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wistfulcynic · 3 years

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The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment.

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge.

Or, at least, he was.

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends.

Huge thanks to @shireness-says for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite for Just Being Her.

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this

on AO3

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan):

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school.

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity.

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century.

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school.

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it.

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there.

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue.

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone.

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire.

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn.

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed.

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest.

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest.

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.”

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath.

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.”

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor.

“And the skirt.”

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles.

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.”

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder.

“Shake your head.”

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face.

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.”

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.”

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much.

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin.

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?”

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him.

“Gold is dead.”

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself.

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way.

“He is?” she gasped.

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.”

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.”

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.”

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?”

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.”

“Will you go back to England?”

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.”

“Argentina?”

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.”

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I could eat.”

“Stew?”

“Perfect.”

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove.

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—”

“Emma.”

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.”

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last.

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed.

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled.

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly.

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.”

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.”

“Because you love her.”

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.”

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated.

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…”

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.”

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.”

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying.

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.”

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.”

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.”

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion.

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate.

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?”

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?”

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance.

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts.

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement.

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend.

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness.

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires.

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan.

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved.

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling.

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired.

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.”

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?”

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.”

“That’s good news indeed.”

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.”

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.”

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.”

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?”

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.”

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right?

And thus the inspiration for this story.

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @killianjones-twopointoh @mariakov81 @stahlop @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @snowbellewells

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #cshistfic #captain swan #western au #historical fic #historical romance #Emma is a teacher #killian is an outlaw #many many historical details #like so many #i make no apologies for this #it's more of a warning #the outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)#profdanglaisstuff

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limjaeseven · 4 years

Text

You’re My Light

Pairing: Hoseok X Reader

Word Count: 5,336

Genres: Smut, Fluff

Summary: A call from your best friend inviting you to the yearly Diwali celebration has you and your boyfriend really excited but what would happen when you stumble across your troublesome ex on such a good day?

Warnings: oral sex (m&f receiving) sub!reader, dom!Hoseok, Sir kink, ass spanking, sex toys, bondage, overstimulation, creampie, dirty talk

[A/n]: I’ve been working on this for so long and I’m so glad to finally post it. Thanks to @uwugalore for giving me the honour of starting this project off. Shout out to @jamaisjoons for writing that last part and all the other people in the collab who helped out every step of the way

25 Days of Christmas: A BTS Anthology Masterlist

You had just finished an important business meeting when you got a call from your childhood best friend and partner in crime, Dhiraj.

“Hey D, what’s up,” you asked as you jammed the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you pressed the button on the lift.

“Nothing much, kiddo. Just called to invite you to the Diwali function next weekend. Knowing how busy you were, I knew it wasn’t likely you’d see my email. And when I didn’t get a response, I decided I had to call you. So, please check your emails more often,” he scolded.

Working at KM Entertainment was hard work and it left you little time for yourself. You were pretty sure half your friends were going to leave you for not responding to their texts for weeks. The only person you had time for was your boyfriend, Jung Hoseok.

“I’m sorry, D. You know how busy I am. I’ll check the mail and I’ll come for sure. See you there, bye,” You said before cutting the call.

Now, to convince your boyfriend to come along with you.

It’s not that Hoseok didn’t like your family, he loved them. He just didn’t enjoy the questions of ‘when are you getting married’ that all the uncles and aunties asked. That’s why he didn’t like to come along with you when you went home. He loved meeting your parents as long as it was either at your guys’ place or a restaurant.

You had grown up in a small Indian community in Seoul, full of people who mainly worked at the tech companies or hospitals in the city, i.e. it was a typical Indian society. Everyone was a doctor or engineer. That’s why when you sought out to become a music producer, the uncles and aunties weren’t happy. Your parents on the other hand were very supportive and encouraging.

That’s how you met Hoseok. He was a choreographer at KM Entertainment, the record label you worked for. One of your co-workers told you about him and basically got you to go on a blind date with him. You guys had instantly hit it off and became the most loved couple in the office.

So, coming back to the Diwali celebration, you really wanted to go. Diwali was your absolute favourite festival of all time. Where as everyone was excited for Halloween and Christmas, you were the only person who cared about Diwali. You loved the festival because it was a night full of adrenaline, fire crackers, and sweets. It was six hours of good, pure, unadulterated fun. Especially, when it was with your friends.

You had four best friends growing up: Arshad, Rajveer, Dhiraj, Alex. The five of you were truly the best of friends. All of you lived in the same building and went to the same small public school together. You guys lived by the ‘one for all, all for one’ philosophy. If you got a new boyfriend, they would have to approve him first before he was allowed to date you. Being the only girl in the group, they were quite protective of you.

So, the fact that your friends hadn’t met your boyfriend i.e. Hoseok, was driving them crazy. That’s why they had Dhiraj personally call you, cause they knew you wouldn’t turn him down. You had always had a soft spot for him. You were just hoping Hoseok would say yes because you yourself hadn’t seen the boys in a while.

“Hey, babe,” you said as you entered the house, calling out to your boyfriend, who was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“Hey love! How was your day,” Hoseok asked as you sat down on the couch next to him.

“It was alright. I do have some news to share though."

Seeing your nervous expression, Hoseok got a bit worried too and sat up straight, looking concerned.

"Don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me,” Hoseok said and you burst out laughing.

“Of course not, babe. I’m not breaking up with you. I wanted to ask you if you’d accompany me to the Diwali celebration this weekend with my family and friends,” you said. Hoseok had known you enough to tell that you were hiding something, so he raised an eyebrow at you.

“The catch is it’s at my home,” you said and Hoseok immediately refused.

“No way.”

“Please baby, I really want to go,” you pouted and managed the best puppy eyes you could.

“Alright fine!"

Hoseok sighed and you hugged him, thanking him continuously. Smothering his face with kisses, you told him how much you loved him.

"Babe, what is Diwali,” Hoseok asked out of nowhere and you facepalmed. You had completely forgotten that your boyfriend didn’t know about this famous festival.

“It’s a long story, so brace yourself,” you said. “There are two major epics in Hindu culture, the Ramayan and the Mahabharat. Diwali is based on the former. Dasharath is the King of Ayodha and has three wives, Kausalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra. They bear him four sons, Ram, Laxman, Bharath, and Shatrughan. Ram is the perfect son and the heir to the throne. Kaikeyi, Bharath’s mother loves Ram just like her own son. But she is manipulated and convinced that it is her son that should be the ruler of Ayodha and so, she approaches King Dasharath.

“She brings up an old debt he owes her and tells him to exile Ram to the forest for 14 years and to make Bharath the crown prince. The king is devastated but has no choice and so Ram, along with his wife, Sita and brother, Laxman, leave for the forest. While living there, Shurpanakha, a demoness becomes infatuated with Ram and tries to kill Sita. Laxman ends up wounding her and she runs to her brother, Ravan and asks him to avenge her. Ravan had heard of the beautiful Sita and decides to abduct her as revenge.

“Ravan is able to trick both Ram and Laxman into leaving their house in the forest, leaving Sita behind. While they are away, he manages to abduct her and take her away to the island of Lanka. Ram and Laxman travel far and wide to find Sita, but to no avail. They finally come across a band of vanaras, or monkey-men, who pledge to help him. One of the warriors of the vanaras, Hanuman, becomes Ram’s devotee. The vanaras seek out traces of Sita and find she has been taken to Lanka. Hanuman flies to Lanka and contacts Sita and informs her of Ram’s whereabouts, promising that they will be back to rescue her. Before returning to the mainland, Hanuman sets fire to the whole city of Lanka.

