ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩

dragon!sylus

what is a dragon if not power incarnated? as such their mate needs to hold that same fire within them.

as it gets closer to the rare season when dragons can actually mate, you find that your little arguments and snappy comebacks make sylus pause, wings twitching as he simply watches you with a crooked, fanged smile. a worthy mate snarls, pushes back, bares their teeth despite knowing they are smaller. a good sign indeed.

sylus brings back larger and larger kills, watching you roast them over the fire as he looms behind you, purring in contentment when you lean back against him, nestled perfectly underneath his bulky, scaled form. 

you have been saying yes for months. your raised chin. your easy sleep against his warmth. Your exposed throat, your racing pulse, the way you reach for him without thinking, the way your heart rate climbs in his presence and you do not run from it. he knows your body is not deceiving him, he knows that you are ready.

sylus doesn’t want to scare his poor human mate, but if you’re to take his clutch and raise his brood, then you’ll need to be prepped. no worries, he’s more than happy to make sure your body is able to withstand the mating ritual, even if you haven’t realized what you’ve agreed to. but surely you want this right? all of your preening, your increased heart rate around him, you willingness to show him your neck and exposed belly. you want this.

during the late hours of the night when you’re already half asleep you’ll sometimes feel his fangs bite—ever so gently, just enough to leave an indent for now—into the crook of your shoulder or plush of your hips or thighs, something deep and ancient rumbling in sylus’ chest as he pulls away, letting his rough, forked tongue lave over the raw marks.

not even a week after it turns possessive, sylus pinning your sleeping body to the floor of your shared nest as his massive wings surround the two of you, rutting the swollen heads of both his cocks between your ass as you whine in your sleep, unaware of the way sylus begins to lick and nip at the back of your neck, practically drooling at the thought of finally sinking his teeth there. soon.

he’s not as careful as he could have been, sloppy in his desperation, and one night you wake to him above you, his clawed hand pinning down the small of your back as the other is four knuckles deep in your soaked pussy.

“sy-” a moan, and you thrash despite yourself, completely immobile under his weight. “sylus, what the fuck are y-oooh- you doing?” 

you’re gasping, keening as you’re feeling yourself regain consciousness and rise towards another orgasm. 

sylus doesn’t even act like he’s noticed you’ve awoken, narrow-slitted gaze completely focused on the stretch of your cunt as he forces his clawed thumb in as well, spreading you wide despite your protests. 

god, you have no idea how long he’s been at this, but you’re soaked enough to have already cum twice, pussy throbbing and sore from his relentless ministrations. 

in a flash of anger and embarrassment, you blindly kick out behind you. your heel strikes sylus’ shoulder, and he freezes with a low, thunderous growl, glowing red eyes locking with yours. he doesnt budge.

his tongue briefly flashes across the wide expanse of his fangs.

“again.”

his nose drags along the back of your neck, inhaling deeply, the pinpricks of his teeth gliding against the delicate skin making your skin crawl. “my feisty little human, always fighting back, always demanding.”

a pleased growl vibrates through him.

“good mate.”

before you can even question what he means, his fingers pry you apart with more force than before, allowing your juices to trickle down his scaled arm as they stretch you out just enough so he can lean down, licking a long, wet strip up your pussy. Circling your clit once, twice, before dragging all the way up until his draconic tongue curls inside your cunt. 

You buck against sylus’ face despite yourself, sleep drained from you as your back arches violently at the intrusion, screaming at the delicious press of the long, long muscle writhing against your gummy, sensitive walls. too much, too much!

too bad the sight of you fighting him only makes it worse.

the dragon’s instincts completely take over, and your refusal to take sylus’ eggs unless he proves himself worthy isn't the resistance you think it is. it speaks to the fire raging in every dragon’s heart, a wordless acceptance of his ritual as you challenge him, and you force him to show you he deserves it.

and he will show you. 

sylus’ wings spread. his fanged smile does too.

the clawed apex of his wings comes to your shoulder blades, pushing your upper body against the floor as he drags your ass further up, giving him even easier access as he rips the rest of your nightgown, burying his face into your open, sloppy pussy. your struggle is futile against your dragon, and as soon as your whines turn into moans sylus knows you are ready.

his fingers thrust back in, careful so his claws don't scratch you even as all five spread you out, knuckle deep, tongue now flicking against the entrance of your cervix, leaving his saliva's natural relaxant until he feels your cunt loosen around him. your poor pussy is drooling around his tongue, sylus greedily swallowing everything he can as his claws force you into a deeper arch, tongue somehow getting longer as you babble incoherently into the floor.

"good girl," sylus purrs, the low sound humming from his lips and into you, deep and loud enough to echo up your spine as you sob from the vibrations. "good mate, accepting me. accepting my brood, my eggs."

you panic despite yourself, shaking your head and bucking your hips even though you could barely feel anything between your thighs except for overwhelming, numbing pleasure. "e-eggs? no, no..."

"shhh, fight and i'll make it hurt more than you want it to."

sylus' tongue finally curls out of you and you moan, the rough length tracing the sweat-slicked arch of your spine as he mounts you, wings cocooning the two of you in as you feel the unmistakable pressure of both his cock heads press against your numb entrance.

his fangs bite into the back of your neck, claiming you as he breaks skin, feeling the sweet scent of your blood coat his fangs as he purrs.

"you've fought well, now take everything I give you."

merman!rafayel

rafayel is the storm, all tempest and raging waters, ancient as the ocean itself, so his choice in bride is not one he’s taken lightly. after all, that would make you a goddess, and your heirs next to rule the sea. 

he’s already brought you to lemuria in preparation for your betrothal ceremony, merfolk blessing this brave human vessel who will bear their future, all while you laughed and swam among them with a smile rafayel will paint again and again in reverence. the merfolk never ask if you’re staying. they ask what you need, what you’d like, as if the staying is already settled and only the comfort remains to be arranged.

there’s no need to worry you with the specifics of the ceremony. after all, he is now your god, your mate, it is his duty to worry about the specifics of consummation while you simply enjoy connecting with his world, his people. your people now. 

it complicates things when you begin asking to go back to the surface, but rafayel is always gentle with you, taking you back to your old world when you ask, never quite letting you out of his sight before coaxing you back into the ocean. 

and when you hesitate? he sings. a siren song, his webbed hand outstretched as he draws you to the beach again, cold water splashing at your ankles but your body unaffected as the lullaby weaves into your brain, soothing, loving, drawing you closer and closer still. you walk into the water smiling and he is already there, waiting, like he knew the exact moment your feet would find the shore.

after all, rafayel can’t have you running away again. you are lemuria’s queen now. you were their goddess the moment he decided you were, which was long before this ceremony, which was perhaps before you were born, which is the sort of thing he will tell you gently, later, when the permanence of it has had time to feel like home.

you don’t remember swimming out to the middle of the ocean. the waves are calm, a deep endless blue all around you as your kicking limbs all disappear into their depths. something brushes up against you. first, a scrape on your calf, circling you, but there is nowhere to hide. scales, rough and cold, wind against your legs, an even colder pair of arms wrapping around your waist as your body is completely ensnared in his tail. “shhh, I won’t hurt you cutie.” and then the song starts, and you forget once again.

you awake with sand under your skin and the soft lapping of waves, but there is no beach in sight. 

no, it is just you and jagged rocks surrounding you. the waves are only the calm lapping of the pool in the center of the gilded cave, the one and only exit leading deep into the water, and lemurian territory. 

your mating cove has been in preparation for months. the merfolk decorate it as they would a temple, soft things dragged in from shipwrecks, sea glass worn smooth, bioluminescent moss cultivated specifically for warmth and light. every piece chosen with the future queen in mind, and their future heirs. for your stay here is mandatory until the sea god’s brood takes. but surely you already knew this when you agreed to be his mate?

“what do you think, cutie?” a splash, and rafayel surfaces into your cove, razor-thin fangs gleaming up at you as he takes in the sight of you kneeling before the altar of his people. “not bad for a species of artists.”

“rafayel,” your voice is trembling, and he immediately coos at you. “please, take me back to shore. to land.”

you keep pleading, but the sea god ignores your cries. that isn’t what you want anymore silly, can’t you see? you’re the bride of the sea god, the next mother of tides, what your body and mind crave now is him. fully, completely. your poor human biology wants to stop you from fulfilling your role, but it’s okay. rafayel is more than happy to mate you as many times as you need for it to take.

he sings, hauling himself up to the sandy bank of the cave as his voice coaxes you into the water, bare legs splashing into the pool beside him as the first few feet of his enormous tail drag up onto the sand. soft, pillowy, a good bed to take you without risk of injury. 

rafayel has done all your human rites of marriage, now it is time for you to do his. 

once again you find yourself restrained underneath his powerful tail, your upper body still thankfully resting on the solid ground, but hips and under dragged into the pool as rafayel looms above you, squeezing and coiling his tail around your legs.

“t-tight, you’re squeezing me raf–” your legs thrash, however in doing so you only end up straddling the thick expanse of his tail, a low chirping sound echoing from deep within rafayel’s throat as he feels your wet, soft heat grind against him. 

as soon as he feels you rub against the slit of his tail he keens, thrusting forward as the weight of all ten feet of him pins you down onto the sand.

“impatient,” rafayel laughs, and you tremble despite yourself at the sudden sharpness of his teeth. “don’t worry cutie, i’m impatient too.”

you feel it then, something protruding out from the slit as he continues to grind against you, the rhythm of the waves helping him forward and back, reaching a webbed hand down as you feel something curve and grow against the entire length of your stomach. 

panic, red-hot and violent, seizes you as you look down to see his cock-no, two of them-lying side by side against your sternum, one already leaking copious amounts of slime-like substance on your skin while the other appears almost barbed, swollen and impossibly heavy at the shaft. 

“shh, it’s okay.” rafayel is already soothing you, voice a melodic lullaby as he gently guides your chin up to look at him, just focus on him, don’t worry your pretty little head about making them fit. that’s his job. “that’s it baby, relax. sweet thing, beautiful mate, you’ll be the perfect host for my clutch, won’t you?”

you can only nod. 

rafayel preps you for one at a time, his bigger cock already drooling relaxant all over your thighs and cunt as he grinds it over your little clit, allowing the head to hit it several times, your body becoming more and more pliant as he spreads the gentle venom. as soon as your soft breaths turn to moans he knows you’re ready, and drags you just a bit further into the water, enough so one powerful thrust is enough to have his first cock rammed right into your sweet spot. 

it’s white-hot pleasure, your cries broken by a sob as rafayel speeds up, restless as he feels you tighten around him, cunt sucking him in further, accepting his first knot, driving him fucking insane with the way your moans sing to him like a mating song.

you’re perfect, already cumming around him as he feels his second knot swell, the pressure of his eggs rising as his instincts beg him to finish claiming you as his own. soon. soon, he can’t rush your poor, delicate human body, he can't risk breaking you.

the slight prick of fangs against your nipple makes you arch off the sand. it’s all too much, the feeling of being so impossibly full, rafayel’s tongue laving and squeezing your chest, his fingers thumbing at your clit and prodding at your already-full entrance, it all has you dizzy with need.

“more,” you’re begging in spite of yourself and your fear. “please, more.”

of course your god will provide. 

the muscle relaxant his first cock has been pumping out has swelled within you, and with his spare hand he can begin to finger you open alongside his knot, curling against all the spots he knows make you sing. he then lines his second cock up with your entrance, and begins to push. 

you whine, fighting it, hips bucking wildly, but the sheer weight of his tail keeps you pinned. the second cock is thicker than the first, rigid as it catches onto your fluttering entrance and squeezes past the first knot, copious amounts of his relaxant and your juices squirting onto your thighs and into the ocean. rafayel hums sweet nothings, petting you to soothe you, lips going back to swirl and bite at your nipples as you cum for him once more. he squeezes your breasts and wonders if you’ll still produce milk if you don’t have human babies. he hopes you do.

“pretty mate,” a low clicking sound, almost like whalesong fills the cave. he’s close. “wife, all mine. mine, all mine again.” rafayel gasps as his cock bullies yet another inch in, his egg sack bloated and heavy, waiting to be given to a worthy mate, and yet stuck until he can force the last few inches of his knot inside you. 

desperate, a powerful slap of his tail drives him forward, slamming his hips into yours as both knots force their way into your cunt. the waves roar, spraying against the cave's walls as your vision whites out.

the pressure and stretch are overwhelming as you sob into the sand, cries turning into moans as rafayel’s fingers never ease up on your clit, numbness seizing your lower half as rafayel’s entire body begins to convulse with the press of the first egg into your womb. 

The forest groaned around you with the weight of dusk—the sky bruised purple between the canopy, streaks of gold bleeding through like spilled ichor. Birds rose in frightened flocks as you sprinted past, startled into spirals of motion. Twigs snapped. Mud sucked at your soles.

You caught sight of it again—just beyond the thicket. The ram, muscles rippling beneath its coarse coat, veered toward a narrow pass between two slick rocks. Mist from a nearby stream curled around its legs, painting its movements ghostlike.

You didn’t think.

You leapt.

You launched yourself at it, tackling it just as it tried to clear a ravine. Your bodies slammed together midair—crack—horn against your shoulder, blinding pain as the world tilted. You both crashed into the rocky slope below.You tasted copper in your mouth—bit your tongue, maybe. Maybe not. Who knew anymore?

The air left your lungs in a grunt. Your back hit stone. The ram shrieked—an unholy, ripping sound—and kicked wildly, hooves gouging into your side. Pain flared. A hoof clipped your temple—your vision blurred white.

You rolled, hands wrapping around its horns, teeth bared as you snarled through your panting.

