#fae!reader

A lone weasel jumps out of the tall grass on his left and immediately leaps away with a startled, borderline scared squeak. Watching its urgent escape, the man can’t help but let out a low chuckle behind his tall collar - it always amused him how skittish animals got around his persona, sensing what people couldn’t, as if the beady eyes peered into his very non-human soul. Well, it sparks fear in the remnants of the hearts of the foe just as strongly, so he has nothing to complain about.

The ghosts however welcome him; appearing above the gravestones they float in the forms of translucent blobs, only several shaping into the images of the people they once were, silently following his figure’s every step with unblinking eyes, as if making sure their living companion has truly returned. How lovely, he’s been awaited. 

Pulling out a pocket watch he became the owner of recently, the man clicks the lid open. Ah, yes, he’s gotten ‘home’ much earlier than planned, he supposes he could spare this time for interaction. Maybe tonight he’ll be able to ease another poor soul’s pain.

‘The happy folks don’t check their clocks’ they used to say in Snezhnaya, but Flins could claim the same about the long-livers in general. ’One hour earlier’ became ‘one hour later’ somewhen among the graves, with the two siblings, burried close, having a fight about the most meaningless thing ever. And the fae was quite engaged to simply leave the scene.

He steps into the lighthouse with the first rays of sunshine. Placing his lantern onto the table with a soft clank, Flins notices a couple of bones laid out on a piece of grey felt - the bones that most definitely weren’t there when he left this evening. Though it can wait, he decides, reaching for the cloth and wrapping some animal’s (if he had to guess from just one fleeting glance, he’d assume it once belonged to a mole) remnants and then carrying the bundle to a set of drawers in another room.

Emerging back in what used to be a visiting officer’s room - now turned into the ‘treasure chamber’ - the man moves to one of the racks of shelves, undoing the clasps of his long coat in the process. Tonight - this morning - he barely pays attention to the locked cases with gems, coins and jewelry inside. What he seeks is an intricately crafted teapot, originated from Liyue and having been gifted to one of his own kind a long-long time ago to aid on the journeys.

Crafted from the Clearwater Jade and Cor Lapis it looks like a new addition to his vast collection. And if it really was? Well, Flins thinks with a chuckle, shaking off the long garment from his shoulders to leave it over the back of the armchair and manifesting a golden seal between his gloved fingers.

In that case, he’d call it his most treasured item.

Stepping foot inside your domain, or, as you called it, 'the Realm Within', is…an experience the Ratnik can’t get used to even two and a half months later. First you feel a pull, and your feet lose the ground. Then it’s like the sun breathes warm air into your face (and the first couple of times, he, who’d been accustomed to the cold nights, got an unwelcomed feeling of unease). And then suddenly you find your footing again, heavy boots planted securely on the wooden boards of the house’s first floor room.

With the feeling of spatial awareness returning, Flins registers the tingling that starts in his ears and then goes down his body, and the sudden tightness of his shirt on the back. Now he hardly even flinches, but the first time you brought him here, the fae was, well, shocked. Despite your words of warning, he could not quite believe that the energy of the adepti might be so potent that it would easily unveil his carefully crafted disguise.

Yet, here he is, taking off his gloves and unbuttoning the long-sleeved shirt with steady fingers, sliding it slowly down one arm then another and bending over the bed to lay it out next to the one you’ve prepared for him. One with an opening on the shoulder blades.

The wings - shimmering, cerulean just like his flames - flutter freely, excitedly, when he rolls his shoulders and flexes his back muscles with a sigh that seems to escape from the depths of his being he’s forgotten existed. The delicate things catch on his untied long hair, and he has to reach behind, dividing the luscious locks in two parts and moving them to the front. The strands next to his face are pushed behind the pointy ears.

With the shirt changed, boots replaced by slippers and hands washed, the man tosses his hair over just one shoulder and, threading fingers through the myriad of thick tresses, making three equal ones, begins twisting them. He works fast and, despite the length, in a matter of minutes finishes a neatly done braid. Now he needs a ribbon, and he knows where to find one.

He locates you effortlessly in one of the rooms - bless the sharpened senses (and the closeness of one of his kind). Sitting on the padded stool next to the window, you lift your gaze when he enters. Your eyes sparkle like the most precious gems, and none in his collection can rival the radiance (he’d know, as he attempted to search for one back then when you two were noble). Your hair, so soft and pretty (he still remembers taking a lock in his fingers and giving it a reverent kiss a long-long time ago), is held back with an intricate pin; the beaded extensions sway gently in sync with the stray locks when you move your head. Your lips– oh, your lips are pressed together in a ghost of a peaceful smile (the memory of them twisting in a shape of hopelessness still haunts him sometimes).

Your clothes are comfortable, but still can be called ‘modest’ - old habits die hard, and the lightkeeper would be dishonest, if he claimed he didn’t like the familiarity of the sight. It feels like you weren’t apart for centuries. He can almost trick himself into thinking you both are exactly the same as you were the last time you held his hand as his darling. 

Chasing the unpleasant memory like he would sometimes shoo the phantoms away, Flins spots the embroidery frame in your hands, which you lower onto your lap, securing the needle in the piece of cloth. Your eyebrow, however, lifts as your eyes fixate on the untied braid, held firmly by the ends in his hands.

“I’ll soon run out of those, Kyryll,” while taunting, your tone lacks malice; a wider, more tangible smile stretches the corners of your mouth, and you shake your head. 

The fae before you smiles too, unapologetically so. He can’t help but to keep and never return each ribbon you give him, desiring to get a new one every time he ‘visits’. To have something of yours, a trinket you offer just to him, the reminder that you were– are next to him and still have fondness in your heart to keep entertaining his whims.

Maybe one day he’ll tie them together and the length will be enough to wrap around your and his wrist and be indissoluble no matter how far away from each other you’ll end up.

“Ah, how unfortunate - to be scolded by a fair lady before even saying the words of greetings, I must’ve enraged you terribly. Accept my sincerest apologies.”

“Sincerest?” You repeat, smiling wider, tilting your head with a huff. “Mmm I do not believe you, Kyryll, but you know that I am benevolent. You are forgiven.”

Putting the embroidery set face down onto the windowsill, you stand up gracefully, brushing non-existent dust from the spotless clothes. The man - kindly excused - watches you not daring to blink, with those haunting yellow eyes you once were ready to submerge in and stay in their depths forever. Were..? Oh, right, the past tense no longer outlines your union.