“Ram, Lakshman, and the vanaras army build a causeway from the tip of India to Lanka. They travel to Lanka, where an epic battle follows between the armies. Ravana is finally killed by Ram, and Sita is freed. The day Ram returns to Ayodha with Sita and Lakhman after his 14 year exile, and after having slayed Ravan, is celebrated as Diwali.”

“Wow,” Hoseok said, overwhelmed.

“I know it’s a lot, but I’m so happy that we’re going. Let me call Jiwoo, we need new clothes to wear,” you said before getting up to call your best friend. You met up and she helped you design the outfits.

“We’re here,” you said excitedly as you stepped out of the car. You picked up the box of sweets and headed towards your building. Hoseok knocked on the door and your dad opened it. “Y/n, Hoseok! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Come inside,” he said. You both stepped inside and were greeted by your mom. The four of you had a chat over chai and sweets.

“You both look so good. Where did you get these clothes from?” Your mother asked and you told her how Hoseok’s sister was a designer and you both designed them together. It was your idea and her expertise made them perfect.

A navy blue lehenga comprising of a short blouse and a full length skirt for you and a sherwani that fell till Hoseok’s knees for him. Detailed with gold embroidery, Jiwoo had gotten in touch with a woman who specialised in that type of work. Small mandalas that you designed decorated the dresses.

“It’s time for puja. The three of you, come with me."

You and Hoseok followed your mom and headed to your prayer room. She taught Hoseok how to do the prayer and he happily helped. You father smiled at you as you both watched your mom bonding with your boyfriend. After you finished praying, you gave your boyfriend a kiss on the cheek and complimented him for doing the puja.

"It’s time to go,” your mom said. You nodded and the four of you got up to leave.

“Where are we going,” Hoseok questioned. You just smiled at him as you guys walked towards the local school. As soon as you reached the school grounds, Hoseok’s eyes widened.

“Welcome to our yearly Diwali Mela,” you exclaimed as you gave him a tour. There were multi coloured tents that sold everything from snacks to jewellery. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon flooded the air as you crossed the stall selling biryani. There were a good selection of rides as well, all of them bringing back memories from your childhood.

You were about to buy yourself and your boyfriend some Pani Puri when someone hugged you from behind. Just the scent of his perfume could tell you who it was. In the 15 years that you knew him, he never wore any other perfume.

“D! It’s so nice to see you again,” you shouted, turning around to hug him properly.

“Hey, y/n! Hey, Hoseok! I’m glad you guys could make it. The guys have been waiting for you,” Dhiraj said before dragging your away.

“Look who’s here,” Arshad said when he saw you. Individually hugging each one of your friends, you introduced them to Hoseok.

“This is Arshad, Rajveer, and Alex. Don’t take anything they say seriously,” you warned Hoseok but your friends just laughed.

“Y/n, Seema has some work for you, why don’t you let us have a friendly chat with your boyfriend over here,” Alex said.

“Okay, fine. Don’t you dare trouble him,” you warned before turning to leave. On your way, you gave Hoseok a chaste kiss on his cheek and whispered, “They’re harmless, don’t worry."

You went to find Seema when you saw her standing by the stage in the middle of the ground.

"You needed me?"

She turned around and gave you a hug before asking you a couple of questions. You agreed to what she said and followed her backstage.

"So, Hoseok, how long have you two been dating,” Rajveer asked. They were sitting in the back row on some plastic chairs that were arranged in front of the stage.

“Our second anniversary is next month,” Hoseok replied. The boys seemed pretty nice. They knew you inside out and really cared for you.

“Don’t worry, we aren’t going to ask you when you’re getting married,” Arshad laughed. Hoseok looked mortified. He thought you told them about him.

“Did y/n tell you that,” Hoseok asked. All four of them burst out laughing.

“No, she didn’t but we were sure you would have been asked that question a million times cause y/n is our community’s sweetheart. She has always been the perfect friend, daughter, niece, student, you name it. She was really popular in school for being the best dancer. All of the people here want her married off to a good guy,” Dhiraj explained.

Hoseok took a sip of the beer they gave him when he realised something. “Wait a minute, did you say dancer?"

They nodded. Hoseok was confused. He never knew you danced. You had never mentioned it before. Just when he was about to ask the boys another question, the lights on the stage turned on and the music started playing. It was a peppy Bollywood song. The dancers danced gracefully on the stage. But what shocked Hoseok was the person standing center stage.

You, in all your glory, were standing in the middle of the stage, dancing to the beat. Your movements were fluid and flawless. Hoseok’s jaw dropped as he watched you go through the choreography. Being a dancer himself, he could see the technique as well as the grace in your dancing. Your skirt swirled beautifully, complementing your each movement.

Hoseok stood there, mesmerized as you finished performing and stepped off the stage. The crowd clapped loudly and you folded your hands together and bowed. When your eyes met Hoseok’s, you were quick to look away.

Dhiraj gave you a tight hug and complemented your dancing. Hoseok was still with the rest of the boys when someone called for you and you disappeared.

"She’s a wonderful dancer, isn’t she,” Alex asked and Hoseok agreed. He told your friends that he needed a drink and went to look for you.

You were speaking to one of your childhood friends when you noticed something. It was an old dirt path that went behind your school. The memories came back to you. You walked along the path and reached your hideout from when you were young. It was a small patch of grass atop a small hill. You sat down and looked up at the sky, reminiscing about the good times you had had in that very place.

Someone sat down behind you, but you were too lost in your own thoughts to notice them. They cleared their throat and you turned around and gasped. Your ex smiled at you and you quickly stood up.

“I’m leaving,” you said as you walked away. He grabbed a hold of your wrist and pulled you to him.

“Where are you going, love,” he cooed.

“Leave me alone, Jimin,” you said.

Jimin was the only non-Indian kid in your school and you helped him around and ended up falling for him. It was you, who introduced him to your community. They absolutely loved him and he ended up moving in when he graduated. The both of you dated for about three years before you found out that he had cheated on you with your best friend. He begged you to forgive him and you eventually did.

But then, the day before your fourth anniversary, you walked in on him fucking the same best friend. It was only when he realised that you were absolutely ready to leave that he confessed that he had been with her off and on for almost a year. That day, you applied for a college far from your home and made sure not to come back often so that you didn’t have to meet him.

“Still feisty, huh? I missed you so much, love,” he said. His hand stayed firmly on the small of your back, exposed due to the short length of your top. You squirmed in his hold but he tightened his other hand around your wrist. Trying to push away from him, he pulled you closer to him and kissed you. You didn’t reciprocate the kiss but tried to get away from him.

“The boys said you’d be he—” Hoseok gasped as he saw you kissing some random guy. Jimin finally release you and you ran to Hoseok.

“It’s not what it looks like, baby,” you said as you hugged you.

“Who are you,” Hoseok asked Jimin.

“Park Jimin,” he said and Hoseok immediately understood the whole situation. You had told him about your ex before.

“Get away from me, you cheater,” Hoseok said and pushed you away.

“Please, Hoseok, listen to me,” you begged and Jimin smirked. He was really enjoying watching the scene unfold. The anger and resentment was evident on his face. Hoseok walked up to him and grabbed his collar.

