilded with gold leaf. He wore no olive laurel on his head, he bore no kind smile nor gentle eyes. Instead he held bolts of lightning in his hands like swords, like spears, throwing them at his victims with cruel precision.

A storm followed him, bigger than anything Steve had ever seen before. It turned the red clouds above the god purple and black, an inky slurry of darkness and electricity crackled between spaces. The air buzzed and Steve’s skin prickled, the static making his ripped and bloodied shirt cling to his damp chest.

Poseidon had finally shown himself, emerging from the waves, his skin a sickly green, his eyes darker than the deepest depths of the sea he came from. He held a triton, seaweed hanging from its points, his body scarred and battered from the horrors he created in the oceans. He seemed too big, a giant, an almost titan and rain poured from Zeus’ purple clouds as he advanced onto Athens.

Steve saw your arm, a limp hand from beneath a pile of stone and he cried as he lifted each piece of what was once Aphrodite. The marble face of the goddess of love smiled warmly at him and it felt mocking, it felt like an arrow to the chest.

You were still alive, barely awake, nose dripping blood and a slice across your forehead that narrowly missed your eye. You cried when Steve pulled you free, his strong arms wrapped around your torso and you clung to him, barely daring to look at the horrors that surrounded you. He smelled like smoke and fire and the metal sting of blood, but under it all, there was something like home that still lay on his skin.

He seemed frantic, calling your name over and over until you nodded and said his back, like it was only upon hearing your voice that he believed you were alive. Steve sat amongst the debris of Aphrodite and held you, your weak frame pulled into his lap and he cradled you there, your head on his shoulder and your arms around his neck.

You weren’t sure what you coveted more fiercely, the young man or your last breath.

A shadow lingered nearby, listening to the soft murmurs you shared the pretty lies you both needed to hear as you told each other it would be okay. Hades stood close, statuesque and with black plumes at the bottom of his dark robes, a midnight blue cast over his skin. He looked like he’d never been close to looking human. He held a timepiece in one hand, a golden thing that ticked too loudly and he grinned at you and Steve, watching, waiting as two creatures by his feet held scrolls of names. They were made od nothing kind, created from bone and other people’s spines, their too long tails and forked tongues that flickered over the skin of the dead as they sent their souls below.

Steve knew he’d fight a god before he let them take you.

But he didn’t get such the luxury of battling for his lover. Zeus moved closer still, rain pouring harder, electricity making his hair stand on end. The father of gods himself stood tall before you both, his eyes as white as his long hair and beard. Nothing about him softened as he gazed down at you both intertwined, blood from each other staining your lover's skin.

Steve pulled you closer, his hand cupping the nape of your neck as he pushed your face to his throat, shielding you, protecting you. You clung to him tighter, hands fisting in the rags of his old shirt and you wondered if you’d ever get to see him again. If this life was it, if this was all you were allowed.

The two of you in the ruins of Athens, the goddess of love shattered at your feet. Four legs, four arms, two faces, one soul. Connected by a heart that seemed weaker than ever in the presence of something cruel.

Silence came before the crack, the world stilling, Athens at peace. You found solace in Steve, your nose pressed to his neck as you held onto him, praying for something painless. You pushed two kisses to his skin then, the side of his throat that seemed to make your lips fizz and Steve sucked in a breath, his lips at your temple, cherishing the last touch he got of you.

“I love you,” Steve whispered and his voice cracked on each word. Tears from his eyes stream the dirt on his face, running rivers down your cheek until they mixed with your own. “I’ll find you again. In the next life, and the next again. I prom—”

A bolt of lightning, so hot it felt frozen, struck the breath of space between your chests. Something inside of you cracked then, ribs splintering as the weapon found your heart and you couldn’t feel Steve’s arms around you anymore.

You couldn’t feel anything.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #Steve Harrington fanfiction #Steve Harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington oneshot

913 notes · View notes