“Enough,” you hissed, your breath white in the cooling air. Climbing onto the beast, wrapping your arms around its thick neck, your fingers sunk into its matted wool. It bucked and twisted, repulsed by the thought of a being other than its own touching it. 

With one hand, you drew the hunting blade from your hip and plunged it into its side. Once. Twice. Again. The ram’s body spasmed, blood spurting hot and slick across your forearms, your chest.

It collapsed with a final groan, slamming into the stones below.

“Είθε η Άρτεμις να σε φυλάει.” 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen over the rolling meadow, where wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color—lavender, poppy red, buttercup yellow, and a hundred hues in between. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, sweet and dizzying. Bees hummed lazily over blossoms, and butterflies flitted like confetti tossed by the wind.

Nestled in the heart of the flower field was a sparkling lake, so clear it mirrored the sky—a flawless stretch of blue laced with the reflection of drifting clouds. Its surface shimmered like liquid crystal, disturbed only by the gentle ripples caused by laughter and movement.

Nymphs moved gracefully through the water, their laughter light and musical, like wind chimes swaying in a breeze. Some basked on smooth sun-warmed stones at the lake’s edge, their limbs glistening with droplets that caught the light like diamonds. Others braided strands of golden reeds into their hair, or floated on their backs, arms spread wide as if embracing the world.

Dragonflies zipped low over the lake’s surface, skimming across it like dancers on a glass stage. Birds sang from the trees that circled the field, and the entire glade pulsed with life—a sanctuary untouched by time or sorrow.

It was a place of peace, of endless afternoon. 

You break the surface with a gasp, cool air rushing into your lungs like a kiss after too long without it. The sunlight is blinding, glinting off the lake in dazzling fragments, and for a moment, it feels like you’ve surfaced into a dream.

Water trickles down your face as you push the strands of hair from your eyes, blinking against the warmth and brightness. You lift your arms, slick and shining, and begin to wring the water from your glimmering hair. Each twist sends droplets cascading like tiny stars, catching rainbows in the light.

The soft laughter of your sisters rings in your ears, distant but familiar. One of them splashes playfully nearby, her laughter rising like a bubble. Another lies among the reeds, weaving a crown of lilies and moonflowers, humming an ancient lullaby that you remember only in fragments.

The lake embraces your hips like a cradle, and you move slowly through it, your body slicing through the silk-like water with the grace born of centuries. A dragonfly lands on your shoulder, fearless, then lifts off again with a shimmer of wings.

You breathe again—slower this time—and tilt your head toward the sky. The clouds drift lazily, unbothered. Everything smells of earth, bloom, and sunlight.

And yet… something at the edge of the lake—beyond the tall grasses, where the trees begin to thicken—feels still. Too still.

A pause in the wind. A hush in the birdsong.

You’re not alone.

A rustle in the reeds. You turn.

There, parting the tall grass with quiet elegance, a swan emerges.

Its feathers are luminous, pure white with the faintest iridescence, like moonlight caught in motion. Its neck curves like a question mark, long and regal, and its black eyes shine with something—curiosity, maybe. Or knowing.

A few of your sisters gasp in delight, their voices like bells. One claps her hands, water dripping from her fingers. Another presses her palms to her mouth, eyes wide with reverence.

“Oh!” breathes Lira, always the first to fall in love. “It’s an omen.”

“A blessing,” murmurs Selene, brushing wet hair from her brow. “No creature so lovely visits without purpose.”

The swan pauses just at the edge of the lake, one webbed foot gently stirring the shallow water. It doesn’t seem startled by your presence. In fact, it looks… expectant.

You find yourself wading closer without quite meaning to, water curling around your knees. The swan’s gaze meets yours.

You tilt your head.

The swan mimics you—perfectly. Its neck curves to match the angle of yours, slow and deliberate, as if it's studying you just as closely. A hush falls over the water, your sisters' giggles fading into silence as they watch, wide-eyed and breathless.

Then, with barely a ripple, it glides forward.

Effortless.

Silent.

The water parts around it like it was always meant to.

You feel the urge to take a step back, but your feet remain rooted. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, modestly, though modesty has never mattered much among your kind. This feels different, somehow. Not shame. Not fear. Just a strange flutter of something ancient and alert, waking inside you.

The swan’s reflection flickers on the surface—distorted, a shimmer of white and shadow. It swims closer. Close enough now that you can see the faint pink hue just beneath its beak. Close enough that the tips of its wings send little waves to kiss your thighs.

It stops just a few paces away.

And then—

It bows.

A low, graceful dip of the neck. Not like a bird.

Like a prince.

Thea, the youngest among you—barely grown from her riverbed dreams—giggles with unrestrained delight, her voice light as wind through bellflowers.

“How charming it is!” she chirps, hands clasped to her chest. “Do pet it, Y/n!”

You glance over your shoulder at her, eyebrows lifting slightly. Thea’s cheeks are flushed, and she bounces on the balls of her feet in the shallows like a girl watching her first snowfall. Always so easily enchanted.

Phaedra snorts from her perch on a mossy stone, one knee drawn up and hair dripping down her back like a sheet of obsidian. “Are we not Artemis’s huntresses?” she says, raising a brow. “We ought to spear it and wear its feathers.”

A chorus of scandalized gasps rises from your sisters. Thea places both hands over her mouth, horrified. Phaedra only grins, wicked and sun-drunk, then lies back on the stone with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t laugh. Not yet.

Because the swan hasn’t moved.

Still as moonlight on stiller water, it gazes at you—bowed, waiting. Not afraid. Not prey.

“I don’t think,” you say slowly, voice low and steady, “that it’s a normal swan.”

A pause.

Your hand hovers, the smallest tremble betraying your stillness.

And then—

Your sisters burst into laughter.

Light and sudden, like the popping of ripe berries, their joy spills out across the water, echoing off the trees and sky.

“She’s afraid of a bird,” Phaedra crows, sitting up just enough to toss a petal in your direction. “Oh, mighty Y/n, conqueror of reeds and minnows!”

Thea splashes toward you, sending up silver arcs of water. “You look as if it might cast a curse on you!” she giggles, clinging to your arm.

Another nymph snickers, “Maybe it’s a prince cursed by Hera for looking too long at another nymph’s thighs.”

"I'm not afraid of a bird—" you begin, half-defensive, half-exasperated, but the words tangle as the swan's eyes gleam with that unnerving awareness. You hesitate, then shake your head. "I just… ah, nevermind."

You sigh, turning slightly to face them. Water drips from your arms, catching sunlight in falling jewels.

"You all know how strange the times have been. Gods and their pomegranates. Aphrodite’s grievances ruining everyone's sleep cycles. Artemis protect us."

The laughter falters, just slightly.

Because you do have a point.

A hush settles like mist. Thea stops giggling. Even Phaedra shifts, shoulders tightening.

No one says her name.

But all of you think it.

The nymph who danced too close to the olive grove. Who never came back. Who was found later, mouth agape, bruises blooming around her neck like blue violets. Strangled by Eros himself—for what, none of you know. Perhaps a refusal. Perhaps nothing at all.

Gods were temperamental these days. Sharp-edged and strange.

"Maybe I should have speared it," Phaedra mutters under her breath.

The swan honks—loud and unexpected—breaking the delicate tension like a sharp, playful note in a symphony. The sound echoes across the lake, startling a few of your sisters into quiet laughter.

Then, with a soft yet insistent nudge, it butts its head gently into your palm, as if to announce its innocence. A playful gesture, almost affectionate, as if it recognizes your hesitation and seeks to reassure you.

You blink, a soft laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. The swan, still glowing faintly, seems to almost smile—or at least, that's what you imagine, as it tilts its head once more. It rubs its head against your thigh, feathers warm and impossibly soft against your damp skin.

You glance down, bemused, as it continues the slow motion—comforting, gentle, like a deer nudging a trusted hand. No divine trickery, no sudden spark of fear. Just a creature seeking touch, as any living thing might.

“Aww,” Thea coos, pressing her cheeks between her palms, utterly enchanted. “It likes you.”

“It’s probably just cold,” Phaedra says dryly, though even she’s smiling now, tension broken like morning mist. “You’ve become a swan-mother, Y/n. Congratulations.”

You roll your eyes, though your fingers find their way to the crown of its head again, stroking absentmindedly through the fine down. The swan makes a low sound, content, and presses closer with unguarded trust.

One of the other nymphs wades over, placing flowers in the water, letting them drift. “What a beautiful creature,” she murmurs. “So rare to see one this tame.”

You nod slowly, saying nothing. Because it is tame. 

“Artemis would rather we eat it,” Thea murmurs with a mischievous grin, stepping carefully through the water toward you and the swan.

But the moment her toes disturb the lake near its edge, the swan lets out a sharp, indignant huff and moves—suddenly, swiftly—nestling itself firmly between your legs.

You freeze.

Thea halts mid-step, blinking.

Your sisters stare.

And your entire body flushes with a wave of mortified heat as the swan folds its wings tight and settles itself there, possessive and perfectly content, its head resting lazily against your inner thigh as if it were the most natural perch in the world.

“I—gods—” you start, scrambling for dignity, but Phaedra bursts out laughing first.

“Well,” she grins, “it seems the beast has chosen its mate.”

“Hush,” you snap, face burning, though your hands flutter awkwardly, trying not to jostle the creature. “It’s just—probably scared. Or cold.”

“Mmhmm,” Thea hums with suspicious innocence. “And it’s just coincidentally hiding in between your legs.”

You scowl at them, but your traitorous hand once again ends up smoothing its feathers, calming the swan as it sighs softly, entirely undisturbed by your growing embarrassment.

It stays there, tucked between you as if guarding its chosen shrine.

“Thea,” you say flatly, “I swear to the Fates—”

Thea’s mouth falls open, and then she lets out a delighted cackle, nearly doubling over in the water. “It’s hiding in you now!”

“It is not! It’s—!” You stammer, flustered beyond salvation.

Phaedra whistles low, biting back a grin. “Well, at least it has excellent taste.”

The swan ruffles its feathers smugly, head nestled close, as if entirely pleased with its sudden, scandalous choice.

Your sisters erupt into laughter.

You stare down at the impudent bird between your legs, considering—for a brief moment—whether Artemis would actually approve if you drowned it right then and there.

That night, beneath a canopy of stars and the hush of wind through olive branches, the forest wrapped itself around your little camp like a lullaby. Your sisters were scattered among the wildflowers and moss, curled into one another or the crooks of trees, lulled to sleep by laughter, wine, and the scent of crushed lavender.

And you—gods help you—you were not alone.

The swan had followed you. Quietly. Unfailingly.

And now, it lay beside you, impossibly warm for a creature of water and wing. Its body was curled neatly against yours, chest rising and falling in time with your own, as though it had synced itself to your heartbeat. Its head rested just above your sternum, tucked gently against you, only the thin linen of your nightgown separating its soft feathers from your bare skin.

You should’ve moved it.

Should’ve pushed it away the moment it crept into your blanket of moss and curled up like it belonged there.

But you didn’t.

You let it stay.

Maybe it was the way its weight grounded you, gentle and unobtrusive. Maybe it was the comfort it offered without asking, without speaking. Or maybe you were just tired of pushing things away.

Your hand rested idly over its back, fingers tangled in feathers softer than silk. In the faint light of the moon, the swan looked almost… ethereal. Like something born of myth and moonlight.

You sighed, low and slow.

“Ridiculous bird,” you murmured. But you didn’t mean it. Not really.

The swan stirred just once in its sleep, and nestled closer.

You closed your eyes.

And that night, you had a strange, strange dream. 

The forest was gone. The lake was gone. Even the sky, even the stars—gone.

You stood barefoot in a sea of dark water that didn’t ripple, didn’t move. It reflected nothing. All around you, the world shimmered with a soft gold haze, suspended like pollen in the air. Time felt folded. Heavy. And quiet.

Then, footsteps.

Bare against nothing. Light as rain.

A man appeared—though you couldn’t say from where. The moment you noticed him, he was already near. Cloaked in warmth, not fabric. Familiar, but entirely unknown.

He was radiant, but not in the way of sun or fire. No, it was subtler. The kind of light you find in old places, long forgotten by men. The kind that remembers.

You couldn’t quite see his face, not really—not beyond the suggestion of golden skin and a silhouette that shimmered like oil on water—but you saw his eyes.

Kind.

Blue.

So blue, they looked carved from the very sky the gods had banished for you.

He tilted his head, voice slow, soft, almost drowsy. “I take it you liked the swan?”

Your throat was dry.

You tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere between dream and waking.

He smiled—barely.

That smile was enough to stir something in your chest. A flutter. A warning.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, stepping closer, water still unbroken beneath him. “He liked you too.”

The petals in the sky turned inside out again.

He stepped closer, slow and effortless, and though he barely moved, you felt the warmth of him bloom across your skin like sunlight through clouds.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, tilting his head slightly—exactly the way the swan had earlier that day. “I was only curious. You smelled like river mint. And loneliness.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, mouth parted to speak—but the words wouldn’t form.

He smiled again, softer this time.

“I won’t keep you,” he whispered. You felt yourself beginning to slip, the dream pulling at its seams—but before it faded entirely, he lifted a hand, as if to touch your cheek, though he never quite reached you.

His voice caught you just as the dream began to dissolve.

“And… tell the Lady of the Moon hello, please,” he murmured, eyes crinkling with a warmth that almost hurt.

There was something solemn in his tone. Not quite reverent, but familiar—like he was remembering an old friend, or a prayer long unspoken.

You turned toward him, but the dream was already fading. His outline blurred at the edges, golden light bleeding into the colorless void. The petals in the sky fluttered once more—then scattered into stars.

You woke with a start.

The dawn was just a whisper on the horizon, pale pink creeping through the leaves above. Your sisters still slept, curled and dreaming in the hush of early light.