“Stay away from me unless you want your pretty face broken."

Jimin looked genuinely scared. He quickly scurried away and Hoseok looked back at you.

You were sitting on the ground, crying. You had gone through a horrible break up with Jimin and all the memories flooded back to you. Hoseok was your everything, you wanted to marry the man someday. Your boyfriend sat down next to you and put his arm around you.

"I know that you didn’t kiss him on purpose. I just wanted to make sure and seeing him smirk when I called you a cheater, I knew it was him who kissed you,” Hoseok said. You hugged him tight and explained exactly what happened.

“I know you wouldn’t do such a thing to me, y/n. I just hated the fact that he hurt you so badly and still had the audacity to touch you. I would have broken his nose if I could” Hoseok comforted you.

Caressing your face, he cooed and tried to calm you down. That’s when you heard a loud sound. The frown on your face disappeared and you pointed at the sky. Beautiful colours filled the sky and the sound of sizzling filled your ears as the crackers burst above you. You had once told Hoseok that your favourite memory was laying in your hideout and watching the crackers.

You both layed down and watched them, fingers interlocked. Hoseok struggled to keep his eyes on the sky as his gaze would always wander back to your face. He couldn’t help but admire your flawless features and pretty smile. You looked at him and saw him staring at you, specifically at your lips. Turning onto your side, you held the back of his head and pulled him in for a kiss.

You don’t remember most of it, but you somehow said your goodbyes to your family and friends and got to the car. You were wrapped in Hoseok’s spare jacket as Hoseok played his ‘songs for sex playlist’. You had always found the playlist ridiculous mainly for including songs like 'Give It To Me’, 'Singularity,’ and most importantly, 'Expensive Girl’.

The moment Hoseok parked the car you rushed out to call the lift. Hoseok followed behind silently before he pinned you against the wall of the elevator when it arrived and kissed you roughly. He pulled you out of the lift when you reached your floor and quickly unlocked the door. You haphazardly took your heels off while Hoseok closed the door.

He throws you over his shoulder before you could utter a word, cause a yelp to escape you and took you to the bedroom before dropping you onto the bed. Your clothes, quickly discarded and you were pinned beneath your boyfriend. He devoured you with deep kisses as both your lungs strained for air, his soft lips coming down on yours aggressively.

Hoseok makes his way down your body, littering kisses here and there. His fingers snake around you to take your bra off before it is thrown away into a corner. Mouth attaching to one nipple, he uses his hand to massage your other breast before switching. He nips at your skin till he finds your sweet spot and sucks hard, making you moan and squirm in his hold.

He placed a chaste kiss on your belly button before getting up to walk to the closet. Rummaging through the drawer, he picked out a few things before returning to you. He pried open your legs and settled between them before grabbing both your hands and bringing them to the front. He tied your wrists together with some red rope.

You knew he was pissed off about the whole Jimin thing and the only way he would calm down was by punishing you. Not that you minded, though. You were such a brat that you would go out of your way to ask him for punishments or act bratty just to get him to punish you. Once he finished tying you, he tapped his thigh and you got up off the bed. Over the years that you’d been together, you both had developed a sort of non-verbal communication system.

You bent over his lap, your ass in the air. Hoseok grabbed the leather paddle from the nightstand and ran it over your backside and thighs. Goosebumps rose on your skin as you awaited the first blow. It came down harshly and you hissed at the pain.

“One, thank you, Sir,” you muttered.

The rough edges of the paddle made dark blue and purple lines on your ass. Bruises formed all over you as Hoseok continued to deliver hits. The hits got harsher as they came down on your skin.

“Twenty, thank you, Sir,” you said as tears streamed down your face and your boyfriend finally dropped the paddle on the floor. He tapped his foot twice on the floor and you immediately got up.

Kneeling in front of him, you settled between his spread knees and looked down at the carpet. You winced as you sat down on your sensitive ass.

“What an obedient slut you are, aren’t you? But you still had to make Sir mad and you’re going to pay for it. Open,” he commanded and you immediately dropped your jaw, opening your mouth as widely as possible. Digging his thumb into the hollow of your cheek, he made you open your mouth wider, making your jaw hurt.He pushed his boxers off letting his already hard cock out of the dark material.

“I’m going to fuck your throat and you’re just going to take it all, understood?” he warned and you nodded.

A sharp pain blossomed across your cheek as Hoseok slapped you.

“Yes, Sir,” you corrected yourself. Without further delay, he stuffed his cock down your throat making you gag, but he didn’t relent and continued until your nose brushed up against his pelvis. You willed yourself to breathe through your nose as Hoseok thrusted in and out of your mouth. Tears and saliva dripped down your face, making you look like a mess. Hoseok smirked down at you and thrusted even harder.

Your muffled moans and his grunts filled the room. Your throat felt all rough from your boyfriend’s relentless pounding. His balls slapped against your chin, making your face hurt. You were just about to tap out when Hoseok gave out a broken moan and came down your throat. You swallowed it all and opened your mouth to show Hoseok. He patted your head before tucking his hands under your armpits and lifting you onto the bed. With your head down and your ass up in the air, he spread your knees apart after discarding your panties so that you couldn’t move.

You moaned as you felt his tongue flick your clit. He immediately stopped and lifted you up by the hair. Grabbing the ball gag, he fastened it around your head.

“Shh, babygirl, you don’t want to make Sir angry, do you,” he cooed and you whined.

Getting back to work on your core, he inserted two fingers inside you, curling them and finding your g-spot. Muffled cries escaped your lips as your orgasm drew near. Just when you were about to cum, Hoseok pulled away.

“My little slut knows better than to cum without Sir’s permission, right,” he asked before pressing his favourite vibrator against your lower lips. Tears streamed down your face as your orgasm started building up again. Your legs shook as you tried not to cum. Hoseok didn’t stop even though your moans were getting more and more desperate. Before you could tell him to stop, he threw the vibrator away and without warning, he sheathed himself inside you in one smooth stroke. You squealed through your gag as started thrusting.

Gripping your thighs harshly, he pounded in and out of you at a slow yet hard pace. You whimpered and tried to tell him to go faster but were muffled by the gag.

“Want me to go faster, whore? Then beg for it,” Hoseok hissed and you continued trying to beg with the gag still in your mouth. He just chuckled. He slowed down further just to frustrate you.

“What a pathetic bitch, can’t even beg properly.” Hoseok pulled the gag out of your mouth and let it hang around your neck.

“Pl-please, go faster, Sir,” you begged, which he rewarded with a slap to your already bruised ass causing you to whimper. He humoured you by going a tad bit faster but not fast enough to get you to cum.

“Faster, Sir, please. Please,” you begged further and Hoseok finally gave in, pounding into you at an inhuman pace. Broken moans escaped you as he abused your g-spot and grinded against it.

“So tight,” Hoseok gritted.

“Are you close, babygirl,” Hoseok asked in a soft voice. You nodded which resulted in another slap to your ass.

“Use your words, slut,” Hoseok said.

His fingers tightened around your thighs, sure to leave bruises, not that you minded them. You loved to see marks that your boyfriend left on your body.

“Please Sir, I’m s-so close. Please, let me c-cum,” you muttered. The pleasure was getting too much to handle. You needed to cum but you knew very well that if you came without Hoseok’s permission, you wouldn’t be getting any sleep.