The thought stirs something deep in your chest, and your wings flutter lightly.

“Good morning, my heart’s intended,” your voice drops to a softer tone, making the man shudder and almost close his eyes. You seize the opportunity, seeing his distraction as a chance to be bold, and lean up on your toes. A chaste kiss burns Flins’s cheek much stronger than a biting lick of Snezhnayan blizzard, but instead of chills wrecking his body, heat shoots through it in the form of azure fire that was stirred by your affection. He is sure, his ears lack the usual paleness right now, and it’s safe to bet that had he not left his lantern behind - it would’ve ignited.

Strangely, he doesn’t even want to curse the domain for stripping him from all of his concealing tricks and defenses.

“Good morning to you too, the flame of my soul,” He eventually hums, transferring the end of the braid to his left hand and lowering the right one to graze your elbow with just the fingertips in reverence. “It’s true, I am indeed aware that your benevolence knows no bounds,” huh, how skilled this man is with his words, especially twisting them to his benefit, you think with a chuckle you do not let out, “thus I dare to ask for the honor to hold your hands and lay kisses to them. But, alas, I need both my hands for that.”

“I haven’t even granted you this honor, and you are already making demands. What a greedy man,” you say that, but still step back to turn and walk to the broad chest of drawers by the opposite wall.

He opens his mouth to retort with a ‘you love me after all’... but no sound leaves it.

You loved him. Tenderly, having woven affection into each hushed murmur of his name; profoundly, yet having been forced to share a loving embrace in the dim corridors behind the heavy curtains, outside the ballrooms, just so the other nobles didn’t chew at you for the lack of reserve; desperately, holding onto his hands, swooning with happiness as he promised to propose to you properly and make the engagement official once he’d return from an urgent trip to the land he owned…

A promise he failed to fulfill, because His Majesty married you off to another like a trophy.

He knows you love him still. It’s in the way you recognized him instantly upon stumbling into each other at the Nashatown market centuries later. It’s in your eyes that lit up and welled up with tears the first time he whispered your name in disbelief. It’s the embrace you enveloped him in tightly the moment you were away from prying eyes, crying quietly into his chest, so-so happy he was alive. It’s his touch that you didn’t shy away from, letting your past lover cup your cheeks to have a better look at your lovely face, tuck stray strands of hair behind your ears - human like his, adorned with the earrings he gifted you back then, caress your hands, noting the roughness of the skin there where used to be softness of the silk, but bringing them to his lips the same manner he always knew how to.

It’s remarkable how quickly you two fell into some of your old habits, into the dynamic you once had, rekindling the flame of your relationship. It happened in a blur - your decision to settle in Nod-Krai, 'moving in' together, exchanging your life stories, picking up where your courting was cut off cruelly, building your way of life together…

It’s like our souls knew they’d eventually be reunited, you said one morning, standing on top of the lighthouse, shoulder to shoulder, his hand on top of yours on the railing, watching the sunrise, and Flins couldn’t agree more.

He knows you love him, and he is aware it’s hard for you to say it out loud after…well, everything. He understands, for he too can’t utter the exact words just yet. It’s been so long, and while he doesn’t doubt his own feelings, it’s painful. The memory of your somber expression and precious gems of eyes stripped from their sparkle as the noble, whose name and face he didn’t bother to remember, introduced you as his wife. The guilt that overtook him for betraying your hopes by being so tardy. The weight of the ring in his chest pocket, the ring that he got to propose, to match the earrings you were not wearing, the ring he had to get rid of, as he had no purpose for it, only to torture himself.

Because the word of the Belyi Tsar was the law to the fae. Because the ‘I love you’ wasn’t enough.

“It is impossible not to be greedy with you,” he whispers softly instead, but he is sure you caught that and smiled. You understand.

While your back is turned to him, his gaze travels to your wings. They are long - longer than his, resting against your back like a shimmering veil when inactive in contrast to his own which are always upwards unless he forces them to flatten. He could trace the patterns on the left wing forever with his eyes and still find a new pretty curl of a line. Doing the same with your right one… Inevitably brings attention to the fact that the three quarters of it are replaced by the canvas of the moon-illumnated midnight sky beauty.

You told him your story - how you used the stir caused by the ruler and regime change in the nation of Cryo to get out of the marriage you were forced into, how you lost your wing in an unfortunate turn of events following your fleeing from Snezhnaya, how last bits of strength left you in the land of Liyue, and how a kind-hearted adeptus found your unconscious body, took you in and nursed you back to health. 

The Fortune Weaver became a friend, a mentor, a familial figure you’d never had. She taught you one of her arts - embroidery, turning threads and beads and gems alike into marvelous patterns and images. She showed how to use a needle and a thread to lay out a path for luck, protection, recovery and many more. She gave you something to occupy your hands with, and it became everything for your shaken self, for your awfully depressed mind. Where he, exhausted and disappointed, chose to fall into slumber, you were gently guided to keep dwelling.

She bore the title of the Fortune Weaver not for nothing - possessing the ability to weave thread from anything precious, she worked tirelessly to find a suitable material to repair your poor wing. When none of the fabrics known to adeptus managed to replicate the delicate glow, the crystalline beauty and tangible firmness with their fibers, she turned to the local ores. 

The ‘original’ wing is light and trembles with every movement you make, while the other one… Of course it’s thin and translucent too, however the keen eye sees foreign weight in it. Kyryll can’t help but be enchanted by the chatoyant blue of the Noctilucous Jade. It’s perfect, even though it differs from your original color. The shimmering surface catches the light, letting it travel in every direction across the paths of patterns the adeptus so lovingly crafted for you, and he knows for the fact it glimmers in the dark.

Unique and precious - just like you.

“Choose.”

The fae blinks, belatedly realizing his mind has wandered off again, and he hasn’t noticed when you stopped rummaging through one of the drawers and returned to stand in front of him. He shifts the focus of wide-open eyes to you; they are so ridiculously big and round right now, that you can’t hold back a chuckle.

“What?” He blinks again, eyelids finally lowering enough to hide half of the haunting yellow disks.

“My, my, I wonder what’s on your mind,” musing, you lift the carved wooden box that’s gotten noticeably emptier since you arrived in Nod-Krai. “Come on, pick one, so I can tie your braid and offer you my hands for those kisses you promised.”

The man perks up instantly, being reminded of his own bargain, and glances down at the box’s contents. He doesn’t think twice before reaching for the ribbon that is matching your current outfit most. You notice, you always do, having recognized the pattern of his choice early in this peculiar arrangement. You think it’s adorable; it reminds you of his past habit to match the gem brooches on his cravat to your colors.