And on your chest—

The swan.

Head nestled exactly where the man’s hand might’ve rested. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

You looked down at it, heart pounding, the dream still warm and echoing through your ribs.

“…What are you?” you murmured.

The swan gave a soft coo in its sleep and burrowed closer.

And the sun began to rise.

The thump, thump, thump of your horse’s hooves slammed into the dirt road, a steady rhythm that echoed across the valley. Your thighs gripped the creature’s flanks, wind tangling through your hair as you urged it faster, your sisters flanking you on either side—an elegant, wild blur of limbs and laughter.

Above, the sky was full of movement. Doves and herons, startled by your presence, broke from the trees in flocks, their wings catching the sun in flashes of silver and white.

You pulled your bow from its place across your back, the wood smooth and worn beneath your fingers. With a practiced twist, you notched an arrow, aiming at a bird sweeping low over the reeds.

The others whooped as they loosed their shots—Phaedra’s arrow caught a goose clean through the breast, and Thea missed entirely, swearing colorfully as her shaft spun into the lake.

You followed the bird’s flight with your gaze, the string taut against your cheek.

And just as you were about to let go—

A flash of white caught the corner of your eye.

The swan. It had stayed at the lake.

Even as your hunting party thundered past and the arrows flew, it did not flee. It remained there—still, serene—on the mirrored surface of the water as though it belonged more to the reflection than the world itself.

And it watched you.

Not your sisters. You.

The others didn’t notice. Phaedra was boasting about her shot. Thea was complaining about mud in her boots. One of the older nymphs was laughing, teasing her, tugging playfully on her braid.

But you… You could feel it. The weight of those unseen blue eyes behind that avian face.

The swan had not followed you through the night forest. Had not curled up against you again.

Instead, it had returned to the lake. Waited.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than if it had whispered your name.

As you slowed your horse near the water’s edge, its head lifted. It gave one soft honk—nothing dramatic. No grand gesture. Just acknowledgement.

Recognition.

Like it knew your silence, too.

Your fingers twitched near your reins.

“…He stayed,” you murmured under your breath.

No one heard you.

No one but the swan.

You released your breath. Lowered your bow. The arrow rested useless in your palm.

“Y/N?” Thea called, already circling back toward you. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

You looked at the swan. It had stopped in the water, watching you. Still. Waiting.

“I missed,” you lied.

The swan blinked, as if it knew better.

Thea huffed beside you, tugging her reins to still her horse. “You? Miss? That bird was flying slow enough for a child to hit.”

You shrugged, eyes never leaving the water. “Then perhaps I’m a child today.”

Phaedra galloped past, whooping again as she chased another goose toward the trees. The rest of the hunt swept on in her wake, laughing, loosing arrows, singing Artemis’s praise to the winds.

But you… you lingered.

The swan had drifted closer to shore.

Not hurriedly. Not boldly.

Just close enough that you could see its feathers ripple with the wind—soft and moon-pale, so clean they shimmered.

And there was something almost sorrowful in the curve of its neck, the quiet tilt of its head.

You dismounted.

Your boots hit the earth with a soft thud. Thea didn’t notice you fall back. She’d already kicked her horse to follow the others, braid bouncing behind her like a banner.

Alone now, you moved toward the lake.

The swan didn’t flinch. If anything, it inched forward, webbed feet stirring gentle rings into the still water.

You crouched near the edge, the hem of your tunic brushing the reeds, and whispered, “Why did you stay?”

It blinked again, slow.

And then—for a moment—you swore it smiled. Not with a beak or feathers, but with a presence you could feel.

A warmth behind your eyes. A name nearly spoken in your chest.

You remembered the dream.

The blue eyes. The voice like sleep and stars.

“Did you… speak to me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

The swan dipped its head beneath the surface, then emerged again with a glint of something in its beak—small and golden, dripping.

It swam to the shore.

And placed it before you.

A ring.

You jolted, startled.

Thea stood behind you with her arms crossed, one brow arched high enough to reach Olympus. Her mare nosed the grass lazily beside her.

“And now you’re talking to the bird. Great. Artemis help us.”

Thea had returned, her horse clopping noisily behind her. She raised an eyebrow as she dismounted, brushing wildflower petals from her skirt and eyeing you like you'd grown antlers.

You startled—just slightly—and snatched the ring up before she could get close. It was warm, startlingly so, like it had been resting in sunlight rather than water.

You tucked it into the space between your breasts beneath your gown, heart pounding, fabric damp against your skin.

“Just thinking aloud,” you replied smoothly, rising to your feet and brushing your hands on your thighs. “Must be the fresh air.”

The swan had drifted back a little, as though satisfied, feathers puffed with pride—or amusement.

Thea narrowed her eyes, but only muttered, “If you start coupling it, I’m telling Artemis.”

You snorted. “I’m not coupling a bird, Thea.”

“Mm. That’s what Io said.”

You turned sharply at that.

But Thea had already started walking back toward the path, humming now, bow swinging lazily at her side. The breeze carried the scent of rosemary and distant rain.

You called after her, smirking, “At least the swan’s prettier than the last boy you kissed.”

Thea gasped, half-offended, half-laughing. “He was a prince, thank you very much And I was drunk-” she gasps- “Did you tell Lady Artemis?!”

You burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “No, no! Gods, Thea—can you imagine? ‘Lady Artemis, your devout huntress once made out with a cheese-breathed prince while drunk on pomegranate wine!’”

Thea turned crimson, chasing after you with a fistful of grass like it was a dagger. “I will push you into the lake!”

You dodged, still cackling, eyes sparkling. “She’d probably smite him for the bad kissing alone.”

“Y/N!” she shrieked, but she was laughing too now—unable to help it.

Your sisters’ laughter faded as they moved on, and you lingered once more—hand pressed over your heart, over the ring.

Behind you, the swan gave one soft, knowing honk.

Another dream.

The lake was gone.

The trees, the hunt, even the moonlight—gone.

Just mist now. Soft, endless, heavy.

And him.

He stood there, barefoot in the fog. Same as before—unfathomably still, dressed in nothing but golden shimmer and shadow. His eyes were the only clear thing about him: kind and deep, an ocean-blue that felt *too* knowing.

On your finger: the ring.

No longer warm.

Now hot—like lightning wrapped in sunlight.

You tried to pull it off.

You tugged once.

Twice.

Nothing. It didn't give, not once.

But it clung to your skin, to your bone, as though it had been made of you.

He watched quietly, not moving.

“You could at least warn someone,” you snapped, teeth clenched.

A beat.

Then, slowly, he stepped toward you, and the fog parted around him like it bowed to his passing.

Softly—almost regretfully—he murmured, “Would you have worn it, if I had?”

You froze.

“…Who are you?”

His head tilted, much like the swan’s. “That depends. What name would comfort you most?”

The ring pulsed once.

Then twice.

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer still—too close—and raised his hand, just barely brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm. Human?

And you hated how gentle it felt.

“You dream so loudly,” he whispered. “Even the stars listen.”

“Who are you?” a tinge of frustration tinged your voice.  The man’s smile was not cruel nor kind, just tired. Like someone who’d lived far too many lives and counted none of them as home. His voice was soft. 

“I am not here to harm you, little huntress.”

You took a step back, breath catching, hand instinctively flying to your side where—of course—your blade wasn’t. Not in dreams. Not in this place. “I didn’t ask for it,”

Something in his expression faltered—like it hurt to hold your gaze. Finally, he said, “…I used to be a god.” He leaned in, the fog coiling tighter, and whispered, “But now I am only yours.”

It was unfortunate—no, infuriating—that your sisters had banned you from killing the swan.

They’d even named it.

Loxias.

As if naming the cursed thing would tame its truth.

“Y/N, you’re being ridiculous,” Phaedra had said, rolling her eyes as she sharpened her arrows. “If it were a god, don’t you think it would’ve done something more dramatic by now? Lightning? Thunder? A chariot of fire?”

“She just doesn’t like it because it likes her best,” Lila had grinned, feeding the swan a fig as it paddled contentedly at the shore. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Y/N.”

You’d nearly screamed.

Because it was true.

The swan had done nothing since that dream. Not a single strange word. Not a sudden shimmer or transformation. No glowing feathers. No godly proclamations.

Just a swan. Just a bird.

Who followed you. Slept near you. Nestled too close when you rested. Watched you with eyes that were too blue.

And the ring still wouldn’t come off.

Not even in the bath.

Only Thea had given you a sidelong glance once, quieter than the rest, and said, “Well. Just don’t let it into your tent anymore. Gods like that get... lonely.” You hadn’t known how to answer that.

Because you hadn’t meant to let it in.

That night—like several others—it had simply appeared. Tucked at your side beneath the linen flap, breathing slow, wings curled, its long neck stretched delicately across your legs.

You hadn’t invited it. You hadn’t called for it. And you certainly hadn’t had the strength to shove it out again, not when it laid its head so gently against you—like it knew you were tired. Like it knew you'd scream if you dreamed again.

And you had.

Of him.

The strange man with the ocean-deep eyes.

And the ring—still clinging to your hand like it had grown there.

Thea’s words echoed again: “Gods like that get… lonely.”

You hadn’t told her the worst part.

You hadn’t told her that in your last dream, he kissed your hand. That when you’d woken, your lips had tingled like they’d been kissed too.

Or that when you bathed the next morning, the ring glowed faintly beneath the surface of the water.

You hadn’t told anyone.

It had only been a month and some. the swan was still steadily accompanying you. 

All the way to the border of the lands, by the oceans shores. You were preparing to bathe, and you gave it an annoyed glance, giving a light kick with your foot. "Shoo. Begone."

The swan didn’t budge.

It blinked at you, slow and unbothered, then had the audacity to waddle a step closer—webbed feet pressing softly into the damp sand as the sea wind played with your hair.

You sighed. Exasperated. “I said shoo, you feathered parasite.”

Another blink.

Then—softly, defiantly—it settled in the sand beside your folded garments like a sentinel, nestling into itself with a gentle rustle of feathers. As though it had every right to be there. As though it belonged there.

You threw your arms up, stepping into the surf. “Fine! Watch, then. Peep like a cursed oracle for all I care.”

The waves licked at your thighs as you waded deeper, cool and sharp, biting at your skin. But the sea didn’t frighten you like it once had—not after the dreams. Not after hearing his voice in the tides.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder, just once.

The swan sat, pure white against the darker shore.

Watching, until it wasn’t. 

Your breath caught.

The swan—slow and deliberate—slipped into the water after you, gliding silently across the surface with too much grace. Too much intention.

Ripples chased its path like silver veins, and for a fleeting moment, the sea felt too still. Like it held its breath too.

You turned sharply. “Stay there.”

But it didn’t.

It came closer, each movement smooth, measured, like a thought carried out over glass. You backed up instinctively, heart thudding. The salt stung your skin, but all you felt was heat. Not from the sun. Not from the sea.

From it.

You remembered—

That night in the woods. The way it curled against you, impossibly warm. The dreams that followed. The weight of lips pressed gently to your palm. The ring. That voice.

"I take it you liked the swan?"

You’d wanted to believe it was just a dream. That your sisters were right. That you were imagining things.

But now?

Now, as the swan stopped only an arm’s reach from you, and tilted its head with that too-human curiosity, you whispered the truth aloud for the first time:

“…You’re him.”

The swan blinked slowly.

And then, without drama—without flash or thunder—it dipped its head beneath the water, graceful and silent.

A long moment passed. And then— The surface broke. Golden fingers emerged, followed by the slope of a shoulder, the soft glimmer of wet skin, and finally—

Those kind, blue eyes, staring up at you through a curtain of sea-slick gold.

He smiled. And the waves curled like laughter around your waist.

Oh, but there was nothing to be happy about. Nothing to stare at in awe, no beauty to admire. 

You stumbled back with a splash, heart lurching up into your throat. The water, once cool and calm, suddenly felt like it was clutching at your ankles—pulling, holding, as though it too conspired with him.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head, salt-stung hair clinging to your face. “No. You don’t get to do that.”

His expression—soft, warm—didn’t waver. He rose slowly, water streaming down his chest in sheets of sunlight, and your mind reeled, trying to reconcile it. The swan. The man. The dreams. That ring.

“I—You’ve—” You backed up farther, nearly tripping over a hidden rock beneath the waves. Your hand darted to the dagger tied to your thigh, though it was mostly symbolic—dull, and useless against gods. “You were watching me. Lying next to me. I trusted you were… just a bird.”

“I never lied,” he said softly, the water reaching just above his hips now. His voice was like warm wine, too rich, too easy. “You never asked.”

Your fingers tightened on the hilt.

“That’s not—” you snapped, blinking fiercely, “—that’s not consent. That’s trickery. You entered my dreams.”

“I asked nothing of you there,” he murmured, tilting his head, golden hair clinging to his cheek. “Only watched. Only waited.”

Your heart hammered.

He wasn’t approaching, but he didn’t need to. The air between you bent, warped—like the tension of a bow pulled taut. Every part of you screamed run, and yet something else, something older, told you this had already gone too far. That the ring on your finger had already marked you, claimed you in ways your sisters had warned about in whispers by the fire.

“You touched me,” you accused. “You curled against me like a creature needing warmth. I—I let you—and you knew!”

His smile faltered then, just slightly. Those blue eyes flickered. “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“Well, you did,” you hissed, stepping back until the waves reached your knees. “And if you are what I think you are—if you’re some lonely god parading around as a bird—then I’ll say this once: you will leave me be.”

The man—half-glowing with seawater and gold, strands of hair clinging to his cheekbones—only blinked, serene as a wave just before it breaks.

“I should kill you,” you hissed, stumbling into a deeper pocket of water as you moved away. “I should’ve killed you the first night you came into my tent like some creeping—filthy—thing.”