“Go ahead, cum for Sir,” Hoseok cooed and you let your body fall over the edge.

You chanted his name as you came. He helped you ride out your orgasm, but didn’t stop even after you came down from your high. Fucking you into overstimulation, you cried as he reached his own high. Cumming deep into your pussy, he pulled out and rolled over to lay down next to you. Both of you laid there in bed for a few minutes to catch your breath.

He untied you and ran a bath for the both of you before picking you up from the bed and carrying you into the bathroom, setting you on the counter. He sat in the tub and pulled you in to sit between his legs. After a long relaxing bath, both of you collapsed on the bed, limbs tangled.

As you stared at your boyfriend’s beautiful face, you recalled the incidents that had taken place over the course of the previous hours and felt an indescribable feeling towards him. Your love for him was infinite but it somehow continued to grow.

Over the next couple of days, you didn’t leave your studio at all. You barely interacted with Hoseok during this period of time. You slept on the couch in your studio a few times and other times you would get home really late and leave really early. Your boyfriend was getting nervous and was confused as to why you were behaving in such a manner. He was worried that he went too overboard that night and that you were mad at him.

In reality, you had gotten this idea stuck in your head since the day of the Diwali celebration that you just needed to get out and the only way you knew how, was to make a song about it. So, that’s exactly what you did, spending those days composing and writing nonstop. When you were finally done, you recorded it to send it to the team for approval. Once you got the thumbs up from the higher ups, you send it to the group you were in charge of for final recording.

Hoseok was in his dance studio when one of his co-workers came in to give him a new song for him to choreograph. The track was titled, 'Lights,’ and he played it on the speaker to hear it and start working on it. He heard the signature synth sound that you added to every song that you produced, a sort of signature, if you will, to indicate that the song was made by you. As the song played, his eyes filled up with tears.

“When I close my eyes

In the darkness, your light

Lights the way for me

We can walk forward without fear, you & I woah

You’re my light you’re my light

Always shine into my heart

You’re my light you’re my light

No matter how far apart we are

Your light shines on me”

He realised why you hadn’t been interacting with him and he also felt guilty for doubting your love for him. He concocted a plan to surprise you. You had revealed to him quite a secret recently that helped his plan perfectly.

You got a call from Hoseok in the middle of a writing session, asking you to come down to his dance studio in half an hour. You finished your session just in time and headed towards your boyfriend’s practice room. When you knocked on the door, Hoseok asked you to come inside. The members of your group and your boyfriend were sitting on the floor, clearly exhausted after a long practice session.

“So, as you all know, our lovely producer, y/n, over here made you guys a new song. I got the track today and was asked to choreograph it. But after a long discussion with the CEO, Mr. Kim Seokjin, we’ve come to the conclusion that I won’t be choreographing the song."

Loud gasps filled the room as the boys looked at their teacher with confused expressions on their faces.

"Instead, your choreographer for the song will be y/n herself!"

You were shocked at Hoseok’s sudden revelation.

"What,” you asked, confused. The boys started asking Hoseok why you were going to be in charge of the song.

“Your noona here is a wonderful dancer. I didn’t know this fact until recently, either. But after having a conversation with Mr. Kim, we’ve decided that this song should be choreographed by noona."

You told them that you’d come in tomorrow for working on the song and you and Hoseok left to go home. "What in the world just happened?” You asked your boyfriend and he just smirked. You felt confused and happy at the same time because this was a big opportunity that you weren’t expecting at all.

The articles said everything. 'Lights’ had set innumerable records on the music charts and was the group’s best selling single. When asked about the song, the boys all credited you for producing and writing it. The choreography was also applauded as one of the best ones that the group has ever had. Your fan following and popularity skyrocketed to the point where the CEO offered you to quit your job as a producer, and join as an artist and you immediately agreed.

You and your boyfriend curled up on the couch after coming back from a party that was held by KM Entertainment for the success of 'Lights.’

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” Hoseok cooed as he ran his hand through your hair. You snuggled into his chest as he praised you.

“I should thank you for letting me choreograph the song,” you muttered.

“By the way, why didn’t you ever tell my you danced,” Hoseok asked. You had never actually had a conversation about this topic since that night.

“I was too insecure. I always thought I was never as good as you, Hobi,” you confessed. Hoseok chuckled.

“Are you actually kidding me? You’re a way better dancer than I am. I almost lost my job because of you. If Seokjin hadn’t asked you to join as an artist, I was sure he was going to make you the new choreographer."

You hit your arm playfully against his chest before you turned to look up at him. The pride and adoration on his face was so evident that it made your heart beat faster.

You placed a chaste kiss on his lips, whispering, "I love you."

Hoseok hummed in response, the sound echoing your own sentiments. Arms wrapping around you tighter, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you too.”

25 Days Of Christmas: A BTS Anthology Masterlist

#25DaysOfBTSXmas #magicshopnet #ficswithluv #rainbowbtsnet #bts #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #jung hoseok #jhope fluff #bts jhope #fanfic #bts fanfction #bts jimin #bts jin #bts jungkook #bts yoongi #bts taehyung #bts namjoon

194 notes · View notes

ohnojustimagine · 6 years

Text

Flesh and Blood

Roman Reigns/Reader 7160 words; Smut/Explicit (though it takes a bit to get to the smut)

Vampire AU, Arranged Marriage AU, Historical AU, set in probably like some fantasy vaguely 1700’s-ish time. I wanted to get this done for Halloween, but it got so long!

***

The journey takes days in the carriage, so many that you start to lose count. You’re permitted to pause briefly at various inns along the way; quickly change your clothes and wash, swallow down some stale, tasteless food while the spent horses are replaced with fresh animals, and you’d ask your father why you cannot take rest at places more befitting your status, but you know the answer.

This is a shameful, secret undertaking, and your father would rather his humiliation not be witnessed by his peers. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, that appearances so matter to him when your own approaching debasement seems to be of far less regard. You are his only daughter, and while he does care for you, his favor and preference has always been for your three older brothers. You are aware it is a sacrifice for him, allowing you to be used in this way, but you also know he has done nothing to prevent this being your ultimate fate, agreeing to it with little protest.

The Last War ended before you were born, but the truce between the two kingdoms, of Humans and Vampires, has never been an easy or especially tranquil one. There have been aggressions on both sides, a slow build of tension over the years, but negotiations for a more lasting peace have been underway for some time now.

An alliance is about to be formalized, but there must be a concrete concession from both sides, a representation of their commitment to stand united against further war. And, it seems, you are that representation, for you are to be married. You, the King’s most insignificant and expendable niece, will be wedded to Lord Reigns, the youngest son of the High Lord Vampire, as a gesture of good faith.

You are a token, a pawn, nothing more. Your marriage will be but a symbol, and you yourself are of such little consequence that you cannot help but be painfully aware that you are most likely being sent to your death, yet you choose to take comfort in the fact that your end will be a noble one, that you will at least play a small role in bringing about a better world for all your Uncle’s subjects. You hold your head high, knowing you have every right to be proud, but your courage is beginning to fail, your fear growing with each passing mile of this seemingly endless journey.

Your father hasn’t said a word to you for days now, simply staring out the windows of the carriage when it is light, facing straight ahead during the darker hours, when he is not sleeping, but you can tell by his demeanor that you are close to reaching your destination.

He turns to look at you. “Has someone spoken to you?” he asks, tentative yet distant. “About what your husband will require from you?”