With the box put back to its rightful place, you return to the stool and lower yourself onto it. Flins follows suit: down onto one knee in front of you and offering you the end of his braid. Your fingers, roughened by hardships and pricked by the needle, brush against his lightly, and quickly undo some of the braided length, enough to insert the middle of the ribbon and weave it along the strands you begin twisting again. He settles his palms on your knees, waiting, watching you work on his hair with precision.

“Your four-legged friend stopped by,” the man shifts his gaze from your hands to your face, “He followed me all the way to the island from where I stumbled into him– or him into me? No matter. I gave him that meat you showed me, retrieved the bones and laid them out in your treasure room.”

“Ah, yes, I indeed saw those earlier,” he nods, lifting one hand to help you hold the end of the braid so you could tie a pretty bow, “and for that I’m most grateful.”

Before you can even think of retreating your hands, Kyryll catches both wrists in a gentle yet firm hold. The braid falls, smacking his chest and stomach, but he doesn’t care. Still standing on one knee before you, the lightkeeper brings both your hands closer, turning them so the palms are facing him, and plants a gentle kiss to each wrist. Thumbs smooth over the plains of your palms and slide further up to uncurl your fingers. He stares at the palmar creases, at the veins that are seen through the skin, at the small scars - he wants to kiss every single one. Again.

Your gaze has softened the moment Flins’s hands wrapped around yours. You watch him examine them closely, choosing where to plant the next kiss. The first time he did that, here, in your domain, it made you nervous; a memory of him leaning his cheek into your palm with a soft murmur of a praise for their delicateness resurfaced, and you got acutely aware that despite the creams and lotions you could no longer bring your skin to the perfect state. All the defects were out in the open, no longer concealed by your magic. But Kyryll paid attention to every single one, telling you that every small cut and callus told a story (he couldn’t wait to hear them all) and served as proof of your skill. Weren’t you proud of yourself?

You stopped covering your hands with magic when mingling with humans.

The lightkeeper meanwhile has showered both your palms with a series of small pecks, making the nerve endings there tingle and your wings tremble in response to affection. Next he switches to your fingers. Starting from where they meet with a palm he lays a path of kisses all the way to the fingertips, from the pinkie of your right hand to the pinkie of your left. He is slow and intimate, brushing his cold, slightly chapped lips over your hands in an act of quiet devotion, dedication. His own wings twitch slightly whenever a soft breath passes your lips and fans across his forehead.

As he turns your palms downwards to show his admiration to your knuckles, you suddenly stop him. Lifting his gaze, Kyryll peers at you inquiringly; if you didn’t know him so well, you would’ve missed the telltale signs of his pouting. How charming.

Twisting your hands, you free them from his hold and bring them to his face, cupping both cheeks. Your dearest immediately closes his eyes, leaning into the left palm and locking his fingers around your wrists loosely. The sigh that leaves his throat is one of adoration and relief, but your keen ear also recognizes lassitude.

Your thumb smoothes the darkened skin under his eye. Up close, with soft light cast upon his features, the tiredness etched into them is so much more evident. You can see his long lashes tremble and eyelids twitch from the movement behind them; his shoulders dropped just when you touched him, and the weight of his head - now more supported than simply held - is quite tangible.

“You need rest,” you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, playfully grazing a pointy tip with the pad of your finger. Male’s lips tug into a small content smile, and he turns his face even more into your palm, rubbing his nose against it. You decide to keep caressing the sensitive ridge in gratitude for his earlier affection (and definitely not because he is melting under your ministrations like a chunk of ice under the scorching sun). “I know for a fact that yesterday and the day before that, you spent the whole time filling out the reports, while I was out in the city.”

“They were piling up…” is his answer, murmured into your hand.

“And whose fault is that?” You can’t help but huff, poking his cheek.

Slowly, purposefully leisurely Kyryll peeks at you with half-lidded eyes. He is looking at you long and without blinking, as if committing your half-worried half-annoyed expression to his memory (he is), before shifting his weight from the bent leg and tucking it under himself too. Now, kneeling like a worshipper, not a gentleman, the fae releases your wrists and wraps both arms around your legs; his head falls onto your lap, cheek pressing to your thigh, allowing him to look at you with one eye.

“Mmm, definitely yours, dearest.”

“Of course,” you sigh with a shake of your head, expecting something along such lines. Oh how cheeky and shameless this man is. “Is it because any other time you’re off your Ratnik duty you can’t help but be attached to me?”

“I am but a moth drawn to your radiant light,” Flins doesn’t deny your little jab, but he can feel his ears heating up again, especially since you resume your caresses. “However, as you are sooo concerned for my health, is it soon that you plan to retire to bed?”

“I probably should...” he sees you turning your head to glance at the clock on the wall, and he turns his head too, but to face the window, offering his neglected ear to your soft brushes, “...but I wanted to finish my work first. It will not take too much time.” 

That’s when his gaze fixates on the embroidery set you left on the windowsill minutes earlier (minutes? Ah, it feels like he’s been here for hours).

“What marvelous piece are you working on today, my crafty lady? Another commission?”

“Actually it’s something for you,” he doesn’t jolt, or crane his neck to look at you, but his arms hug your legs tighter and two tiny flickers of flame bolt from the bases to the tips of his wings. “I want it to be a surprise, so if you are patient and do not peek, I’ll let you stay.”

To that Kyryll demonstratively shuts his eyes close and buries his face into the fabric on your thighs. Well, not exactly what you meant, but it’ll do. It’s not like you are about to make him spell the words of a promise to you out loud (though you definitely could). Besides you never specified he needed to make one, so it shouldn’t surprise you that this man, your dear cunning man, interpreted it to his advantage.

“Are you comfortable?” Your fingers thread through the thick locks at the back of his head, giving his scalp a few scratches. After hearing a muffled purr of an ’incredibly so’, you pat his head one more time and then reach for your tools.

Truth be told, you were only half honest when you said you were making something for him. It’s for the both of you - a pair of handkerchiefs, a belated sign that you officially accept his courting, an offering to solidify your union– reunion even.

Yours is already finished and tucked away safely, and his needs just a couple more stitches, so you can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of presenting the matching set on the next date Kyryll has already asked you out to.

And something tells you he’ll love it.

Across the island, by the shore, a towering figure bent to drink from the ice meltwater trickling into the sea beyond. 