His smile faded completely now. “I touched no more than you allowed,” he said softly. “Not a breath beyond it.”

“Didn’t touch me?” you snapped, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. “You dreamed into me. You slid a ring on my hand without permission. You slept on me like I was a damned pillow while you pretended to be harmless!”

“I didn’t pretend anything.” His voice was soft, maddeningly so. “You gave me space. I took it. I didn’t ask for more.”

“Don’t twist this like it was mercy,” you spat, the ocean now up to your hips. “You watched me bathe. Slept beside me. Followed me across the lands like a shadow that thought it was entitled to affection just because it had feathers.”

His eyes—those blue, impossible eyes—lowered slightly, but you did not give him a moments breath. 

“You lied,” you snapped, teeth bared now, fists clenched at your sides. “You made me think I was mad. My sisters laughed at me! I thought I was cursed!”

“You’re not cursed,” he said, almost tenderly. “Only… chosen.”

You took another step back. The water was up to your hips now. “What gives you the right—!”

He finally moved, hands rising slowly in peace, a shimmer of gold tracing the air like light through honey. “I meant no harm. I wanted to understand you first. To see if you’d fear me. Or love me.”

Your laugh came bitter. “That’s the trouble with gods. Always testing.” You glared. “And what if I fail your little test? What happens then, hmm? Do you turn into a wolf next and carry me off to some glade?”

He blinked—then looked down, almost… sheepish.

That silence was enough.

You swore under your breath, water splashing as you turned sharply and began storming toward shore. “Artemis protect me,” you muttered. “I knew I should’ve killed that damn bird.”

The man sighs. “Do you honestly think that sister of mine is going to help you? Your sisters haven’t even bothered to check on you.”

You turned slowly, the sea breeze curling around your bare shoulders, your breath shallow in your throat.

“Sister?” you echoed, voice brittle.

He stood waist-deep now, hair slicked back, the golden ring on your finger glinting like an accusation. His eyes—still soft, still unbearably gentle—met yours with something more ancient now. Something knowing.

“I love her,” he said simply. “But don’t mistake her for a savior.”

Your mouth twisted, a sharp, trembling sneer. “And what does that make you? A threat? A trickster? Another lonely god trying to carve pieces out of mortals just because he can?”

“No,” he said, his voice aching with something too complicated to name. “It makes me someone who’s seen what happens when divinity pretends to be distant. When we leave you all to fend for yourselves, and call it mercy. You pray to Artemis as if she’s above this. As if she hasn't turned girls to trees for less offense than loving the wrong thing.”

Your hands trembled.

“She protects us.”

“She watches you,” he corrected gently. “But protection? That’s different. She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient.”

“You’re twisting it,” you snapped, voice sharp, afraid he might be right. “She gave us purpose.”

“And I could give you freedom,” he said simply.

You hated how tempting that sounded.

You hated even more the soft pull in your chest. The way his gaze made you feel seen. As if he hadn’t just played you like some woodland game. As if he hadn't just stripped away your certainty like bark from a tree.

You squared your shoulders, lifting your chin. “I am not yours. Not your prize, not your pet. I belong to no god.”

A faint smile curved his lips.

“Then why are you still wearing my ring?”

"Because it won't come off," you snapped, tugging at the chain until it bit into your skin. “I’ve tried.”

His smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened—infuriatingly calm.

"You don’t want it to."

Your stomach turned.

The wind caught your damp hair, tossing it about like wild brambles, and you stood there, salt-stung and furious, bare feet digging into wet sand as if the earth itself could anchor you against him.

“Don’t put thoughts in my head,” you hissed, voice like flint. “You slither into my dreams, my tent—”

“You let me,” he said softly.

That broke something in you.

“I let a swan rest by the fire,” you spit, stalking forward, “not a man. Not you. If I had known—”

Somewhere beyond the trees, your sisters called your name.

"Y/N!" "The tide is rising—are you in the water again?" "Thea said you were acting strange—Y/N?"

Voices layered over the sound of waves and wind. Familiar, grounding, human.

You turned sharply, ready to call back—to break the spell, to run toward the only world you'd ever known.

But he took a step forward.

“Will you lie to them again?” he asked, voice low, calm, too close now. “Tell them you slipped. Or chased a gull. Or—what was it last time? ‘I missed’?”

Your jaw clenched.

He raised his hand, slow as moonrise. Not touching—never touching—but near enough that the hairs on your arm stood on end.

“I don’t want to keep you from them,” he murmured, as if it were the gentlest of truths. “But I am asking you to see clearly. You already know you don’t belong there forever.”

Another shout.

“Y/N!”

This time, Thea.

You turned halfway, heart pounding.

His voice followed you like a shadow: “They will pull you back into silence. Into obedience. Into a life that never truly felt yours.”

And quietly, as you began to step back:

“I only ask that you stay long enough to ask yourself why you're so afraid to want more.”

The forest loomed ahead.

The man behind you.

You stared at them, slack with disbelief.

They came down the slope in twos and threes, laughing, calling your name—carefree as deer leaping through sun-drenched groves.

Phaedra reached you first, a grin tugging her freckled face. She threw her arms around you with the same eager force she always did, her bare skin warm and soft against yours. Her breasts pressed into your chest, but it was the normalcy of it—the ease, the ignorance—that made your breath catch.

Because he was still there.

Standing half in the shallows, the water curling around his ankles, golden hair catching the light like a halo—and they didn’t see him.

Not even a glance.

“Gods, you scared us,” she sighed, her bare chest pressing firmly to yours without hesitation, damp from the mist. “You shouldn’t stray this far alone.”

You stood frozen in her arms, spine stiff, eyes flickering—not to the woods, not to the sea, but to him.

Still there.

Still watching.

And yet… not one of them noticed him. Not a startled gasp. Not a turned head. Not a single uneasy glance. The golden-eyed man stood not ten paces away, bare-chested and luminous in the morning light—and they didn’t seem to see him at all.

Phaedra pulled back, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You’re pale,” she said. “Was it a vision? Another one of your moon-sick dreams?”

Behind her, he smiled.

Like it was a game.

“Have you been in the water this whole time?”

“She always disappears when she’s moody,” Thea said lightly, peering past your shoulder. “Were you brooding? Or just hiding from chores again?”

You waved them off with a dismissive flick of your fingers, gathering the loose folds of your gown against your damp skin.

“I was just bathing,” you said, voice even. “Quit your bickering, lest Poseidon decides we’re not welcome.”

It was a well-placed warning—half a jest, half a prayer.

Thea laughed lightly, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “The sea god has better things to do than scold nymphs for gossip.”

But she looked around then, a subtle shift in her expression. Something wary. Like she felt the hush in the air, even if she couldn't name it.

Phaedra huffed. “You’re lucky we didn’t think you’d drowned. You know how Artemis scolds when we wander too long.”

Your eyes flicked—just once—past her shoulder.

He was gone.

No ripples in the water.

No footprints in the sand.

Only the faint impression of presence still clinging to your skin, like the memory of heat long after flame.

You reached up, brushing a hand over your collarbone where the ring rested just beneath the linen, and smiled tightly.

“Well,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m back.”

You turned toward the path before they could ask more.

But as you walked, Thea fell in beside you—silent at first. Then, just as the trees swallowed the sound of the ocean:

“You weren’t alone. Were you?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

The swan was gone.

No more ripples in the lake at dawn. No more soft cooing or honking nestled in the reeds. No more white feathers left behind in the grass.

No more watchful eyes.

It was as if it had never existed at all.

Even Thea stopped asking. After a week passed with no sign of it, even she shrugged and said, “Well. Birds fly off. It’s what they do.”

But you knew better.

The ring still clung to your finger no matter how many prayers you whispered to Artemis, how many times you tried to pry it off in secret. It remained—cool against your skin, humming softly like a secret only he could hear.

Worse than the ring, though, was the absence.

It was quiet in your dreams now. Too quiet.

No golden man, no lazy voice curling around you like mist.

Only dark woods and whispering trees.

But what was here… was your Lady.

Your goddess.

Artemis.

She stood at the edge of the glade, where the silver light from the waning moon slipped through the branches like silk. She did not announce herself—she never needed to. The air bent around her. The forest stilled. Even your own breath felt reverent in your lungs. Something that made your spine straighten and your knees long to bend.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

She was your Lady, your Huntmistress, your sanctuary in a world of gods with too many hands and too many appetites. And yet—yet—even she could sense it, couldn’t she?

The ring. The dreams. The change in you.

Her eyes, like pale frost on winter bark, flicked to your hand.

The silence between you stretched taut as bowstring.

Your knees finally give, and you bow. “My Lady.”

Silence.

Then:

“He touched you.”

The words were soft. Deceptively soft.

You froze, shame and fury crashing together in your belly. Your hand curled into a fist over your chest.

“I—I didn’t invite him—”

“You dream of him.”

Her voice wasn’t angry.

Worse—it was wounded. Distant. Like a mother finding her child straying toward a cliff’s edge.

“You dream of him,” she repeated. “You carry his mark. You let him near you.”

You looked up, desperate. “I didn’t know—I tried—Lady, I tried to stop it—”

Artemis stepped forward. A breeze followed her. The trees leaned in.

“I felt it, child,” she said, and this time her voice was steel wrapped in silk. “The first night he touched your dreams. The first time your body remembered something your mind denied.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“…Will you punish me?”

A long silence.

Then Artemis crouched before you, not like a goddess—but like a sister, a leader, a protector.

Her fingers gently brushed a strand of wet hair from your temple. Her voice was no louder than a breath.

You stiffened beneath her touch. The warmth of her fingers against your skin turned to ice at her question.

“Has he bedded you?”

The words were blades, deliberate and cold, slicing through the veil of confusion and longing you’d been trying so hard to untangle.

Your throat worked, but no sound came. You felt your lips part, a protest rising—but what was there to deny? What had truly passed between dreams and waking, between body and spirit?

“…No,” you said, voice thin. “Not like that.”

Artemis’s expression did not change. Her hand lingered for a heartbeat longer, then withdrew.

“That’s something,” she murmured. But it was not reassurance. Not comfort. It was a statement of logistics. Strategy. A boundary not yet crossed.

“You’ve let him too close,” she said. “Even if you didn’t mean to. Even if you didn’t want to.”

You bowed your head again. The ring on your finger pulsed faintly, like it knew she was here—like it resented her.

Artemis noticed. Of course she did.

Her eyes fell on your hand, her brow tightening.

“You’ll come with me at moonrise,” she said. “There are rites to cleanse this sort of thing. But whether they will work... that depends on him.”

She sits up straighter, adjusting her braid so as not to lay on it. “You should have known better.”

The words hung heavy in the moonlit air, like a decree from the very forests themselves.

“You are a daughter of the wilds, sworn to my path—untouched by the gods’ tangled whims. Yet here you are, bound by a ring not meant for mortal skin. You should have known better than to welcome him.”

You clenched your fists, heart pounding in sudden defiance.

“I didn’t welcome him. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Artemis’s eyes flashed, a sudden storm behind their pale glow. Her voice dropped low, sharp as broken glass.

“That doesn’t very well matter, does it? You should have known better— That ring was never meant for you to wear. And that he—Xavier—had no right to meddle with my nymphs.”

She stepped closer, the air between you crackling with her fierce anger.

“You carry his mark like a wound on this sacred grove. How could you be so careless? So weak?”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breath quickening.

“This is not just your mistake— It is an offense against the wilds themselves. Against me.”

You meet Artemis’s blazing gaze, heart pounding with a mix of defiance and sorrow.

His words echo in your mind—Xavier’s voice calm and certain: “I love her. But don’t mistake her for a savior. You pray to Artemis as if she’s above this. As if she hasn't turned girls to trees for less offense than loving the wrong thing. She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient... And I could give you freedom.”

You turned to speak, your lips parting—

—but then came the sound.

Whump.

Wings. Feathers against wind.

A swan.

It landed with eerie grace upon the lake’s edge, pure white, as if summoned by your thoughts.

Artemis’s bow was in her hand before you even registered movement.

Her voice rang out like a bell of war:

“Do not move.”

The string drew taut, silver-tipped arrow aimed dead at the creature’s chest.

“She dares,” Artemis hissed under her breath. “He dares.” Her gaze snapped to you, disbelief and fury mingling, as if you had just tried to stop her. “He is corrupt, Y/N. A liar. A god who wears skins he has no right to. I won’t let him take another.”

A mist of gold rolled from the swan’s form like steam from a sacred spring.

It shimmered—soft at first—then bloomed bright as the sun, so radiant it painted the trees in daylight hues though the sky was still dusk.

And from it stepped a man.

Tall. Barefoot. Wild in a quiet way.

His skin gleamed with the last light of day, and his eyes—those kind, blue eyes—fixed not on you, but on her.

“Sister,” Xavier said.

The word was calm. Heavy.

A greeting. A warning. A reckoning.

Artemis did not lower her bow. Her voice was a blade:

“You should not be here.”

“And yet,” he murmured, stepping forward, golden mist still clinging to his shoulders like a cloak, “you’ve drawn your weapon on me for less.”

“She is mine,” Artemis said, the words cracking like thunder. “My nymph. My oath.”

Xavier gave a low, easy laugh—quiet as rippling water. He lifted one hand, palm up, in mock surrender.

“If you say so,” he said, voice smooth as honey and twice as hard to scrub off. “I’ll back off. For now.”

Golden mist began to stir again at his heels, curling like affectionate vines.

“But you know me, sister. I was never fond of permanence.”

His gaze lingered on you a beat longer, unreadable—but warm. Almost apologetic.

Then: gone.

The mist collapsed into nothing. No flash. No thunder. No triumph. Just absence.

The forest breathed again.