“Yes,” you answer shortly. Your kindest and most loyal lady-in-waiting, Marie, sat you down before you departed and informed you in some detail of what you should expect on your wedding night. And while you had a little knowledge of the nature of the act between husband and wife, the specifics were still… surprising to you. It does not sound like a pleasant or agreeable task, but you are aware a marriage is not binding without consummation, and this marriage will need to be binding for the alliance to be ratified. So you will have to endure it.

“What of the rest of it?” you say. “What of after? Will they kill me?”

Your father does not reply, but he takes your hand, squeezing it in some semblance of affection. “I wish your mother was here,” he says, softly.

She died when you were but a child, and your memories of her are vague and hazy, but you recall her holding you, cradling you. Her hair was golden, and you remember the sweet, comforting smell of it, brushing across your face as she sang to you, soothing melodies that lulled you into sleep. You felt safe in her presence, protected in a way that you have never since known.

Certainly not in this moment, as you glare at your father, and say, hotly, “My mother would never have allowed this marriage.”

“No, my dear,” your father says with a sigh. “She would not.”

Neither of you speak further, and you pull back the curtain that covers the carriage window, staring outside. Darkness has fallen, though there is a full moon that illuminates the landscape you are travelling through, bathing it in a pale, almost unearthly light. Open fields and farmland sprawl beside the road and you gaze longingly at the hills in the distance, wishing you could run away, find sanctuary somewhere, but you know you are being foolish and cowardly.

You soon enter a forest, thickly planted with trees, so close and tight you begin to feel as if you cannot breathe, and you shut the curtain, looking straight ahead.

And it is not so very long before you hear the horses slow, the soft thud of their hooves on the muddy road replaced by the sharp crunch of gravel, and the carriage comes to a halt.

Please, you want to say to your father, but you know it would be of no use.

A footman opens the door, offering you his arm, and you take a breath as you step out, carefully climbing down, inhaling the cool night air. You are in front of a set of stone stairs that lead up to a huge wooden door that is thrown wide open, set into a mansion so seemingly vast that you cannot make out its boundaries, even in the clear moonlight.

You are shown into a large, spacious entrance hall lined with polished wooden panels on which hang innumerable grim-looking portraits. You gaze up at them fearfully, wondering if your betrothed’s visage is among the stern, disagreeable faces that glare down at you. Two huge, curved staircases are set at either side of the room, and down one of them walks a beautiful woman in an emerald-green dress. Her hair is dark, her skin the color of honey, and while she smiles at you, her eyes are cold and hard, and you instinctively know she is one of them.

A vampire.

“We’ve been waiting for you so eagerly, my dear,” she says, voice sickly sweet, insincerity dripping from her every word. “I am Leila, and I am to be your lady-in-waiting.” Before you can even think to reply she takes your hand with a deceptively steely grip, leading you off, and you glance back at your father, panicked, but he has already turned away, instructing the footmen to bring in your trunk from the carriage.

Leila drags you up the stairs without ceremony, and you walk quickly along behind her, careful to keep up, not wishing to anger her. You make your way down a long corridor, every step silenced by thick carpet, until you reach a door, and enter what would seem to be some kind of ladies’ dressing room; luxuriously appointed with mirrors and cupboards.

There are several other women waiting there and they all look you up and down. “Is this her?” one asks, the disdain in her voice plain to hear.

“I’m afraid so,” Leila answers, and the women shake their heads, obviously dismayed at your appearance. You are not ugly, you know that, but your prettiness is of a more delicate type than these ladies, with their full, painted lips and elaborately coiffed hair. You wonder if this is the usual style among vampire women, and if so, you can only suppose that your husband will be sadly disappointed by you, but there is nothing you can do to help that.

They all descend on you, removing your travelling clothes with quick, sharply efficient hands, and though you are used to being dressed by your own former ladies-in-waiting, they were never been this rough with you; pinching and pulling, ruthlessly impatient when you do not move rapidly enough for their liking.

You are standing there, shivering in your underclothes, when Leila brings out a white dress, shaking out its skirt.

“Am… am I to be married now?” you ask. You had assumed there would be at least a few days’ preparation for such an occasion.

“Of course,” Leila says, as if it an obvious thing. She regards you with a condescending gaze, and then continues,“We do not consider it any cause for celebration that Lord Reigns is to be wed to a creature like yourself, and we would prefer our shame to be done with as quickly as possible.”

“Oh,” you say, nodding in understanding. “I brought a dress with me for the ceremony,” you say, timidly hopeful that you might be able to wear something of your own choosing.

“Don’t be silly, child,” Leila scolds you. “This is much finer, I’m certain.”

And it is, yes, with its intricate embroidery and elaborate frills, but there is so much of it, and none is at all suited to you. Yet you do not protest further, resigning yourself to these foreign tastes.

One of the women helps you with the layers of petticoats you are to wear, and another slips a corset around your waist, pulling its laces so tight you can barely breathe. It takes three of them to guide you into the dress, so full is it, but finally it is on, and Leila stands behind you, fastening the myriad of tiny buttons that march up the back seam of the gown, the weight of it heavy on your body, like a burden you are doomed to carry.

A woman kneels in front of you, lifting your feet and squeezing them into beautiful but slightly too-small shoes, and another pins a lace-edged veil in your hair, pulling it down over your face, smoothing the edges.

They all step away to examine you, assessing with critical eyes, and it is clear you do not measure up to their standards. “I suppose she is passable,” says Leila with a put-upon sigh.

“Shame about her hair,” one says. “But we don’t have time to fix that.”

You have your blonde curls pulled back into a simple twist, and you touch them lightly, adjusting the veil. Two of the women take your hand, each either side of you, and Leila once again leads the way. It is not so very far, this time, but your shoes pinch tight on your feet, and you wince in pain as you walk.

You enter the foyer of what seems to be a small chapel, and your father is there, waiting for you. Leila and the others leave you without a word, and your father gives you a hesitant smile, regarding you sadly. “You look beautiful, my dear,” he says, kissing your cheek, then standing back to admire you further. “So like your mother,” he murmurs, his voice faltering slightly, but you hear the wedding march begin to play, and he offers you his arm.

The chapel is certainly not large, you see as you enter, but every seat is filled. The assembled guests turn to look at you and your father as you make your way up the aisle, a few gazing curiously, but most staring with open, unconcealed hostility.

You swallow, and focus on the altar you walk towards. It is made of a highly polished black wood, and before it, with his back to you, is a man: your soon-to-be husband. He is quite tall, seemingly broad shouldered, dressed in a fitted, wine-colored velvet coat and tight breeches that appear to mold to generously muscled thighs. His long, dark hair is tied with a black ribbon, and he stands, straight-backed, hands at his sides.

You hold your breath as you approach him, feeling for a moment as if you might faint, but your father holds you steady, and you gather yourself, releasing your father’s arm as you come to a halt beside him, Lord Reigns, and it is the first time you have allowed yourself to even think his name, but you know there is no turning back now, your fate sealed. For a brief second you keep your eyes lowered, but then you look up, facing him.

And you are not sure what you were expecting; not some hideous monster, certainly, but not this, not a man, a man so beautiful that a barely-stifled gasp catches tight in your throat, and you stare.

His skin is of a subtle, golden hue, and a neatly trimmed beard frames his generous mouth. His eyes are pale, but they are surprisingly warm, almost kind. He gives you a small smile that you think, or at least hope, is meant to be reassuring, and your wedding begins.