Blood dripped from their open mouth and they howled as the salt water mixed with the fresh. They raised themselves again and slunk back into the shadows of the forest, following the waterline. 

—

As you trudged you recounted the tale the farmers had told at the inn the night before. A huge beast, black as night, had been spotted raiding their barn. The island was small enough that everyone knew each other, every sheep and cow and ploughed furrow was accounted for by name and the farmers shared the large barn that stood guard over the far end of the open fields. No stranger could have arrived without them knowing, no stranger could have tied their boat without the fishermen being alert. 

But this thing was no man, it was a beast, a fury, sent to torment them and the assembled village had turned to you. 

If it truly was a beast, something that could fly and steal cattle and destroy crops as the farmers claimed then you had no clue how you would slay such a thing. Your sword was heavy and sharp, but your skills were still basic no matter how you tried, this was not your calling. Your bow was taught and your arrows true, but practising with your brothers was a jest. 

After the weeks and months without them, perhaps it would be a blessing to sacrifice yourself for the village as they had. To be relieved of the torment of their passing. 

Sighing you pulled a hard biscuit from your pack and continued on into the dense trees that occupied one side of the island. You could remember far enough back to when the forest took over almost the whole island, your brothers and father clearing a space for the now well tilled farmland that insulated the village from the wildness beyond. The forest and the farm lived together side by side, each animal and plant having its own sacred place within the system. Each farmer conscious of keeping the wheel moving each season. 

No one had ever feared the forest as they did now. 

Your first night amid the trees past uneventfully, used to spending most of your time outside the creatures of the night didn’t scare you, neither did they fear you, choosing to approach your fireside. You weren’t entirely convinced of their being a beast within the forest either, no beast liked to cross the salt sea from the mainland, even if they could escape the Prison, there would be little for a monster here. You told yourself over and over, as sleep took you, that any monster would head to the middle, and not to the Isles. 

It seemed more likely that there was something trapped in the trees. Nevertheless you made sure to set traps around the clearing before finally laying down to sleep. 

There was a light in the forest, smoke pluming briefly before dying down into soft trails of grey that mixed with the iron sky, fading into the stars as the moon rose. Tempted by the smell it approached, its gait unsteady in the soft ground, weighed down by its own body, blood still spilling into the dry leaves. 

Closer, closer,  heaving its mighty body along the ridge of rocks that crawled across the middle of the island. It had been this way before, it had taken vegetables and savoured the earthy taste of them, raw and unwashed against its tongue. It had slipped into the barn and stolen a pail of fresh milk, still warm and buttery. 

Perhaps the smoke meant more food. But its body was tired, it groaned and slumped against a tree, wrapping into itself, a darkness thicker and colder than the world around. 

In the morning you kicked dirt over the small fire, putting out the flame. The forest was still yours to protect, even if it did harbour a threat. 

You’d sharpened your sword before sleeping, leaving it unsheathed by your side. Every arrow in your quiver had new fletching, the ash carefully crafted from the few small trees the village grew at its centre, a protection against any further cruelty coming to your shores. 

The forest was alive in the brisk early morning air, the sky pink and lilac through the canopy, rising with the mist like a slumbering dragon, stretching and yawning into a bright spring day. 

As you ventured deeper you found the ground already disturbed. When you were younger you may have doubted yourself, wondering if the tracks were your own. But you could navigate well enough now, the sun high above you leaning into the west of the island, its heat peaking. 

Whatever it was that had stumbled through here had done so some days ago, dragging itself if the scars in the soft soil were true. It was larger than you as well, larger by at least a foot. You trained your eyes up into the trees and sure enough there were broken branches there too. 

At a trot you ran between the trees, following the path of broken twigs and scored earth. There was something else, something in the air by each tree, metallic, like iron. Blood, you could almost taste it it was so strong. But it wasn’t until the seventh tree that you saw it, marked high on the bark, as if this tall beast had propped themself against it, a red smear. And underneath there were a few bones, feathers and leftover vegetables.

If this was a beast, it was a beast that didn’t like carrot tops.

It grew tired again. Sooner than last time. It looked into the sky, its eyesight blurring, as it made its way back to the cave it had begun to call home. Inside its howls were louder, but at least the rain couldn’t find a way in, at least the air was warm and the ground soft. 

It lay down and closed its eyes. 

The sky turned darker, thick clouds billowing overhead, the muggy heat of an oncoming storm weighing you down. It was too far to return to your village, you’d never make it before the rain started and you knew what could happen if the lightning struck the trees, so a camp in the forest was out of the question. 

At this rate you could make the other coast before the sunset and you knew there would be shelter there in the rocky outcrops before the dunes crept into the island. With a sigh you hefted your pack higher and began the uneasy walk through the rougher terrain. 

The rain began to fall just as you crested over the cliff top. A fisherman had advised you of the safest ways across this portion of the island but your feet still slipped on the shale as you made your way down the rocky face. You’d spotted the cave while the sun was still high. With a view down the banks of rock and sand it gave you a good look out, close enough to the woods for shelter but open enough to watch the weather change. On closer inspection there was a significant plateau in front of the cave, perhaps enough to start a small fire to heat the stone inside and cook something hot if you were lucky. 

Slowly you inched closer, sword drawn in case something wild was also sleeping inside. You hadn’t seen the blood trail for some time but you had a lingering sense of something that had you tightening your grip on the handle. It tugged at you, tempting you closer and making your heart beat wildly. 

Once inside the lip of the cave you dropped your pack and pulled out a box of tinder and some twigs you’d collected along the way, stacking up the kindling into a small fire. But without the light from the sun it was hard to even find a spark. With a sigh you abandoned your plans for heat and decided to set out your blanket and try to sleep instead, hopefully that strange feeling would pass while you dreamt and you could wake up refreshed and ready to search anew. 

The raindrops were heavier now, fat and cold and insistent, driving you deeper into the cave in search of a dry space where the wind couldn’t blow the weather inside.

As your eyes adjusted to the dusky darkness you began to pick out details of the cave, the jagged rocks on the other side, the low rock just right for resting your sword and bow on and, at the back, something large. The darkness seemed to move differently there, a different shade of black that sucked the light from the rest of the cave. Whatever it was, it was huge but still. 

Slowly you reached for your dagger, too frightened to lunge for your sword in case it made the darkness move too. But it stayed still. Carefully, you moved your feet over the rocky ground, your toes light and body ready to fight. 