Artemis slowly lowered her bow, but her expression was tight, jaw locked. Anger, yes—but not only at him.

She looked at you. Her nymph. Her charge.

But the ring was still on your finger. And you hadn’t stopped him.

“You’ll come with me,” she said coolly, turning without waiting for a reply. “We need to speak. Alone.”

A warning, more than a request.

Artemis was not unkind.

She healed your blistered feet when no one else noticed you limped.

She combed your hair when the others laughed at the brambles caught in it.

She slit a deer’s throat for you on your first hunt, when your hands shook too badly to aim.

She was not cruel.

Just… firm. Stern, like cold water on tired skin. The kind of cold that made you sharper. The kind that said, wake up. You are not a girl anymore.

And maybe that’s why you’d followed her so fiercely, so faithfully. Because she made the wild make sense. She offered structure in chaos. A kind of purpose—an edge to hone yourself on.

But now…

Now you weren’t sure if that structure was keeping you safe, or keeping you small.

You thought of her as you always did—bow in hand, moonlight woven through her braid, eyes harder than marble and twice as ancient. She was the forest’s law and the nymphs' spine. And she was yours. 

But...

But you can’t help but wonder…

Did she love you as a sister—flesh and laughter, summer knees bruised on river rocks? Or did she love you as a sword—polished, sharpened, hung at her hip to serve and be swung?

You open your mouth to speak—something soft, maybe, something explaining, maybe—

But Artemis raises a hand. Keep quiet.

That was all it took. The gesture was elegant. Final. It cleaved the air between you like an arrow splits bark.

Yes. Your Lady was indeed angry.

“I will kill him,” Artemis said finally.

Not a threat. Not a shout. Just a sentence. Cold and absolute as the edge of a blade.

“Stupid brother of mine. Has all the lovers in the world and yet…” Her voice curled around the word, bitter as old wine.

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

The trees around you stood still in reverence—or fear. Even the moon above seemed to hesitate.

You swallowed. The ring was still on your finger, warm despite the wind. And her eyes—moon-bright and merciless—flicked to it. Just for a heartbeat.

“I never gave him permission,” she said, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “He plays his games with mortals. With you.”

A pause.

“My lady, forgive me. But I care not even a hare’s breath for your words or his.”

Artemis halted.

The forest stilled with her. A breeze caught in the branches above as if deciding whether to flee or freeze.

Her back remained to you, but you could feel the weight of her gaze even without seeing her face.

"You speak boldly," she said at last, voice tight as a bowstring. "I like boldness. I trained it into you."

You could see her fists clench at her sides. Moonlight gathered along her shoulders like armor.

"But do not mistake my silence for patience."

You stepped forward despite yourself, your pulse pounding in your throat. “Then do not mistake my obedience for agreement.”

The words left your mouth before you could pull them back, hot with everything you’d bottled inside since the dreams began, since the swan first looked at you like it knew you, since you’d woken with a ring on your finger you couldn’t name or remove.

“I care not for your brother's intentions. I care not for your fury. What I do care about is that none of you — not him, not even you — asked what I wanted.”

Her breath caught—silent, small. But her eyes glowed when she finally turned, and her face was a mask of moon and wrath.

"You are mine," she said, low and laced with godhood. "Chosen. Sworn. And if I must drag you back into the fold by your hair and strip that ring from your cold corpse, I will."

You stared at her. Goddess. Sister. General. Your Lady.  

Your mouth stayed closed, but your thoughts screamed.

She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient... And I could give you freedom.

Xavier's words, spoken in that dream-silk voice, curled in your mind like ivy choking a tree.

Artemis stood before you now, radiant and furious — but not weeping. Not pleading. Not even asking. And for all her talk of sisterhood, of loyalty, of being hers...

Where was the softness?

Where was the love?

You remembered the times you'd bled for her, followed her into battle, slept curled beside her throne like a favorite hound. You remembered the laughter at the campfires. The sting of her smile when you bested Phaedra in a footrace. You remembered feeling chosen. And now — now she looked at you like a broken weapon. A blade chipped at the hilt.

Xavier had said the truth in the cruelest way possible. Maybe that was his poison.

But now... you wondered if it was also your antidote.

You swallowed hard. “If I’m yours,” you said quietly, “why does it feel like I was never mine to begin with?”

Artemis’s face twitched — just once. A crack in the marble.

Then her jaw clenched. “You were always mine. And you chose to forget it.”

“My Lady!” you say, exasperated—half in plea, half in protest.

The title scrapes your throat as you speak it, heavier than it’s ever felt. You don’t bow. You don’t kneel. You just stand there, heart racing, the faint scent of pine and sea salt clinging to your skin. Artemis’s eyes narrow, and though she doesn’t raise her voice, her silence sharpens like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.

“You speak as though I betrayed you,” you go on, each word trembling at the edge of defiance. “But what did I do but exist? What did I do but dream, without your permission?”

Her eyes flash silver in the shadows.

“You took what was not offered,” she says coldly.

“I took nothing!” you snap, louder now, grief flaring into anger. “The ring won’t come off, you said it yourself! If your brother is a curse, then curse him, not me!”

Her hand flies before you even register the movement.

A sharp crack splits the silence, louder than thunder, louder than breath.

Your cheek burns—stinging, blooming with pain, hot and bright and humiliating. Your head whips to the side, and for a heartbeat the forest tilts. Even the birds go quiet.

You taste copper. Feel the ring pulsing on your finger.

You don’t cry. You don’t flinch again.

But you do look at her.

Artemis’s palm remains frozen in the air for a breath too long, as if she too is startled by what she’s done. But her face stays hard—like stone carved to resemble justice, not mercy.

“You forget yourself,” she says, voice low and tremoring not with weakness, but fury contained. “You forget who I am.”

“I remember,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse, rough like bark. “You’re the goddess who swore to protect us.”

A pause. Something flickers in her eyes—guilt, or shame, or something far more ancient. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“I protected you from men,” she says bitterly. “I never expected I’d have to protect you from yourself.”

It hurts more than you care to admit.

Not just the sting on your cheek—that’ll fade. It’s the words. Her words. The way she looked at you, not as a sister, not as a nymph under her moonlight—just as a failure. A disappointment. Something broken she couldn’t fix.

Your throat tightens, but you swallow it down. You won't cry—not here, not in front of her. If you do, she wins. If you do, you become the thing she already believes you are: weak, wayward, foolish.

But inside?

A part of you crumples.

You had believed in her. Truly, blindly, fiercely. You whispered her name like a spell in every danger, every doubt. You once thought she would burn the world for you, if you asked.

Now, she burns you instead.

And maybe Xavier was right. Maybe she only loves her huntresses when they’re obedient—when they bleed for her, not because of her. Maybe she never truly wanted sisters at all. Just swords that never questioned where they pointed.

You straighten. You press your fingers to your cheek, feel the swell, the heat.

Then you say, cool and distant, “I won’t trouble you again, my lady.”

The night air bites your skin despite the fire, crisp with the kind of chill that creeps through your linen gown and settles in your bones. Smoke from the roasting lamb curls into the sky, the scent mingling with pine and salt from the distant sea.

Your sisters’ laughter rings soft and golden—Thea singing off-key, two others clapping along, one strumming the lyre with more passion than rhythm. For a moment, it almost feels like nothing's changed. Like you're just a girl among girls, the moon your crown and the stars your witnesses.

Phaedra passes you a charred piece of lamb, still steaming, with a half-smile. Her eyes search your face. “Eat,” she says, not unkindly. “You haven’t all day.”

You take it. You murmur your thanks.

But you don’t eat.

Your eyes drift beyond the trees, to where shadows stretch and curl in the dark. The memory of Artemis’s hand, swift and final. The ring still clinging to your finger like a shackle of silk.

You wonder if they can feel it too—the shift. If they noticed the tremble in your voice when you told them you were fine. If they see that you're no longer just tired, but different. Off-key in your own way.

You glance at the firelight dancing in Phaedra’s eyes.

Would she still offer you lamb if she knew what you dreamed of?

If she knew that the swan wasn’t just a swan? 

Phaedra's voice cuts through the crackle of firewood, low enough not to draw the others' attention.

“Tell me.”

You blink, turning to her slowly.

“Hm?”

Her eyes don’t leave yours, sharp in the flickering firelight, half-lidded with concern—but not without suspicion.

“What has plagued my sister so?”

The words are careful, but not soft. Phaedra has always been the one who watches instead of asks, who listens instead of speaks. But now, she’s asking. Now, she’s watching you. Her features are soft in the firelight, a contrast to the flint edge in her tone.

You swallow hard. "Why would you think something plagues me?"

Phaedra doesn't blink. Her words are silent, but you know what she’s thinking. Because you're quieter. Because you flinch when the Lady draws near. Because you stopped laughing at Thea's jokes, and because I saw you trying to scrub that ring off your finger like it was blood.

Your hand clenches on instinct.

The ring glints.

You open your mouth—and close it again. What could you possibly say? That the swan that sleeps curled beside you is no beast but a being older than stone, who calls you beloved in dreams and leaves gold in his wake? That Artemis struck you for the sin of being wanted by her brother? The fire snaps, and the lamb in your hand feels heavy. Greasy.

You speak finally. A whisper, almost a confession.

“I’m just tired.”

But Phaedra’s eyes narrow, and she leans in close enough that you can smell the rosemary oil braided in her hair. “Tired girls don’t look like they’re hunted by something divine.”

"I won't tell them," she continues. "But you must tell me. What god did this? And what did he promise you that you haven't told our Lady?"

Your mouth goes dry, then bitter—bitter with the taste of anger, of shame, of something rotting in the back of your throat. You clench your teeth, feel your jaw tighten.

“He promised freedom,” you say finally, voice low, venomous. “From her. From all of them.”

Phaedra's eyes widen, but she doesn’t interrupt.

You stare into the fire like it might burn the truth out of you. “He said she—our Lady—only loves us when we are obedient. When we kneel. When we’re useful. That we are swords, not sisters. And I—” your voice breaks before you can catch it, “—I think he might be right.”

The words hang heavy between you, thick as smoke.

Phaedra’s hand stills where she had been picking at the lamb. Her brow furrows, the flicker of the flames casting strange shadows across her face. But she doesn’t speak—not yet.

You swallow hard. The bitter taste clings to the back of your tongue, and your voice lowers again, this time quieter. Tired.

“—And yet my heart rots at the thought of the words coming from his lips. Poisoned as they are, I know not if he fibs.”

You shake your head slowly, blinking away something hot behind your eyes. “He is a god. A liar. A thing of golden mist and honeyed cruelty.” 

Phaedra finally moves. She reaches for your hand—hers warm, grounding—and holds it tightly in both of hers.

“It’s not wrong to question,” she says. “But don’t forget who raised us. Who gave us our bows. Who called us sister.”

You look away. 

And don’t answer. 

The land had once known only fire—chariots crashing, blood soaking into the cracked earth, the wails of mortals and gods alike tearing open the sky. But now…

Now it breathed.

The field stretched endlessly, a living quilt of wildflowers—lavender, poppy, hyacinth, and golden crocus. Petals brushed against your cheeks like kisses, and honey bees danced lazily between the blooms, their hum more lullaby than labor. The air was thick with the scent of nectar and sunlight.

You lay there, body half-buried in a cradle of grass and clover, your limbs slack with surrender. The sky above you was impossibly blue—divine, unmarred, and wide—as though the heavens themselves had finally unclenched their fists.

Birds chirped from the olive trees in sweet, spiraling verses, their songs threaded with joy and love and perhaps a little longing.

And then—

A hand.

Fingers, warm and light, traced your forearm. The hairs rose in response, goosebumps flaring across your skin like a secret being whispered to your flesh. The flowers did not stir, and the bees did not mind. The world simply continued in its slow, golden turning.

And you, still and blinking up at the sky, knew in your bones that this was not a dream. Not entirely.

You did not look to see who it was.

You didn’t need to.

His arm slid around your waist like a ribbon of sun-warmed silk, drawing you back into the shape of him. Bare skin met bare skin—heat against heat—and your breath caught somewhere between your throat and ribs. His chest was firm, steady, and solid in the way only ancient things are, the thrum of his heart impossibly calm against your spine.

Then his chin came to rest on your shoulder, languid and intimate, as if he had always belonged there. His breath fanned softly against your neck—warm, unhurried. No words. No need for them.

You tried to move. To flinch, to pull away, to even whisper—but your body would not obey.

The flowers swayed. The birds sang. The bees danced around your limbs like sentinels. But you... you were still.

Your fingers wouldn’t twitch. Your breath came shallow and slow. The weight of his arm felt like a shackle made of honey and gold, too sweet, too heavy. His chin on your shoulder—a crown you never asked to wear.

It was a dream, it had to be. And yet the warmth of him was too real, too present. The rhythm of his heart was a drumbeat echoing inside your own ribs, and your skin burned with the contact—like the moment before a fever breaks.

“The lamb smelled good.”

You tried to move. To flinch, to pull away, to even whisper—but your body would not obey.

The flowers swayed. The birds sang. The bees danced around your limbs like sentinels. But you... you were still.

Your fingers wouldn’t twitch. Your breath came shallow and slow. The weight of his arm felt like a shackle made of honey and gold, too sweet, too heavy. His chin on your shoulder—a crown you never asked to wear.

It was a dream, it had to be. And yet the warmth of him was too real, too present. The rhythm of his heart was a drumbeat echoing inside your own ribs, and your skin burned with the contact—like the moment before a fever breaks.

And yet, here he was.

Xavier.

Behind you, warm breath kissed the shell of your ear. His presence was unmistakable—honeyed and unnerving, unsettling and impossible to ignore. The arm around your waist held no force, but you felt trapped all the same. Caught between memory and body, between devotion and rebellion.