It is a short ceremony, clearly abridged for maximum efficiency, and you are soon pronounced husband and wife. And it is only then that you learn your husband’s given name: Roman. It is unusual, you muse to yourself, certainly not a name you have ever heard used before, but you like it. It suits him, you are sure, though as yet you do not know him.

You see him swallow as he carefully lifts your veil back off your face, pressing a chaste, cool kiss to your lips, taking your hand and turning to face the assembled guests, none of whom seem even vaguely inclined to applaud your union. You glance across to where your father was last standing, hoping he at least will seem a little proud, but it would appear he is already gone, as there is no one there, and you frown, fretful, wondering if he has left of his own accord.

You would not wish him harm, despite your anger at him, but as you glance around the chapel, he is nowhere to be seen.

Yet you are married, you think, the reality of it sinking in as you move in procession to a modestly-sized dining hall. You and Lord Reigns are seated at a high table and there are no speeches, no dancing or raucousness. No food, either, only servants holding large, bejewelled pitchers that they use to fill and refill the goblets on the tables in front of all the guests, from which they drink deeply of a dark, thick liquid. In your confusion and general bewilderment, you at first assume it is some kind of strange wine they are imbibing, but then you realize: it is blood.

They are drinking blood.

Your new husband takes a generous swig from his goblet, and then looks at you, smiling, his lips and teeth red with it. You feel dizzy with nausea, and your horror must be written plain over your features, as Lord Reigns quickly wipes off his mouth.

“My lord,” you say tentatively, grasping at all your courage to address him.

“Roman,” he says. “I want you to call me Roman.”

“Roman,” you repeat, the name strange and unfamiliar on your tongue. “I would wish to know…” You do not know if it is your place to ask, and you stop.

“Is it your father?” he says, and you nod. Roman lays his hand on your arm. “I had one of my trusted men see him away safely. He’s fine, I assure you.”

You let out a sigh of relief, but there is also the knowledge that you are now truly on your own, in this house, among these… you want to think of them as people, but you do not know if that is foolishly naïve.

For now, there is quiet, subdued chatter amongst the guests, and it is not so very long before Leila appears before you once again.

“I must prepare her,” she says, ignoring you to address your husband, and he nods. You stare at him, eyes wide, panic rising up inside you, your heart sinking with dreadful anticipation.

“Do not fear,” he says, gentle. “Go with Leila, and I will be with you soon.”

You obey him, as you now must, as you have promised to, meekly standing and following Leila out of the hall. She does not hurry you this time, moving along in front of you in silence. Along the way you are joined by the same women as earlier, but there is a different mood among them; more solemn and serious.

You could not say how far you walk, but your surroundings gradually begin to change; with carpets and wooden panelling giving way to narrow passageways lined with huge flagstones, your path lit by flaming torches hung at regular intervals.

And then, at last, you are in a chamber that seems to be made entirely of stone, with strange carved patterns decorating the walls that slope up to a high ceiling. There is an opening at the peak, and the full moon shines down through it with a pale, icy light, precisely illuminating the center of the room, where there are two stone pillars, also covered with carvings. You peer at them, trying to decipher the markings, but it is nothing you are able to recognize. Perhaps some ancient vampire language, you think, but before you have a chance to look around you further, you are being stripped of your dress.

You do not resist, nor do you speak, but you pray, silent, inside your head, longing for a painless and rapid death, asking whatever God might be listening in as godless a place as this for mercy, begging that you will soon be with your mother.

You are quickly naked, and this time you are clothed in a white linen nightgown, sleeveless, with two straps at the shoulders. Unlike your wedding dress, it is plain and quite simple, but the fabric of it is soft on your skin.

You stare up at the moon as Leila and her friends take rough hold of you, pushing you to stand between the two pillars, dragging your arms away from your body. Chains are laid into the stone, each ending with a iron cuff, and they fasten your wrists tight so you are bound with your arms outstretched, raised either side of you.

They step back, all bowing their heads, murmuring something in unison, the words so quiet you cannot make them out, and you feel terror begin to truly form within you, but then they look up, eyes dark.

“What a waste,” one of them says with a distinct sneer. “For a man such as Lord Reigns to have to be wed to a human.”

“Especially a sad little mouse like this one,” another chimes in. She gives Leila a sly, searching look, then adds, “Weren’t you promised to Lord Reigns as a child?”

Leila replies with a haughty tone, saying, “Roman and I will be together.” She smiles at you, predatory as a wolf. “This poor creature is merely a passing diversion.”

“Do you think,” the other woman says, inching toward you, “that Lord Reigns would mind if we sampled at her?” She sniffs the air, visibly shivering in delight, her eyes glittering. “Her fear smells delicious.”

“No,” Leila says, with decisive authority. She runs her hand over your cheek, long fingernails scraping lightly over your skin. “Don’t fret, child,” she says, no comfort in the words, poison in her tone. “It will all be over soon.”

She smiles, again, and takes her leave along with the other women, and you are alone.

The room is cold, the silence almost oppressive, and you do not know how much time passes, but finally your hear someone enter. “You don’t have to be afraid,” says a quiet voice, and it is your husband. You cannot see him, as he moves to stand behind you, and you shift, restless, straining a little at your chains. “I apologize,’ he says, "for the restraints, but unfortunately they’re part of the ritual.”

You don’t tell him that you are secretly glad you are bound, that you’re such a coward you would have fled by now were you not tied so securely.

You can feel him, his presence, so near but not yet touching you, and you listen as he takes a deep, shuddering inhalation. “Your blood,” he says. “I can smell it.” He wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your neck, lips lingering on your skin. “I can hear it,” he whispers, hoarse and low. “Every drop, every vein, every pulse, all of it.” His large body is pressed close against your back, and your heart beats faster.

He uses his other hand to slowly tilt your head away from him, exposing your throat and neck, and you feel his breath, cooler than you would expect, but ragged and unsteady. There is the smallest scratch, fine-edged and pointed as a blade, and he says, “It will only hurt for a moment, I promise you.”

You hold your breath, so filled with fear you are sick with it, but then there is pain, white hot and sharp. Your body arches up against it, struggling in Roman’s arms, but he holds you fast until it passes. You can hear him, feel him drinking from you, swallowing, greedy, and a sudden warm bliss floods through you, as if you’re glowing from within, lit up with pleasure. You see a bright, searing light, and then…

Nothing.

Only darkness, sweet oblivion welcoming you with open arms, and you fall into it, grateful.

***

You wake, your head spinning with giddiness, and it takes you more than a few moments to realize that you are not dead, and to recall where you are, what has happened. You’re in another room, this time warmly comfortable and well-lit, and you’re curled up on the corner of a soft, generous bed, still dressed in the white nightgown. You raise your hand tentatively to your neck, expecting to find a wound, but there is only two small bumps, seemingly already nothing but scars. You frown to yourself, wondering what dark arts have enabled such rapid healing.

“There you are,” you hear Roman say, and you startle, sitting up quickly. Too fast, and the room moves around you, swaying violently as you try to breathe. You lean on your arms, and slowly you are able to steady yourself. “Okay?” Roman asks, and you look over at him.