The darkness didn’t move, but it did make a noise, a deep grumble and for a moment you wondered whether it was the darkness inside or the darkness outside that had startled you. 

Then it moved, slow and deliberate, the darkness expanded and flared outwards, turning towards you and despite everything your brother’s had taught you, despite your own mind begging you to stay silent - you screamed. 

It hurt, it hurt everywhere and all of the time. Its body ached, its stomach felt concave from lack of food and its head pounded from dehydration. The storm was close, the wind spoke to it through the rustle of the trees and the feel of the salt air, it spoke to it and told it to sleep, that the storm would pass but it should sleep. It shifted, stretching its aching body -

And then there was a scream. 

You lurched back, scrambling for your sword as you fell, grasping for anything that would protect you from the monster that continued to grow before your eyes. Up and up it stood filling the entire back of the cave, its body unfurling and its wings spreading into the rock above. The tip of one unholy claw scratched at the cave roof and you screamed again, turning to run from it, to take your chances in the rain rather than stay a moment with this beast. But it had other ideas, reaching for you with one huge arm it grabbed you and held you, the other came up to cover your mouth, its hand so large its thumb pressed against your nose. 

Not a monster. A male. With hands and arms, tanned and windburnt from days in the forest. 

“Please, stop screaming.” It growled again and you went silent but you didn’t still, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to free yourself. “Please,” it said again, and it was almost sad, pleading. So you stopped. 

He held you tight against his chest, his heart hammering, his muscles burning with the effort of his movement. Steadily he lowered you to the floor, careful to avoid the rocks that might trip or scratch you, and then let himself slide down the cave wall until he was once more huddled on the floor. 

“Please, don’t scream - my head.” He bent to lay his forehead against his knees, “the storm, lightning in the trees, don’t.”

He was so weak, so worried, so tired, he allowed his eyes to close, focusing on the sound of you moving. 

“Don’t.” He repeated and your footsteps moved again, closer, little rocks skudding under your boots, and then a small palm on the back of his neck. 

“You have a fever.” Your voice was gentle, now that the screaming had stopped, and your touch a relief, so cold, so soothing. “Rest.” 

Now that he wasn’t towering over you, there was something vulnerable and sad about the so-called monster. His voice stuttered as he begged you for quiet and, against your better judgement, you allowed the sound of rain rushing over the lip of the rock and into the sea to fill the space, echoing into the cavern like a heartbeat. 

Lightning flashed, lighting up half of his face in clammy, pale light. You took a step towards him, still wary, still conscious of the stories told to you by your brothers, and you touched his neck where his hair had fallen away in long strands about his face. His skin was clammy too and cold to the touch, but he shivered nevertheless. 

“You have a fever.” You said, matter of fact, “rest.” 

He nodded and all but fell sideways into the blanket roll tucked against one side of the cave. 

“You too.” He grunted, and for the first time you assessed your own damp clothes and the way you’d begun to shiver. Quickly you stripped out of your waxed cape and boots, placing them carefully in a dry spot. Your shirt and vest were dry, protected by the cape, but the long trousers you’d worn were soaked through. 

Peering at the male you made sure his breathing was steady and even before you removed your trousers and slipped between your folded blanket in just your shirt and cotton bloomers.

Sleep did not come easily for the male. He kept to his side of the cave but his fever made him grunt and shout in his sleep, his arms and hands lashing out along with his thrashing body. So you didn’t sleep, you observed him instead. Waiting for dawn to break the storm. 

Even in the moonlight he was still big, tall and broad, his muscles showing even through the dark leather and ripped linen of his clothes. And he was winged. The source of the fear and confusion for your neighbours, as well as yourself. Airborne he must have looked as majestic as he was terrifying. An Illyrian warrior, so far from home, circling the village. No wonder those who had glimpsed him had been afraid. 

Now those enormous wings were tucked around him, glowing a deep red every time the lightning crashed across the sky, tiny veins picked out around the edges as well as a large gash in his left wing. It lay almost limp on the ground while the right was tucked in tight to his side. It looked painful and blood oozed slowly from the delicate membrane but only slowly. The cut to his side looked much worse. 

The sun was almost back now, a wan light filtering into the cave and allowing you to survey the Illyrian more closely, especially the cuts and bruises that littered his body. 

At some point, he had removed part of his leather armour, discarding it to one side where the dark blue siphon blinked with light whenever he groaned. Without the protection of the armour and siphon, his side was entirely revealed through the matching cut in his shirt. It was deep and already looked swollen at the edges - infected, you were sure, probably the cause of the clammy fever. 

Despite yourself you allowed your tired eyes to rove over his body, the gaps in his shirt revealing the details of his toned chest, the swirling black ink running from his left arm, up over his shoulders and then down between his pecs and towards the v of his abdomen where the ink disappeared among a smattering of hair. 

Heat flooded your cheeks. He was an injured male, an Illyrian warrior, a revered race bound to protect your people. You were certainly not supposed to be drooling after him while he slept. 

You swallowed heavily and tried to concentrate on his needs, rather than your own. 

Daring to look again you followed the tattoos back up towards his face, long dark hair still tangled at his shoulders, a stubbled beard covered his chin, his lips tilting into a smile because - oh -  his eyes were open, bright summer sky blue, and tracking your every move. 

“Hello,” he croaked and watched as you shuffled back against the wall. 

He closed his eyes again, as if even having them open was painful. 

“Hello,” you whispered, keeping a keen eye trained on him. 

“I’m Bucky,” he said, his head still pounded. “Can you pass me the canteen from my pack?” Without looking he gestured behind him. 

“Yes.” 

He listened to the sound of you moving and then the cool metal of the canteen touched his fingers. You introduced yourself but as soon as he started to move you hurried back to your side of the cave.

Slowly, so as not to frighten you, he sat up and took a long swig before offering it to you. 

You looked tired, wrecked, but not injured. You were back under your own blanket and he noticed the too-big trousers you’d been wearing were now carefully arranged on a rock to dry. Bucky hummed to himself, that was why you’d scurried back when he’d opened his eyes. 

Your eyes flicked to the trousers too, and then back to him. “They were wet, I didn’t want to catch a chill.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, putting a hand to his side. 

“You’re hurt, and sick, you were feverish.” 

“I was, I probably still am.” He agreed looking you over with the same interest that he’d found in your eyes. 