He chuckled lowly against your skin, the sound like the crackle of fire through dry wheat. His lips brushed your shoulder—soft, warm, like sunlight at dawn after a frost.

"Relax," he whispered, voice drowsy with charm, golden with something older than the earth beneath you.

The field around you shimmered. Not with magic, no—this was something subtler, more sacred. The wildflowers tilted their heads toward him. The bees, which had danced lazily in the breeze, now hummed in slow, reverent orbits. Even the birdsong had quieted, as though the world held its breath at his presence.

The air smelled not of the sea, not of brine or storms—but of warmth. Baked figs. Burnt incense. Honey melting on a hearthstone.

"I only came because you called," Xavier said, fingers trailing idle suns across your stomach. “You may not have spoken my name, little huntress... but your soul did. Loud as noon.”

And though you willed your muscles to move, your limbs remained heavy. Weighted by golden light, by something ancient and unyielding.

He leaned in closer, voice nearly a purr now.

“You dream in color when you think of me. That’s how I know you’re still mine.”

You swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising as disgust twisted in your gut.

His touch—so gentle, so impossibly warm—felt like chains wrapped in silk. Your body betrayed you, frozen and helpless beneath his grasp, every instinct screaming for release, but unable to break free.

“No more poetics,” you rasped, voice sharp with frustration and cold resolve. “Please.”

Xavier’s blue eyes gleamed with something unreadable—amusement? pity? desire?—before he drew back just enough to let you breathe.

“Very well,” he said softly, his smile folding like the sun slipping behind the horizon.

It was quiet for a long moment — the kind of stillness that presses against your skin and leaves your breath shallow.

Then his voice came, soft, almost reverent.

“I… I saw you when you hunted that ram,” Xavier murmured, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, as if replaying a memory only he could see. “How ethereal you looked. Like a force of nature itself—wild and untouchable.”

He smiled, a flicker of something tender threading through the warmth.

“Even Zephyrus—the very breath of the west wind—was in awe. Not once did he seem to draw away, even when your knife was buried deep in the ram’s stomach, steady and sure.”

“I am Lady Artemis’s huntress. I take no man in my embrace- god or mortal.” It comes out stiff as molasses, and whether it was for you or him, well, it didn’t really matter. 

He chuckles softly, the warmth in his eyes flickering with something sharp and amused. “A pity, really,” he murmurs, lips trailing a gentle kiss down the curve of your neck. 

His other arm snakes around your waist, the grip tightening just enough to blur the line between tenderness and control.

That kiss—the warmth, the softness—it was a carefully crafted illusion, a masquerade of gentleness hiding something far more possessive beneath.

You can feel it now: the subtle pressure, the quiet insistence. It’s a faux kindness, a gilded cage disguised as affection.

Your skin prickles with the cold realization—this isn’t comfort.

His voice drops to a low, teasing murmur, almost playful but edged with something darker.

“Did you know,” he says, the faintest cruel smile tugging at his lips, “if I let it get hot enough—which I could choose at any moment—your sisters would just… melt?”

He laughs quietly, a sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do that. You’d cry.”

"They could melt...slowly or quickly.." He traces a finger adoringly up and down your arm in idle patterns as he speaks quietly, "They could collapse from heat stroke, or burst to flames, or- well, there's a lot of possibilities. "Of course, there's more than just heat, I suppose. turn them into animals, to trees- oh, Hera had turned that one man into a flower before..."

You narrow your eyes, the sting of his false warmth turning to ice. “You think you’re funny, do you?”

He blinks, genuine confusion flickering in his blue eyes. “Funny? I wasn’t trying to be. Why? Do I amuse you?” His tone is almost hopeful, as if desperate for your approval.

The irony of it all—this god of the sun, craving your laughter like a child—makes your heart beat unevenly, caught somewhere between disdain and something far more complicated.

“No. You disgust me.”

His hopeful expression falters.

The words cut sharper than any blade. For a moment, he doesn't speak—his smile doesn't drop, not entirely, but it stiffens, straining at the corners like sunlit glass about to crack.

“Ah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Well. Honesty, then.”

The air around you seems to shimmer faintly, heat rising like the first tremors of a wildfire. His hand, still resting on your waist, curls slightly, but not in affection. You find yourself being turned. His hands press gently — too gently — to your sides as he lowers you onto the bed of wildflowers. The golden light from above flickers behind him, haloing his head like the sun itself was watching through his eyes.

You’re on your back now. Trapped.

His frame casts a long shadow over you as he leans closer, every movement slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment.

Big, blue eyes — the kind that might have once looked innocent on another man — stare down into yours. But there’s something ancient in them. Something blistering beneath the surface. Power, barely leashed. Worship, too...but not the kind that gives. The kind that claims.

"You keep looking at me like that," he murmurs, tilting his head. "As if I’m a monster."

His thumb grazes your cheek.

"I suppose...if I am, you made me one, little nymph." 

Your jaw snaps forward without hesitation, the sharp taste of skin and salt blooming on your tongue as your teeth sink into the meat of his arm. You expect him to yank away, to curse or strike or recoil—

—but he doesn’t.

Instead, Xavier laughs. Low and quiet, as if your resistance delights him. The muscles beneath your bite don’t tense in pain — they flex in pleasure.

“Pretty…” he says, voice soft with something like fondness. Or mockery. His arm stays where it is, unmoving, golden blood pooling where your bite drew through skin. You feel it — warm and metallic on your lips.

He leans closer, voice brushing your ear like the heat before a wildfire. "Bite harder. Show me you're still hers."  

You pull away, disgusted. But then-

Your breath stutters as his fingers clamp around your face—thumb at your cheek, fingers curling tight along your jaw. Not painful. But firm. Commanding. Too practiced.

"Do not leave," he says again, slower this time. Less like a plea and more like a decree, heavy with divine weight. That awful warmth ripples from his skin again, like standing too close to the noonday sun. Suffocating.

The field stills around you. No birdsong. No wind. Even the bees vanish, the air too thick to move through.

Your muscles lock, spine rigid with fear—or obedience. You can't tell which. His blue eyes are wide, intense, too bright to be human. The color of sky when it burns. His gaze pins you, like you’re just another creature caught in the light.

His thumb brushes your lip, smearing the blood from where you'd bitten him. His own blood.

"You’re mine too. You just don’t know it yet."

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. There’s something hollow there, something flickering just beneath the surface of that golden glow. A crack in divinity. Something unwell.

The hand on your face trembles slightly now, not from weakness, but restraint. His pupils are too wide for daylight. His breath quickens, shallow and sharp, like he’s drunk on the tension, on your stillness, on the smear of gold across your lips. His blood.

“You feel that?” he whispers, tone trembling with something between awe and obsession. “That connection?”

His expression twists—devotion mingling with madness, with possession. “You’re the only one who sees me. Really sees me. The rest worship a name. A title. But you… you bit me.” He laughs again, high and breathless, manic around the edges. “That means something.”

You flinch when he leans in closer, forehead almost pressing to yours.

“It was always supposed to be you.”

His voice is too soft now, too intimate for the weight of the moment. His grasp is still too tight, and his eyes—

Gods. They shimmer like boiling skies. 

He looks like something that’s forgotten how to be worshipped gently.

Holding your face in that still too-tight hold, he presses his lips against yours, his eyes closing. Xavier is close enough that you could count his lashes, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted, too. 

But temptation is a cruel thing—sharp-edged and fleeting—and whatever warmth coils in your belly is swallowed swiftly by the cold press of reality.

Because his grip is bruising, and his kiss is not a request.

And whatever flicker of softness you might have once imagined behind those sunlit eyes vanishes with the press of his mouth. There is no tenderness in the way he kisses you. Just insistence. Just want—consuming, god-born, and blinding in its arrogance.

Your hands curl into fists in the wildflowers.

You don’t kiss him back.

And he doesn’t seem to notice.

He sighs against your lips like this was always meant to happen—like he’s fulfilling some prophecy only he believes in. His breath is hot, feverish. Golden.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he murmurs, as if it’s a promise. As if it's a curse.

You feel your jaw tighten beneath his palm.

You stare at the ceiling of the tent, breath shallow and heart racing like a hare in the brambles. The dream clings to your skin, hot and sticky, as if the sun itself had crawled beneath your ribs.

Phaedra stirs slightly beside you, her hand twitching in her sleep, her face serene in the dim morning light. She looks peaceful, untouched by the nightmare that still thrums in your veins.

But the relief is short-lived.

Because your skin still remembers. The pressure on your face, the heat on your lips. Your heart pounds in your chest—not from the remnants of desire, but from a cold, creeping dread.

You envy her peace.

Outside the tent, the wind howls low and lonely, brushing the fabric like a whisper. You tug the blanket tighter, willing yourself to believe that it was only a dream. That he had not found you again, that the ring on your finger was just some odd trinket, not a brand of ownership.

But your hand betrays you.

The ring is still there.

Cool. Heavy. Gold.

“Gods above…” You pull your knees to your chest. Your whisper is barely a breath, a prayer—or a curse. You're not sure which.

The ring pulses once, faintly, like a heartbeat that isn’t your own.

You yank your hand under the blanket as if hiding it could undo what’s been done. Could take back the heat of his lips, the weight of his body, the false gentleness that made your stomach twist.

You don’t cry. You won’t. You’re Artemis’s huntress. You’ve slain beasts that towered over trees, tracked prey across burning plains and frozen wastes. Outside, the dawn was beginning to bleed across the sky, and still, you could hear the whisper of his voice, low and amused in your memory:

“You would cry.”

Your nails dig into your palm.

“No,” you mutter. “You’ll be the one who cries, Xavier.”

“Who’s Xavier?”

You freeze.

Your heart stumbles in your chest like a startled doe.

Phaedra’s voice is soft, muzzy with sleep, her eyes still mostly shut, face buried in the crook of her arm. But her words hang in the air like a snare.

You swallow.

“No one,” you lie quickly, too quickly. “Just… a name from a dream.”

She hums, unconvinced, but drifts again, her breathing evening out.

You don't move for a long time.

The next month passed like a fevered blur.

You couldn’t rest. Not truly. Every time your eyes slipped shut, you felt it—a gaze heavy as a predator’s on the back of your neck. The same sense of being watched, of something pressing too close, even when you were alone. Especially when you were alone.

You stopped bathing by the river. You stopped wandering from camp. You started sleeping with your knife tucked in your fist, just beneath your chin, wrapped in cloth so it wouldn’t nick your skin.

Even then, rest never came easy. When you did sleep, your dreams were full of fire and gold and him. Always him.

Phaedra began noticing.

“You look like death, sister,” she teased at first. But when you didn’t laugh, her jokes softened to concern.

“You’ve barely eaten. The others are worried.”

You gave a hollow smile and shrugged it off.

But inside, something stalked you. A feeling, a presence, a weight that never left your chest. Sometimes, you would catch a flicker of light between the trees, as if the sun lingered where it shouldn’t. Sometimes, you felt breath on your neck and spun—only to find empty woods behind you.

Even Artemis grew distant.

Her eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, quiet and unreadable. She never spoke of what happened that day with the swan, or Xavier, or the ring. But there was something different in her now—something sharp, and tightly controlled, and wholly furious.

So you kept your mouth shut.

You hunted. You cleaned your blade. You didn’t flinch when it sang through the neck of a boar. You stood tall when your sisters called to you. You smiled when you had to.

But your nights were full of whispers.

Hot.

Hot, hot, hot—it was all you could feel. All you could breathe. The grass beneath you was scorching, the air like flame trapped beneath your skin. The sun pressed too close, too heavy, like it had descended from the sky just to touch you.

And he was there.

Xavier.

God of light. Of heat. Of unrelenting presence.

He was on you, his body burning with the slow, measured cruelty of midday sun. His skin blazed like it was carved from molten gold, his breath like fire down your neck, against your collarbone, into the hollow beneath your jaw.

You gasped, but it wasn’t from pleasure. It was instinct. Survival.

Your hands pushed against his chest, but it felt like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t hurt you—not yet. No, that wasn’t his way. Not the god of light. No, Xavier melted you slowly. Like wax. Like a candle.

You turned your head, tried to escape his mouth, his heat, his everything—but even the air was burning.

“Stop,” you rasped.

He didn’t answer at first. He only looked at you with those searing blue eyes, as if confused you didn’t welcome it. As if your body must want what your mouth refused.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he said softly, heat coiling around every word. “Even now, you tremble for me.”

You shuddered.

It was not desire. It was dread.

“Get off of me.”

Still, his hand slid along your waist, leaving a trail of fever in its wake. His voice, smooth and slow, like honey turned poison.

“I could burn the world for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

And then—your eyes met.

You saw something behind that beautiful, cruel face. A glimmer of something ancient and rotten. A hunger dressed in golden skin. A god who had never been denied.

Or perhaps…

Denied too much.

Perhaps that was it. Not just a god who had never been told no, but one who had been told it far too often. Who had once reached out—gentle, open-palmed—and been spurned. Cast aside. A golden boy turned bitter flame.

There was something desperate beneath the cruelty. Not tenderness—no, never that—but a kind of bruised need. A desire to be chosen, not for what he was, but despite it. And when he wasn’t?

He took.

“Do you know,” Xavier murmured, his breath tickling the edge of your ear, “how many times I have offered warmth, only to be called a monster?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because part of you did wonder—had Artemis turned him away one too many times? Had the other gods, the mortals, the muses all basked in his light and then fled the moment he burned too bright?

But sympathy was not enough.

Understanding did not mean forgiving.

You stared up at him—this god who hovered like the sun itself, so beautiful and terrible—and you said, through clenched teeth:

“That is not my fault.”

And for the first time, his face changed.

Not rage.

Not sadness.