He’s sitting across from you, on the other side of the bed, leaning back on the headboard with his legs extended out in front of him, a pile of papers in his lap, and he’s dressed only in his breeches, hair hanging loose over his shoulders. His body is as well-muscled at it appeared through his clothes, but your attention is immediately drawn to his right arm, as it is covered in strange markings and lines that curve and spread over his chest. They seem vaguely familiar to you, and after some thought, you realize they are of the same type as was carved on the walls and pillars in the stone room.

He doesn’t say anything further, but reaches over to a table next to him, where there is a pitcher waiting. He pours water from it into a tin cup, holding his arm outstretched to offer it to you. You regard him warily, but then take it, swallowing down the water in inelegant gulps, thirst overcoming your decorum.

You hand the cup back to him when you are done, and say, anxious, “Is it over? Have we fulfilled our obligations?”

“The blood ritual is done, yes,” he says.

“And what of the rest?”

The corner of his mouth lifts in the smallest, most subtle of smiles. “Not yet.”

“Oh,” you say. “Oh.” Tears prickle hot in your eyes, and you hug your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, willing yourself not to cry. “I thought you would have…” You don’t know what to call it, so you do not call it anything. “While I was fainted, I thought you would.”

He frowns at you. “Of course I would not,” he says, firmly. “I do not intend to take advantage of you.” He sets aside his papers on the table, and makes to move closer to you. You can’t stop yourself from flinching at his approach, and he hesitates, seating himself a few feet away, as if you’re some skittish animal he needs to gentle and tame. And you suppose that, to him, that’s exactly what you are: someone beneath him, an inferior species not of his kind.

“But we must,” you say, despairing at the thought that there is yet more to be suffered.

“Yes,” he says, gently, “we must.” He looks at you, seeming to study you closely before he again speaks, saying, “Done properly, it is not something to dread.”

You don’t reply, and this time, when he shifts nearer to you, you steel yourself to remain still, aware that attempting to delay your fate will likely only make things worse. He reaches for your wrist, grasping it, making to pull it away from your body, and for a second you resist him, but when he does not force you, you relax somewhat, allowing him to take your hand.

He holds it, careful, as if it is something precious, turning it palm up, tracing one fingertip delicately over the inside of your wrist, still slightly chafed from your earlier bonds. His touch is so light that it makes you shiver, and you suddenly recall his words from earlier, about veins and blood, but you try to put the thought from your mind.

“Will you trust me?” he asks, quietly.

What choice do I have? is what you would like to tell him, but instead you say, “I will try.”

He nods, as if that is an acceptable answer, and then slowly, almost achingly so, lowers his head enough to press his mouth to your own, kissing you. It is full and soft, but after a minute, his tongue begins to lick along your lips in the strangest manner, and you are unsure as to how you are supposed to respond to such an act, so you do nothing, hoping it is simply some misunderstanding.

He pulls back, regarding you for a moment. “You have to open your mouth,” he tells you, kindly, but he seems somewhat bemused by your ignorance.

“Oh,” you say, not quite comprehending, but you do as you are asked when he leans back in and oh, you think again, because this time his tongue slides past your lips, and then all at once it is moving inside your mouth, almost as if it is caressing you. And you would have assumed that would be a most unpleasant sensation, but it’s instead something very different. Like the smoothest silk, you muse in wonder, that something can be so soft.

And though you are certain it is likely improper, somehow it seems only natural that your own tongue should move against his, responding in kind, and when you do, Roman hums in what must be pleasure, though it is possibly surprise. It vibrates through your mouth, and you inhale at the feel of it, mouth opening wider to him.

Without the smallest pause, he scoops you up into his arms, lifting you as if you weigh nothing, kissing you all the while as he lays you down onto your back, your head resting cradled by the pillows at the head of the bed.

He lies on his stomach, beside you, close enough that his mouth never moves from yours, seemingly inexhaustible. And that is all he does, kissing you, on and on, until you do not want him to ever stop. You can feel wetness gathering between your thighs, and you know you should be ashamed, to be so wanton and lustful, but he is your husband, after all, so surely it is not such a sin to desire him?

After some time he leans back a little, half sitting up, looking at you, a somewhat dazed expression on his face, his lips slightly reddened, hair tumbling over his shoulders in soft waves. Your attention is again drawn to the patterns on his skin, and you are now close enough to discern how beautifully intricate and detailed they are.

“What is it?” he asks, glancing down at the markings. “These?”

You nod. “Are they…” you ask, not wanting to offend him in any way, but curious to understand. “What are they?”

“They are symbols of our family, of our blood heritage.”

“Are you born with them?”

“No,” he says, “they are earned.” He runs his hand over his upper arm, saying with no small amount of pride, “They are inked into the skin with a needle, over time.”

Your eyes widen at the thought. “Is that not painful?” you say.

“It is,” he tells you, with enough conviction that you assume the agony of it must be extreme. You bite your lip, still staring, fascinated. “Do you want to touch them?” he asks you, softly.

You don’t answer, but you reach out, tentative, your breathing inexplicably quickening as your hand hangs trembling in the air between you.

“You won’t hurt me,” he assures you.

You breathe in, barely daring to move but he is quite still, watching you, so you trace your fingers up over his arm, following the pattern, and you had thought there might be some texture to it, but his skin is quite smooth. You caress over the rise and fall of his muscular form, the broad span of his shoulder, then across his chest, and as you continue, you unthinkingly brush over his nipple, eliciting a gasp from him. You pull your hand away in haste, fearful that you have harmed him, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no, that was good.”

And so you reach out once again, hesitating, but he nods at you, encouraging. You touch the small nub that sits in the center of the markings, careful, stroking it, feeling it tighten and harden under the tip of your finger, and you grow braver, circling over it with increasing pressure.

You see him take a deep breath, and then he laughs, brief and breathless, saying,“You know more than you think you do, my love.”

You lower your gaze in embarrassment at his praise, stopping, and he smiles at you, moving down the bed. You don’t protest as he takes hold of the hem of your nightgown, pulling it up your legs until it is bunched at your hips. He moves your knees apart, settling himself between them, on his front.

And you squirm with shame, your face hot at the knowledge that he is so close to your most private of places, staring into the very core of your womanhood, and you let out a small, helpless cry as he kisses the inside of your thighs. His teeth brush against your skin, and you startle, tensing, your mind taken back to the feel of his bite in the cold, moonlit chamber.

“A-are you…” you stammer out. “Are you going to bite me again?”

“No,” he says, looking up at you, with an easy, almost fond smile, and despite yourself, your pulse speeds at the sight of it. “No, I’m going to kiss you.”

And you cannot fathom why he would want to do such a thing, but you soon understand, because he does far more than simply kiss you, his mouth transgressing and surpassing every intimacy you would have ever imagined to be normal or possible. He licks you, sucks at you, and feel yourself blossoming under his tongue, opening up to him, and he laps at your wetness, beginning to concentrate his attentions in one particular place, intensifying the sensations within you.

The pleasure of it builds until it is almost unbearable, and it is too much, all-consuming in a way that you are sure is more than you can stand “No,” you protest, feeble, tugging at his hair, trying to pull him away. “I cannot… please.”

He looks up at you, his mouth glistening with your slickness, and you see him lick his lips, greedy. “What is it?” he asks.

“I feel I will…” You do not know how to describe what you are experiencing, how to put it into words, but he seems to understand what you are saying.

“Stay with me,” he tells you, enough authority in the words that you want more than anything to trust him, but it is not so easy. “Just let go,” he says.