You were a very pleasant sight after so many nights alone, a wildness to your bonny face and full body. Even hidden under the folds of your shirt he could tell that you would be soft and warm to hold. With a groan he closed his eyes again. To be held and cared for by a female, to smell the spring breeze in your hair, to taste the salt of the sea on your skin. Maybe he was halfway to the afterlife and an angel had been sent to rescue him. 

“Thank the cauldron and the mother.” He sighed happily, swaying sideways and passing out. 

The Illyrian had watched you with eyes that toed the line between hungry and hopeful. His bold gaze made you feel warm again, heat sitting heavy in your stomach, and then he mumbled something and slid to the side. 

Thankfully his arm stopped him from bumping his head, but looking at his now glazed eyes he had definitely fainted. 

Without thinking you sprang into action, rolling him carefully so that if he was sick he wouldn’t choke or swallow his tongue. His skin was cold again, but sweaty, sticking the strands of his hair to his forehead in curls. 

He needed help, quickly, but you had nothing of any great use in your bag. There was the canteen of water and some food in his own pack and a flask with what smelt like whisky in the side pocket. You withdrew the mess tin from your own pack and tried to make a fire again, hoping to boil enough clean water to be able to clean and dress his wounds. But the damp air and howling wind blew wet dirt over your kindling. 

Instead you tugged a strip of linen from the end of your shirt, trying to find the cleanest corner first and ripping higher until the long tails no longer brushed over your thighs but sat as high has your belly button, revealing your midriff to the chill air. Goosebumps raised over your arms, but you didn’t hesitate, tipping some of the whisky onto the cloth and gently dabbing at the gash to his side. There were splinters still protruding from the edges, which you pulled out as quickly as you could. 

Ash, an arrow, perhaps, or a long lance fired into the sky, judging by the way the gash lined up with the tear in Bucky’s wing. Bruises bloomed under his tattoos like flowers, colouring in the gaps of the patterns. He’d fallen, then, after the hit. Probably outside of the village. 

“Why didn’t you ask for help.” You muttered under your breath, placing a square of whisky soaked cloth over the wound and pressing down. 

“Because I was already ashamed.” Came the pained whisper. 

“Why would you be ashamed?” With a tug on his arm you helped him sit, passing a long length of cloth around his back, bandaging the makeshift plaster into place. 

With your arms around him you had no choice but to lean in close, your face below his, his breath fanning over your cheek. He held one end in place, leaning drowsily into you while you tied a tight knot on his right, well away from the injury. His left hand, clearly weakened by his fall, sat lightly on your hip, keeping you steady. 

“I let my battalion down, my friends down,I couldn’t fight.” His eyes closed again but his hands didn’t move, their hold surprisingly delicate until he began to slump to the side again, dragging you with him. “I was injured and, I’m not really sure why, but I flew here. It felt like the right thing to do, like the Mother was guiding me, so I let her.”

With a huff you tried to wiggle away, but his hand tightened. 

“I’m so cold, please stay.” His breath tickled your neck where he’d pressed his face into your collar bone and you couldn’t deny him. The tugging sensation in your chest was back and the thought of staying with him made you want to release it in a long contented purr.

Curling beside him you let his hand settle on your now bare waist, his broad palm on your back a relief from the cold air gusting through the entrance of the cave. 

Bucky’s breathing slowed to an even beat, his body relaxing into his dreams and you fell with him, pulled tighter against his chest, the smell of the whisky washed over you and his wing curled in, cocooning you in his embrace. 

You woke to find yourself surprisingly well rested. The storm, having blown itself out battering the beach and forest, had made way for a bright morning. Bucky’s hand was still at your waist, but you’d moved in your sleep you were now facing away from him, his fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt and tickling your ribs. From his steady breaths you assumed he was still asleep and allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the closeness of his body, the way his wing curved over you both, filtering the light into a pink glow and blocking the boisterous breeze now coming in off the sea. 

There was something right about the way he held you, comforting and close. Despite knowing you should rise, you simply couldn’t, as if that invisible rope that had led you in now kept you beside him. In his sleep he dragged you closer, his hand splaying higher on your stomach, his thumb pressing the underside of your breast. In response, your nipples pebbled and you promised yourself it was just the cold air, just the breeze and the morning chill and nothing to do with the wonderful pressure of the male’s body behind you. Nothing to do with his rich scent of whisky and peat and possibility. 

He hummed in his sleep again, nuzzling the back of your neck and then, suddenly, he was awake. His hand was gone and your chest felt cold without his touch. The sound of his wing claws catching on the jagged roof had you whipping your head around and staring into his eyes. 

“I’d say I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a long while.” A flirtatious smile played at the corner of his lips and you returned it. 

“Pretty warm under the wings,” you agreed, looking at the expanse of tense skin and complex structure that curled over you both, now flared out along the walls of the cave, and then, as quickly as the butterflies had taken flight in your stomach, they fell like lead weights.“Your wing, it’s not healing.” 

You reached out and ran a finger close to the gash. Bucky sucked in air and bit his bottom lip, his top lip curling over his teeth and eyes crinkling in pain. 

“Please - don’t touch me there.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No - yes - it’s - just don’t touch me there.” Bucky grit his teeth and shuffled uncomfortably, placing a large hand over his lap and using the other to guide your hand away gently. 

“I could try and heal it - if you let me touch. Like I did with your side.” 

Bucky looked down at the bandage around his middle as if it was a surprise, perhaps he really didn’t remember. Leaving his wing, you reached out and touched his forehead instead. He felt a little cold, you both did, but not clammy. The fever had broken. 

“Can I check your bandage?” 

He nodded, sitting up and pulling his ragged shirt up with one hand. Slowly you untied the knot and removed the linen, it was clean on the top layers at least and the bottom ones showed the blood slowing. His healing had kicked in, once the ash had been removed, and the previously angry and infected gash was now a pink cut, knitting together slowly. 

“It looks a lot better.” 

You sat back on your heels, unable to look away from the cut in his wing. It too had started healing, but it would be a while before it was closed. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, sincerely. “I’ve been out here a while and - I should have sought help sooner.” 

“I’m sure it’s not easy, last night you said you didn’t want to let your battalion down.” 

Bucky flushed, his nose and cheeks going rosy and you watched as the colour disappeared down his neck and under his collar. 

“I understand, it’s hard to be brave sometimes, you want people to trust you and know that you’re doing your best.” 

He hummed in agreement again, “and is that why you’re out here?” He raised an eyebrow, lounging back against the cave wall. The movement made his stomach tighten and you watched the muscles flex under his shirt, trying to recall a time when you’d seen any other male like this, when anyone at all had made you feel so hot all over. 