But a flicker of hurt. Something unguarded and small.

He flinched—as if your words struck deeper than any arrow his sister could notch.

Then, slowly, his grip slackened. The heat receded—not gone, but contained.

“I never wanted to be alone,” he said.

But the sun moves regardless. Because it must. Because it cannot stay.

To stay would mean commitment, a kind of stillness that gods like him were never built for. To remain in one place, in one heart, would demand that he be tethered—anchored. That he drag that person along with him as he scorched across the sky, orbit after orbit, burning paths into time and memory.

Around… and around… and around.

And yet, he said it—“I never wanted to be alone”—as if he didn’t know what that meant. As if he wasn’t the very reason he was.

Because even if he could stay, even if he tried—he would still burn through everything he touched. And you were not born to be ash.

You turned your back to him. You did not look to see if he stayed.

Because the sun does not stop for anyone. And it was never your duty to be its shadow.

His voice is honeyed poison, velvet wrapped around steel, and it slips beneath your skin before you can brace against it.

He pulls you closer—closer than breath, than thought—and suddenly your vision flashes white at the edges, your head light and your limbs numb. You feel your body, but it’s distant. Weightless. A puppet hanging on golden threads.

"You’re dreaming, you know." His breath warms the shell of your ear. "But how come you never wake up?"

The question claws into you.

Because… you tried, didn’t you? Didn’t you scream, claw at the seams of the dream, beg for the cold slap of waking?

Or did some secret, traitorous part of you stay—stay for the warmth, the want, the wrongness that felt like safety when you were too tired to know better?

A prayer slips from your lips like breath, raw and shaken.

Artemis help me.

But the wild is quiet. No arrows through the branches, no silver-streaked salvation. Only the heat—his heat—pressing in around you like a second skin, and that voice, low and smug, curling under your ribs.

“Still calling for her?” Xavier murmurs, eyes gleaming like dying stars. “Even after everything?”

You feel sick. Betrayed by your own mouth, by the way your heart still reaches blindly for a goddess who had turned her face from you. Sister or sword—you still didn't know what you were to Artemis. But you whispered her name anyway, because you had nothing else. No one else.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek like he owns it.

“She won’t come,” he says, like it’s mercy. “But I never left.”

And that, more than anything, makes you want to scream.

Before the temple, the air had been cooler beneath the olive trees, though sweat still clung to the nape of your neck. Phaedra walked beside you, arms crossed and jaw tight.

“She’ll know,” she muttered, not looking at you.

You swallowed. “I know.”

“She’ll see it on your face before you even speak.”

“I know.”

Phaedra finally turned, her brows furrowed with something too sharp to be worry. “Then why go at all?”

You hesitated, your throat dry despite the cool shade. Then, quietly—almost truthfully—you murmured:

"That... that I’m not sure." It tasted like guilt. Like heat. Like a lie you told yourself so often it stopped needing words.

“So then…” it’s quiet again, the sounds of the birds your only song. “No one else knows, I take it?” You shake your head. “And Lady Artemis refuses to believe me. She insists that I am allowing this.” tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away before you realize it. 

Phaedra's expression tightens, lips pressing into a thin line. Her voice drops to a whisper, heavy with disbelief and fury. “Allowing it? As if you wanted this?” She looks away, plucking nervously at a leaf, her thumb running over its veins. “Sometimes I think the gods see us more as possessions than people. Beautiful things to decorate their shrines... or playthings to pass the time.”

You swallow, hard. “I told her. I begged her to see. She said nothing—just struck me. Like I’d betrayed her. Like I’d welcomed him with open arms.”

Phaedra stops walking, the hem of her robe brushing the dry earth. “No,” she says, voice low with disbelief. You don’t stop. “Yes.” She hurries a step to catch up, eyes wide. “Our lady?” “Indeed.”

There’s a long moment where the world holds its breath. Birds go quiet. Even the wind hesitates.

“She struck you,” Phaedra says, as if repeating it will make it make sense. “After everything you’ve done. After the vows. After—after him.” You nod once, jaw set. “She saw the mark,” you add softly. “The ring. She asked if he’d bedded me.” Phaedra exhales sharply, her expression contorting with fury and something heavier—grief, maybe. “She didn’t even ask for the truth, did she? Just assumed it. As if your silence meant guilt.” You glance away, voice barely a whisper. “Well, he didn’t… unless dreams count.” Phaedra stiffens. “Not… not fully bedded me,” you go on, shame curling in your gut like smoke. “Just kisses, thankfully.” She stops again, her brows knitting, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Dreams,” she repeats, like it’s a foul thing in her mouth. “Gods damn him. That’s how he’s doing it.” You flinch. “It’s not just violation—it’s dominion. The sun touches everything. If he’s in your dreams, it means he’s not just watching. He’s choosing when and how to haunt you.” "Well—" you start, maybe to defend yourself. Maybe him. You're not even sure anymore. The words taste confused, bitter, halfway between guilt and misplaced empathy.

"Well nothing." Phaedra’s voice cuts through like a blade. She's glaring at you now, not out of cruelty, but something closer to heartbreak. “You think I haven’t seen this before? You think you’re the first?” Her voice trembles, not with fear—but rage. “He plays at being warm. Golden. Gentle. But he sears. He doesn’t love—he consumes.” You go quiet. “He knows what he’s doing,” she continues. “He chose you because you’re hers. Because it would hurt.”

“He…he promised freedoms…and everything he says- Phaedra, he doesn’t- he hasn’t lied.”

Phaedra’s expression flickers—pity, sorrow, and something dangerously close to fury.

“Of course he hasn’t lied,” she says, voice sharp. “That’s the trick. Gods don’t need to lie when the truth will ruin you just the same.”

You look at her, and for a moment, you feel like a child again—clutching a snake because it was beautiful, because it whispered sweet things, because it didn’t bite. Not yet.

Phaedra steps closer. “He offered you freedom? From what? From your vows? From Artemis? From the wilds that raised you?” She scoffs. “That isn’t freedom, it’s abandonment wrapped in gold.”

You swallow hard, trying to breathe past the knot in your throat. The heat of Xavier’s sun still lingers on your skin, phantom-like. 

“Do you really think a god like him gives anything without cost?” she says, quieter now. “He didn’t choose you because you were weak. He chose you because you matter. Because when he cracks you, it will echo.”

Her hand is warm, grounding, though her words are sharp enough to cut.

“Think of the poor nymph Raf-Eros killed,” Phaedra says, voice laced with bitter memory. “And for what? Because she was friends with his love? Because she swore to protect her?” Her grip on your cheek tightens for a breath, not out of anger, but grief. “You know what they did with her body? Nothing. They let it rot beneath the water. And the gods sang songs of her beauty while stepping over her bones.”

You look down, the shame crawling up your throat like ivy.

“You cannot trust men—gods or not,” she murmurs. “Their love is violence dressed in poetry. Their promises are chains dipped in honey.”

The wind brushes past the trees, and for a moment the forest itself seems to listen.

“They want to own what they find radiant. They want to touch it, name it, keep it. But you were born wild. And wild things burn in cages.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Your lips wobble. 

Phaedra looks at you, really looks—past the dirt smudged on your cheeks, past the sleep-starved eyes and the tremble in your voice. Her expression softens, though the fire behind it never dims.

“I would have you remember yourself,” she says, low and fierce. “You are not some moon-gilded trinket to be passed between gods like a sweet they forgot to unwrap. You are a huntress. One of ours. You were chosen by Artemis, yes—but you chose this life, too. The bow in your hand, the earth beneath your feet, the sisterhood of it all. You are not helpless.”

“Well I feel helpless.”

Phaedra's jaw tightens. She doesn’t scoff—doesn’t roll her eyes the way some of the older nymphs might’ve. Instead, she exhales, slow and steady, like she’s reining in the storm that’s always simmered just beneath her skin.

“Then let’s start there,” she says. “Let’s name that helplessness. Let’s scream it into the forest and let the trees carry it to the gods, if they’re listening.”

She crouches before you, eyes level with yours now—green and burning.

“You feel helpless. Fine. Say it again. Say it until it’s hollow and the shame melts off like old skin. And then we move. Even if you have to drag your strength behind you like a wounded limb. Because he—they—want you stuck. Want you too tired to fight, too unsure to run. That’s their trick. It always has been.”

Her hands settle gently on your shoulders. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to be weak, even. But you don’t get to forget that your blood sings with moonlight. That you’ve stood over beasts with your knife dripping red. That you chose Artemis.”

When she leans in and closes her eyes, she rests her forehead against yours. The shadows shield you from the sun’s gaze. 

“Phaedra…why have you chosen this path? Chose Artemis?”

Phaedra exhales slowly, lashes brushing her cheekbones as she keeps her eyes closed, as if your question is both sacred and dangerous to answer.

“I didn’t choose Artemis because she was kind,” she says softly. “I chose her because she was resolute. Because when the world wanted to break me down to nothing, she said I didn’t need to be soft to be loved. That I didn’t need to be someone’s wife or songbird or whore to be sacred.”

She opens her eyes, and there’s no light in them—only shadow and fire.

“But I stayed,” she whispers, “because I thought she saw me. The part of me that doesn’t want to bow. That wants to scream and run and kill and live without shame.”

Her thumb brushes the line of your jaw, grounding. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the moon is no different from the sun—it just hides its heat better.”

She looks up, as though daring the sky to punish her for the blasphemy.

“But you asked why I chose this path?” Her voice turns quieter, steel under silk. “Because it’s the only one that let me believe I belonged to myself.”

You shrink into yourself. “He doesn’t visit every night. He doesn’t take everything either...he…he whispers sweet words- so sweet they make my insides churn as if I've consumed forbidden ambrosia."

Phaedra’s gaze softens a fraction, but the weight of her resolve doesn’t lessen. “Sweet words can be poison wrapped in honey,” she murmurs, tracing a finger along your collarbone like a warning and a comfort both.

“But…I fear that that is not the worst of it.” “Sister?” You look down with shame, whispering this next part. “I can’t say I entirely hated it.”

Phaedra’s breath catches, eyes flickering with a mixture of sympathy and quiet alarm. She reaches out again, this time to gently lift your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. “That is the curse of men like him,” she says softly, voice threaded with sorrow. Her fingers tremble slightly, but she tightens her grip just enough to remind you she’s here. 

“Come. Let us venture to our Lady’s Temple. "

Oh, he was wrong.

Caleb had miscalculated grievously and was so, so, terribly wrong. 

He considered himself a man able to withstand many things, and the four years in the Academy made him into a living weapon, equipped with utmost self-control, unquestionable stamina, and the unwavering strength of a soldier. 

And yet five minutes into losing his bet with you, he feels his body and mind begin to fail him entirely. 

“Earth to Caleb, I hope you’re not going to give in already.” The smirk is audible in your voice, especially as you grind your hips forward and relish in the shuddered exhale that is his response. “Cause that would mean I win.”

It’s intoxicating, confusing, the way his body stopped responding to him the moment you got on top of him. Caleb’s not really thinking of much right now outside of just how nice the orange glow of your nightlight hits your figure, how damn low that tank top is, and when the fuck did those shorts get so small on you?

He jerks his hands up instinctively, the automatic soldier’s reflex to seize control, the want to touch, to grab. To flip you the fuck over and have his way.

But the bind around his wrists catches.

Hard.

Caleb bites back a hiss, teeth grinding at the pull against his arms. “I’m doing just fine,” he grits out, smile crooked in a way that makes you want to laugh. “Fantastic, even.”

“Mhm,” you hum, “keep telling yourself that. I want to see how long that lasts, gege.”

The look he gave you then, frustration, disbelief, a flicker of something dangerously close to surrender, was the kind of thing someone could get addicted to.

Your thumb traces the rough edge of his lips, once, twice, before pushing into his mouth, muffling the surprised grunt he gives you as you lean in. 

“Open.”

His eyes widen, jaw falling slack almost immediately as you spit into his waiting tongue, slapping his cheek lightly after. So obedient.

Caleb swallows, and you swear you feel him twitch underneath you. 

“Good boy.”

God, he liked that more than you did. 

His moan is muffled around your thumb, but the raspy edge of it is enough to have you clenching around nothing. You’re taking more. Now.

Spreading your knees out wider on either side of Caleb’s waist, you rock yourself backward, immediately rewarded with the hard press of his abs and something even more solid below, friction heavenly and far too little all at once. At the mere contact he lets out another moan, muffled as Caleb sucks on your fingers, curling himself up to stare you right in the eyes. 

“Please,” he’s begging already. “Please do something- anything- more.”

Your eyes soften, but your smile doesn’t. “Down, boy. I thought we both agreed on what the loser would have to do.” Your fingers skim his jawline, tracing down his throat before pinning him back down to the mattress with just your pointer finger on his chest. He could fight you so easily if he wanted to. “You have ‘ta listen to whatever,” you sing out the word, dragging it out as your nail teases down his chest, “I say.” 

“I’m not—” He stops, swallows, and tries again. You’re being so infuriating it’s taking everything not to rip control back from you, fuck you hard and fast and make you a moaning mess like he knows you like. “I am listening.”

You laugh softly, delighted. “Good then, puppy.”

Caleb freezes. 

You watch his pupils dilate, nearly engulfing the galaxy in his eyes to an abyssal black, watch the tension ripple across his chest, watch the heat flush the tips of his ears bright red, all at once.

“…Puppy?” he echoes, voice rougher than before.

You tilt your head, studying the way the word seems to unravel him from the inside.

“Mhm,” run your thumb along his jaw, savoring the way he leans into your touch. “My puppy. It suits you, gege.”

This is embarrassing, it’s so embarrassing and he’s so fucking hard right now. 