He dives back in, his tongue flicking over that spot, bringing you to such exquisite agony that you try to shift away from him, but he wraps his powerful arms around your thighs, keeping you fast in place. You whimper with it, fretful, because this is torture of the worst and yet best kind, and just when you think you can no longer stand it, it as if the feeling peaks within you, so heightened in its focus that you cannot control yourself, making such sounds as you have never heard, your hips unconsciously pushing up against his face in a manner so primitive and base that you will later redden to recall it.

He does not stop, not until you collapse back, the intensity ebbing from you like water slipping away. You did not know that you were capable of such a response, and you lie there, panting, desperate to catch your breath. Your body is still trembling, vague echoes sparking at random through you, sharp and raw.

Roman shifts up next to you, an almost prideful expression lingering on his face as he watches you. “Have you never before…” he asks you, obviously curious.

You shake your head. It was your admittedly extremely vague understanding that only men gained a level of satisfaction from physical acts, and that women bore it as best they could. You had no idea that such a terrible, wonderful delight was even possible.

“But you liked it?” he questions.

“Oh yes,” you reply, more fervently that you intend, but Roman only seems pleased by your reaction.

“Can we take this off now?” he says, tugging at the nightgown you still wear, and you nod shyly in reply. You sit up a little, and he helps you with it, lifting it over your head, and though he has already seen parts of you that no man ever has, you still blush to be fully naked before him.

You lie before him, and he stares down at you, eyes shining with desire, bright and pale. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice low, and you can hear his need for you. And you would never have dreamed that you could inspire such want in a man such as this, but then you are beginning to suspect that you are perhaps an altogether different person than your previous life has ever given you cause to realize.

He is on his knees, and without removing his gaze from your form, he unlaces his breeches, tugging them off and casting them aside. His manhood springs free, and you gasp lightly at the sight of it, the way it just out from his body so proud and unashamed. It is darker than the rest of him, curving up gracefully to flare out at its head, and there is a drop of pearly moisture beaded at the uppermost tip. You lick your lips unconsciously, for it is not such a frightening thing as you had pictured, but it is bigger than you would have thought, and you are nervous as to how it will fit inside you.

Roman lies down over you, and you almost instinctively part your thighs, allowing him to settle between them. “Bend your knees up,” he tells you, guiding your legs into a position that will allow him to enter you, and then he reaches down, gripping himself in preparation.

You feel it, pressing at you, the blunt head of it demanding and intrusive, and you screw your eyes shut fast, wanting to believe that Roman will make the process as painless as is possible, but you whine quietly in fear, and your body tenses tight, denying him any easy access. And for one terrifying second you again remember the restraints, remember his teeth sinking into your neck, and you brace for him to force himself into you, but instead he immediately stops, looking down at you, concerned.

“I am sorry,” you whisper, humiliated that you are unable to fulfil your duty willingly, as any good wife should.

“No,” he croons, stroking your face. “I understand. We have plenty of time, I promise you.”

He kisses you, so deep you feel yourself begin to melt into him once again, letting out the breath you have been holding. His hand slides between your legs, finding that spot that he had earlier so pleasured with his tongue, caressing it in slow, unhurried circles.

“Is that good?” he asks, and you are surprised to notice a hint of uncertainty in his voice. You suddenly realize that he is also feeling some trepidation regarding what you are about to do, and for some reason that makes your own nervousness easier to bear, knowing that you are truly in this together.

“Yes,” you tell you him, and it is certainly not as intense as when he used his mouth on you, but it is no less sensual for it. Your legs fall open wider, and your body begins to respond to him as before.

“I want you,” he says, “I want for us to know each other as husband and wife, but I will not act until you are ready.”

The tip of one finger teases at your entrance, and once more you clench against it, but he does not go any further, patient as he kisses you, his other hand caressing across your breasts, and, gradually, your tension dissolves. His finger slips gentle inside you, into the renewed wetness there, and he moves it carefully in and out.

Your back arches slightly, and you let out a moan, so unladylike it is almost shocking to you, but Roman only smiles against your lips. “Yes,” he urges you, “just like that, my love.”

He slides another finger into you, and this time, instead of tensing, you feel yourself welcome it, eager, and you start to understand what he means by want, your desire for him rising within you. And it is not some simple, wanton lust, it is more than that: a wish to surrender yourself to him in the most absolute and perfect way, to be possessed by him, in every sense of the word.

“Now?” he asks, seemingly unsure, but your answer is decisive and immediate.

“Now,” you reply. “Please.” And this time, when he pushes into you, your body opens to him without resistance, without hesitation. You grasp tight to his arms, clinging to him as he enters you fully, and it feels like nothing you could have imagined, to have him inside you, to be joined as one with him.

“Yes?” he says, and you can hear the edge in his voice, his control barely maintained, his lust for you almost overpowering his will.

“Yes.”

He exhales, and starts to thrust himself in and out of you, as he did with his fingers, but this is so much better, so very much more. He closes his eyes above you, his mouth open, breath unsteady, the movement of his hips increasing in both speed and force, and, to your surprise, you find yourself enjoying the rougher rhythm of it, the manner in which he is taking you, his ownership of you complete.

And once more that strange wave of pleasure sweeps through you, and though it is more muted than the first time, you do not now resist it, allowing it to take you over. You move against him, and just as you cry out your own release, you hear him moan, and he thrusts into you with some violence, finishing himself inside you.

You both breathe, and he rolls off you, gathering you into his arms, kissing you, holding you close in an embrace so all-encompassing you feel as if nothing could ever harm you again.

“May I ask you a question?” you say, after a time.

“Anything, my love,” he replies, sincere.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Of course not. You are my wife.”

“Are you going to drink from me again?”

“No,” he answers once more. He rubs at the small puncture marks he left on your neck, and it is the strangest thing, the way the scars are instatntly hot and tender at his touch. But he goes on, “That was only to seal our marriage, as is our custom.”

You pause, and then you ask the question that has bothered you most since you were told you were betrothed to him. “Will you make me…” You do not know how to say it. “Will you make me like you?” A vampire, you mean.

He strokes your hair, pushing a stray curl back behind your ear with gentle fingers. “Perhaps,” he says. “One day, if you consent to being transformed, then we can petition my father to allow it.”

“Oh,” you reply, for you find that the idea is not as repellent to you as you would have thought.

“That’s all in the future, my love,” he assures you. “For now, all I would like is for you to be content as my wife.” He looks at you, his eyes slightly troubled, but his words are firm and determined as he takes both your hands in his own. “I will not pretend,” he goes on, “that it will be easy for you, as a human, to live among my kind, but I promise, on my very existence, that I will protect you with everything I have.”

You believe him, you trust him, with every part of your being, and your heart flutters light in your chest, like a bird finding wings, flying unburdened.

“Can you agree to that?” he asks.

“Yes, my lord,” you whisper, ducking your eyes for a moment before gazing up at him. He magnificent, you think, far beyond any man you have ever before encountered, and he is all yours, just as you now belong only to him.

“Roman,” he reminds you, playfully chiding.

“No,” you reply, suddenly fierce in your conviction. “You are my husband, you are my true lord.”

A slow, delighted smile spreads over his face, and he is so beautiful you almost cannot bear to see him, but you do not look away.

“Then we are bound,” he says, raising your hands to his mouth, kissing your fingers, lips soft on your skin.

“Yes,” you agree, and it feels more of a commitment than your earlier vows; irrevocable and steadfast. “We are bound.”

For always, you think.

Forever.

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