“I was sent to hunt a monster.” 

“A monster?” 

“It’s been stealing vegetables and eggs, a pail of milk as well. Scaring the farmers.” You looked out towards the brightening sky and then back towards him with a grin. “He’s not so scary though.” 

Bucky returned your smile, his eyes softening as he reached out to guide your gaze back to his own, “I’m glad I didn’t scare you too much.” 

“Only a little.” You laughed. 

Despite the gash in Bucky’s side healing over the next few days, he still remained in the cave during the few warm hours the afternoon afforded. His wings lay heavily behind him, the muscles weak and aching from his time spent dragging them around the woods and his injured wing searing with pain when he tried to extend it. 

With some help he made it to the cave entrance and watched as you picked your way around the storm swept beach in the distance. You’d been kind and gentle, despite your initial fear, despite the clumsy way he’d tried to get closer to you. And his heart swelled, hoping he could hold you in his arms again when the sun got low. 

Each night he'd asked you to stay next to him, and each night you'd agreed. But he was no fool, you pitied him and that would only last for so long until you refused. So he treasured every moment like a precious gift. 

It’d been a long time since a female had looked his way, weeks spent dragging himself around the woodland, months spent fighting Hybern on their borders, years spent training in isolation at Windhaven. All to miss this, the feel of the salt wind in his hair and the sun on his healing wings, to miss the feel of a gentle, feminine touch and the way his body responded, singing with happiness at the warmth of your body and scent of your hair. He ached to have you near again, just to know you were safe and cared for. Something in his chest pulled, as if his heart had truly skipped a beat and he closed his eyes against the delicious pain only to open them and see you again, your eyes locked on his, the driftwood you’d collected scattered around your feet, shock on your features. 

In a heartbeat you were climbing back towards him, running over the sand and up the dunes, scaling the rocky cliff face with strong, knowing leaps, and then you were in his arms, knocking him backwards with the strength of your embrace. 

“Bucky?” His name was half question and half exaltation on your lips and that feeling tugged at him again until his arms closed around your back, a hand on the nape of your neck drawing you closer. 

“Kiss me-” it was neither question nor demand, simply a statement of what you both so clearly needed. 

His lips were chapped when they brushed against yours, but warm nevertheless, he tasted of the sweet berries you’d found this morning on the edge of the woods and this close, your nose brushing against his, he smelt divine, perfect, the whisky on the bandages and the deep, musky, scent that was all his own. 

His uninjured wing curled around your back, folding you in a bubble of warmth where there was only you and Bucky and whatever this new thing was between you. You felt that tug again, the same deep feeling that you’d felt so often, and you pulled back enough to rest your forehead against his own. Bucky didn’t let you remove yourself too far, nudging your nose with his and pressing featherlight kisses to your cheek and jaw. 

“Bucky -” you sighed again and this time he answered, as sure and confident as the strong arms that tugged you against his body. 

“Yes, my mate?” 

Looking up at the moon, the old hag continues her journey through the dense forest.  Things were almost ripe.  They were finally aligning.  Her feet trudge through the damp fallen leaves, creating an eerie stomp and drag.  While everyone else was celebrating the Summer King’s birthday, she was completing her life’s work.  

No longer will she be overlooked as a crazy loon.  Her grandmother had set a beautiful plan into motion, and it was nearly complete.  This was the last blood moon before you were ready.  

Bending over the creek side, she drops a crystal into the dark water, before scooping up a bit of liquid, and begins her trek back to her cottage.  You would be ready, and you would be his undoing.  Perfectly formed and bred to be his greatest weakness.  Someone he couldn’t say no to.

Hearing the creek of the door, you scurry back in your cage.  Eyes shimmering as you look up at her, “You’re almost ready my sweet nymph.  Drink it.”

“No,” you whine, shaking your head.  “I don’t want to.  He’ll hurt me.”

“He won’t hurt you.  Sure he’s a king, and you are such a small little nymph, but this is what you were designed for.  Drink it.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, pulling your knees up to your chest.  “Don’t make me do this.”

“It’s already done, my child.  By the time the sun comes up the king will be so drunk off summer wine, and human pussy he won’t even think straight.  All you need to do is be seen.  I assure you, Ari will take care of the rest.  He doesn’t have a choice.  He’ll know.  Drink.  It.”

“Please, don’t make me do this.”

“It’s already done,” she croaks out as her hand slips through your cage.  “Don’t you want to get out of here?  Live in the sun?  There are worse faerie kings that could be fucking you.”

“Ari,” a squeaky voice screams in his ear.  Ari’s naked body rolls over on the bed, groaning.  “Ari!  It’s the first day of summer!”

“I know.  I’m summer embodiment,” he pulls his covers up around his face as a few bodies clamor out of his bed.  “Nothing happened.”

“Nothing is going to happen.  They are human.  They can’t change anything.  Get out,” Ari smacks at the little sprite, but he still stands there.  “Ari, it is my duty to get the king out on the first day of summer.  It is your job to be seen, and this birthday is different.”

“Yes, a cruel and unusual curse,” Ari sits up in his bed, glaring at the sprite.  His little friend hands him a pair of pants to cover himself up, but Ari walks over to the window completely nude.  “I will die today if I don’t fuck the right faerie.  Sounds like a fair trade off.”

“Yes, and you’ve made sure to stick your cock in every living thing in the glade.”

“And still this mysterious curse looms over my head.  I am to believe that pussy will be my downfall.  I have literally fucked every fae in Collingswood, and still my sun mark hasn’t fully filled in.  The only fae I haven’t fucked is you, Pip.”

“Oh.  No.  No, I don’t think my ass is your ticket to fully becoming summer.  I think that you need to listen to the curse.  You are to go by the creek bed.  Let her come to you.  And then…”

“Make her come on me.  Over and over again.  Isn’t that what I do?  Stretch them out, ruin them for other cock, and selfishly send them back to the human realm always longing for the golden cock of summer?” Pip rolls his eyes, starting to walk out of Ari’s sleeping quarters.  Ari ever the arrogant asshole.

“You always were full of yourself.”

“Humans were always addicted to me.”

“Because they’re human.  You’re not special.  They can be addicted to anyone of us.  The one to save you is not a human.  That is something you know.  Fine, lay in here, and drown in your covers.  Die on your birthday while Fala takes charge of the glade.  It’s what I would do if I were a coward.  Imagine being scared to fuck someone,” Pip slams the door to Ari’s room, and the fae king looks at his discarded pants.