Caleb surges forward, lips smashing onto yours as he kisses you like he’s starving for it. No complaints from you, meeting him as the force clicks your teeth together before his tongue swipes your lip as an apology, drooling into you as his weight presses as close as the restraints will let him. 

You tug his face up as his tongue meets yours, hot, sweet, desperate in a way that feels like you’re melting into one another as you lose yourself in the kiss. Not close enough, never close enough, even as you grind closer, the heat between your legs unbearable. You can feel the sweat dripping from his temples, damp heat against your skin, and the kiss melt like hot sugar and something burning. 

A hot, undeniable heat of late summer that makes everything in your body boil and sweat, all-consuming and impossible to ignore. The air between you feels thick with it, syrupy, suffocating, every breath shared back and forth until you can’t tell where one of you ends and the other begins. Somewhere in the half-breaths you dare take you throw your shirt off, hardened nipples grazing Caleb’s chest as he feels himself slipping at the sight of your body.

Every kiss only leaves the both of you hungrier, an aching burn spreading through your body.

Standing up on shaky legs, Caleb whines at the loss of you, chasing you up until the scarf tied against his arms jerks him back down. 

“Shh, it’s okay, gege,” you tug down your sleep shorts and panties in one drag, letting them fall to your ankles as Caleb’s jaw snaps shut. “I’m just making it easier for you.”

He’d agree to be tied up every second of every fucking day if it meant you looking down at him, completely naked and smiling so damn innocently like this. 

Pulling a condom out from your nightstand, you climb back into Caleb’s lap slowly enough to make him watch every movement. Every muscle in his body strains as his skin touches yours, hands fighting the urge to break free before you’re pulling him into a kiss and he simply melts, moaning your name. 

A giggle slips from you, swallowed immediately by Caleb’s eager tongue as he chases the sound, kissing you harder, needier, like he can’t stand even a second of distance between you. You let him indulge in it while your hands drift lower, fumbling deliberately with the waistband of his boxers before pulling his poor, leaking cock out, the heft of it springing into your palms. 

Caleb full-body shudders, breath catching hot against your mouth, and the reaction alone nearly makes you laugh again. So desperate already.

You toy with the condom between your fingers, peeling the wrapper open slowly while Caleb watches with hooded eyes, every hulking inch of him tense with anticipation. A predator unable to pounce. When you hold it up in front of his face, he leans toward it instinctively, helpless with want.

Cruel delight curls in your chest at the sight.

And then you toss it carelessly across the bed.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing this.”

The whine Caleb lets out will haunt your every dream. “No, no. Pips, princess, please. Don’t— don’t do that to me, let me fuck you. I’ll make you feel so good, please.”

You tilt your head, acting confused as you slide your hips down until you’re hovering right above his dick.

“I never said I wouldn’t let you fuck me.” A smile, evil and so, so satisfied. 

And god, you can feel and hear just how wet you’re getting. The loud, obnoxious slap each time you rock forward, the popping suction of your pussy dragging against the wonderfully hard length of his dick, feeling it throb and jump with the hot friction.

Caleb is clenching his jaw hard enough to snap. His entire dick flushed raw pink, twitching and dripping with your slick and an embarrassing amount of precum all drooling down the veins of his dick and sticking to your inner thighs. His hips stutter to meet yours despite himself, despite knowing this was dangerous territory, despite every rock of your bare cunt against him feeling like heaven and sin and fuck his eyes are rolling back at the mere thought of more. 

“Stop,” Caleb’s plea comes out pathetically weak. He’s already rocking into you again before the word’s even finished. “Come on, I- I’ve told you how dangerous this is.”

“Ya, we’ve had the talk a bunch when we were kids.” You pout, sitting back as you both look down to the sticky, wet mess between you. One hand goes to pump the remaining slick up and down his dick as the other circles your own clit, Caleb’s eyes racing back and forth between the two as though he can’t decide where to look first. “But I’m an adult now, gege. And I really, really want you inside me.”

Caleb’s going to die. 

You’re going to kill him. 

But fuck, if you don’t stop moaning through your bitten lips as you play with yourself, he’s not sure he’ll mind.

“Please, baby,” he’s whimpering, gasping out for air as his immobilized body jerks and humps into your hand, dick flushed from the attention but not enough for any real release. It hurts. He needs you so badly it hurts.  “Grab another condom, please. Fuck me, use me, I can’t– I can’t stop myself much longer.”

He feels your lips curl into a devilish grin as you lean down, whispering, “Then don’t.”

And the feeling of you slamming down onto his cock, that searing, wonderful pressure, shatters any restraint Caleb had left.

His broken moan is a little more than a sob in your ear, the entire bedframe creaking as Caleb’s back arches, every thick, bulky muscle underneath you flexing as you continue to ride him, a single hand pushing his hips back down to the bed.

It’s all he can think about. Your nails digging into his abs, the sting of your marks as you lose yourself on top of him. The overwhelming heat of your body. The dizzying drag of you rocking up and down again and again until every thought in his head is melting, spinning, just the feeling of you every raw part of you, the way you’re forcing him to hit that spongy spot, the force abusing his oversensitive tip until it’s euphoric pain. 

Seeing your strong, protective gege turn absolutely stupid under you only makes you want to push him further. Your thighs burn with the stretch around his impressive quads, legs trembling as you force yourself to go faster. More, you want-need more. You need him to cum inside you. 

Caleb whines at that, shaking his head vigorously as he looks up at you through tear-stained lashes. You didn't even realize you were slurring all that out loud. “Don’t, don’t say that. Can’t- won’t stop but fuuuck” he’s moaning again, hips jerking off the bed as the angle forces him right up to your cervix. “I should.”

He doesn’t stop.

You both know he won’t.

The entire bed is shaking when your legs give in, collapsing onto Caleb’s sweat-slicked chest as you keep rutting down into him, clawing into his shoulders for leverage. It’s so much, his tip pressing every spot inside you, the heavy drag of each thrust turning you stupid, drooling into Caleb’s neck as you bite and suck every inch of salty, sweaty skin. 

You feel yourself already getting close. “You don’t want to? You don’t want to fill me up?” A whimper, you can’t tell from who as you get tighter, entire body tensing as shocks of pleasure jolt through you. “Please, please. I need it. Please cum inside me, gege.”

Then there’s the loud, undeniable rip of the scarf you’d been using as makeshift binds tearing to shreds, Caleb’s palms slamming onto your hips with a harsh slap. 

Raw handprints burn into your skin as Caleb lifts you right into the air, slamming you back down onto his dick. Your eyes roll back, unable to do anything but laugh deliriously as he uses you with every ounce of his remaining strength.

“Again, say it again.”

“P-please cum inside me.” You’re blabbering the words over and over again, body turning to mush as you collapse on top of him.

Feeling every vein, every slap of his pelvis on your clit has you screaming, trembling as your release sprays onto both your thighs. So, so much of it. Your lips open in a silent scream as you squirt around the base of his cock, the mess splattering onto Caleb’s abs as his pupils dilate at the sight. 

“Again.” 

Then, you’re being manhandled like a doll. Caleb locks you in tight, chest to chest, your tits squished against his pecs, swinging an arm around as he traps you in a headlock, the other slamming your hips down as your head goes fuzzy from the suffocation and bruising, delicious force of him ramming right into your cervix. “Do it again.”

Your nails claw at his bicep, spine arching into his body as the two of you melt into one another, sweat and cum and desperation sticking and dripping from you. Caleb’s strength was failing him too, each grind of your hips, the way your pussy is still convulsing and leaking around him breaking his restraint into something dangerous.

If it is what you wanted, if this is what you needed, then wouldn’t he be such a horrible older brother to deny you? 

He’ll give you what you want. 

He’ll always give you everything you want. 

“This is your fault.” Right as Caleb’s hips falter something else begins to lift you up, gravity itself binding you as his Evol rams you down. “Spoiled you rotten, can’t say no– fuuuck– can’t say no to you.” Up again, down again. Inhumane speed leaving you sobbing as his headlock doesn’t lessen, free hand now moving to your poor neglected clit, quick circles that have you drooling.

“Again.”

“Caleb,” the headlock, the pleasure, it leaves you gasping,”I-I can’t–”

“Again.”

You’re already cumming.

“You wanted this. Begged for this.” He’s drunkenly buckling up into you, hammering his hips into yours. Nose-deep into the crook of your neck as your vision spins from it all. “So take it. Take it, take everything your gege gives you.” 

Finally, he gives you what you wanted. The force of his release is dizzying, hot and addictive as you both feel his cum swell your insides. But the thrusts never stop, Caleb’s dick forcing globs of your mixed releases out as he’s already chasing another. 

“Greedy pussy needs more. You knew I’d cave, knew I’d fill you right to the womb—” Letting you gasp in air as his palm moves to press down on your belly. You feel every inch of him now. “—but ‘s still not enough, not until you’re swollen with it, begging me this time.” He moans at the thought, delirious, and you whine as you feel him fill you up once more, Evol pinning you as close as possible. Another orgasm. 

Immediately, his fingers are at your clit again, a punishing slap to your pussy enough to have you scream before Caleb’s palm comes back up to muffle your cries. Nips your ear in punishment.

“Stop whining and take it, listen to your gege and take it.” 

You’re fighting the force of his Evol as bursts of pleasure-pain make you thrash against the binds of gravity, moans and sobs broken behind his hand, nothing coherent left in your mind as you squirt once more. Your legs don’t stop shaking. 

Caleb can’t hold on much longer either. The sight of you completely losing control atop of him drives him insane, and the way your pussy keeps hugging him back in wanting more and more. He can’t stop. Doesn’t want to, never wants to after this.

You’re still in the middle of cumming as he thumbs over your clit once more, finally sitting up as the new angle forces you down even further into his lap, and you’re sure your Evol is amplifying his with how much power is behind every thrust, working overtime as Caleb’s hands are pinching and rolling your oversensitive nipples and clit, hugging you tight as his body convulses behind you. 

It’s overwhelming, his dick no longer thrusting but grinding, unable to part from you, the swollen head pushing past your cervix as his release keeps filling and filling you. You don’t feel it end, heat sticking to your insides and being shoved deeper, your body still spasming and helpless to do anything but take it. 

There’s too much of it, Caleb’s body collapsing atop yours as he trembles. His cock was so, so sensitive but he couldn’t stop cumming, feeling every strand fill you up past your limit, watching the slight bloat of your tummy as the rest leaks down your thighs, staining the mattress from god knows how long it's been. It’s so obscene, so filthy and it just makes him want to fuck you raw again. 

The first thing you can make out when reality comes back to you is the quiet laugh as Caleb drops his forehead onto your shoulder, panting into your skin as he leaves open-mouthed kisses there.

He doesn't pull out and you don't want him to either, the two of you falling back into the pillows as you moan at every slight shift inside you.

The old woman did not knock loudly. She never needed to. Two soft taps—measured, deliberate—echoed against the lacquered wood before she slid the door open without waiting for permission, as though the room beyond belonged to her as much as to the one inside.

Warmth spilled out first. Not heat—something heavier. The air was thick with perfume, not the light floral kind worn for passing glances, but something indulgent, almost suffocating in its richness. Honeyed. Spiced. Cloyingly sweet in a way that lingered at the back of the throat and made every breath feel slower, deeper. It curled through the room like smoke, clinging to silk, to skin, to the carved bed that dominated the center of the space.

The chamber was lavish to the point of excess. Draped fabrics fell in heavy folds from the ceiling, deep jewel tones catching the low lamplight and swallowing it whole. Gold-threaded cushions lay scattered carelessly across the floor, a low table set with untouched fruit and wine gleaming beside them. Everything gleamed, everything softened, everything invited indulgence—and yet beneath it all was a precision that spoke of control, of careful arrangement disguised as decadence.

On the bed, turned away from the door as if the world behind you were of no importance, you lay stretched along the silken sheets, one arm draped lazily beneath your head. Your hair spilled across the pillows in a loose, deliberate mess, catching the light in strands that looked almost too bright against the darker tones of the room. “Madam,” you said, voice muffled slightly against the fabric, edged with boredom sharpened into something dry, “if you’re here to joke about another buyer, you know my price-” “This one wants to play a game,” the Grand Madame interrupted smoothly. A faint pause followed, timed perfectly. “Fifty thousand ban for your time.”

You stilled for half a second, the words settling, measuring them, weighing the number with the instinct of someone who understood exactly what it meant. Slowly, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, turning just enough for your profile to come into view. Then your gaze shifted—past her.

Zuko stood just inside the threshold, the dim light cutting across his figure in sharp lines, his disguise carefully composed but not enough to hide the way he carried himself. You saw it instantly. The posture. The stillness. The quiet expectation of control. Wealth, yes—but not just that. Something harder. Something that did not belong in a place like this, no matter how polished it pretended to be. Your eyes flicked over him once, quick and precise, taking in everything worth noting in a single glance. Then your mouth curved. Not welcoming. Not warm. Interested.

“Fifty thousand,” you repeated, finally turning fully onto your side, propping your head against your hand as you studied him more openly now. “For a game?” Your tone made it clear what you thought of that.

“He insists.”

Your gaze didn’t leave him. “Does he.”

“If the price is insufficient,” he said, voice even, controlled, “we can negotiate.”

“Careful,” you said, tilting your head, studying him with something sharper now beneath the surface amusement. “You might offend me.”

“I doubt that.” Your smile widened a fraction. “You don’t know me.” "I know enough."

Your gaze flicked briefly to the Grand Madame, then back to him. “You can leave us,” you said lightly. “Unless you’d like to watch me take his money.”

The Grand Madame’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something approving in her eyes as she inclined her head. “Try not to be too cruel,” she murmured, already turning toward the door. “He’s paying for your time, not your mercy.”

“That’s unfortunate; I don’t offer either.”