He wasn’t scared.  He was tired.  Who knew that sex for thousands of years could make one tired.  Grunting, he grabs up his bottoms, and walks out into the forest.  By the creek he would wait.

Ari tosses a rock into the creek before laying back down on the mossy ground.  This was boring.  This would be his deathbed.  Right by the water.  Everyone would know that he didn’t rise to his full capacity, and died because of some ridiculous curse.  A curse that didn’t even make sense.

A twinkle of a giggle has him jolting up quickly, and there you are, sitting on a rock, bathing in the creek.  Your laughter was like music, and your skin glimmered in the sunlight.  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before,” he calls out to you.

Taking a deep gulp, you look back to the water, “You wouldn’t,” no one but Fala and her family had ever seen you.

Ari had never seen anyone more beautiful than you.  The embodiment of sexual desire.  Much smaller than his normal fae of choice.  The way he could have you twisted, and manipulated to suit his sexual needs has his head spinning.  And your wings were intact.  No fraying on the edges.  “You don’t travel much?”

“No,” even the simplest of words had your voice ringing in his ear like that most beautiful symphony, and he finds his body pulling him closer to you.  

“Where did you come from?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he didn’t even care where you came from.  Every part of his body was begging to have you.  It needed you.  “Who are you?”

“The King of Summer,” you didn’t even seem impressed, and didn’t reach for his hand as he tries to pull you out of the water.  “I can command you to do anything.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” you have never been given a choice of the matter.  Everything you did was because someone wanted you to.  He could command you by more than words.  Ari was gigantic.  Towering over you.  Thick cords of muscle over every inch of him.  You squeeze your thighs together, dreading the inevitable.  Your body ached, and craved him, and it was preparing itself to take his wide self.  

“What is your name?”

“You can call me, Nymph.”

“That is your title.  And you wear it well,” his eyes trace over every inch of your curves.  While he embodied summer, you were the epitome of sexual desire.  “What is your name?”

“I’m the only Nymph in the glade.  You can call me what my maker did.  Nymph,” Ari blows out a puff of air, and you whimper.  Having to look away from him quickly.  

“What’s wrong, Nymph?”

“It hurts,” you struggle to breathe as your arms wrap around your stomach.  “Please?” This isn’t at all what you thought it would feel like.  You had lived your whole life in a cage, knowing that you were created to be Ari’s cocksleeve.  What had once disgusted you, now was needing Ari.  Your body screams for his touch, but your brain doesn't want to ruin someone’s life.

“Please, my King,” Ari’s eyes roll in the back of his head at the sound of your pitiful voice.  He didn’t even know exactly what you were begging for.  Tiny little thing, shivering in the freezing creek, and needing her king.  “Ari, it hurts.”

“What hurts?” You point between your legs, and Ari’s mouth turns up in a crooked grin.  It was you.  The one that would allow him to fully be summer.  To hold the entire light of summer in his body.  “Oh, sweet Nymph, what would make you feel better?”

“I think…ow,” holding your stomach tighter, you have to look away from him.  There was only one thing that would take away this pain, and it was the one thing you swore you would never do.  “Ow…Ari!”

He didn’t even recognize that he had never even given you his name.  He was just as needy for you as you are for him.  Watching as your body starts grinding on the rock, trying to get a relief that will only come by his touch.  “Ari!”

“You have to tell me what you need,” he is mesmerized watching your desperate little body.  Trying to put into words what you are feeling.  Whether the pain was too much or you are too embarrassed he didn’t know.  You scream out his name again, spreading your legs apart, and it’s then he realizes that your hair was the only thing covering yourself from him.

He couldn’t think straight.  Didn’t realize that this was indeed a trap to lure him to you.  Couldn’t fathom how this seemed so perfectly placed.  But your tight little virgin cunt was trembling.  “Nymph?”

“I need you.  Need you to…don’t hurt me though.”

“What was that?  I think you forgot some words,” Ari is an experienced man, and judging by the giant bulge in his pants, he was going to destroy you.  “Nymph I need you to…”

“Fuck me!  Fuck away this pain!”

Pushing his pants down, his thick member springs to life.  Veiny and leaking precum, and you screech.  It was going to hurt.  His tremendous hands grab your legs and arms at the same time.  Keeping you unable to move or get away if you wanted to.  And you did not.  He stares at your weeping cunt, bringing you right up to his face as he watches your core throb and plead for relief.

“That is a tight little cunt.  Are you a virgin?” He asks, licking up your slit.  The sweetest dessert was right in between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whimper.  There was no way to get comfortable.  Ari was going to have you however he wanted.  He spits at your opening, bringing you down to his waist.  “It’s going to hurt.”

“Yes, my sweet, Nymph.  It’s going to hurt a great deal.  But don’t worry, I always make it fit.  But if the curse is correct, that tight little hole was made just for my enjoyment.  You’ll get used to it.”

“Get used to being used.”

“Exactly,” he moans, starting to press your channel over his tip.  “You’re mine.  Say it.  You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” your voice shakes as he pushes through your entrance.  You hiss.  It hurt, but the relief was immediate.  Warmth moves through your body, as he lowers you over him.  Gaping your hole wide before your balls deep, and chirping at the sensation.  “Ahh!” A cry of pleasured pain echoes through the forest.  

Ari stares at where the two of you connect, grunting at just how good your tiny little self took him.  A tunneled bump on your stomach showing exactly where he was deeply rooted in you.  “Holy fuck,” he pants out.  Power fills him up as the comfort flows through your veins.

You stare at his chest as his sun mark starts to deepen.  “Fuck.  Me,” he had to finish it.  He couldn’t just stand there, holding you on his cock like you were some ornament for his dick.  

“Use.  Me,” he is frozen.  Allowing his body to be taken by summer, but also by you.  His pretty little nymph.  He wouldn’t be dying.  Not today.

“I’m.  Yours,” you mewl, and his eyes snap back into focus.  “Ari, I’m yours.”

He lifts your body off before slamming you over his cock.  Using you as a personal sex toy.  He could throw you, and lift you like you were the weight of a leaf.  Tiny in comparison to him.  His motions are hard and fast, and you have never felt more satisfied.  Your life’s work was complete as he makes you go dumb with pleasure.

“That’s right!  I’m the fucking king!  This is my pussy!  Mine!” He screams to whatever fae is around.  Everyone had seen him fucking before, but never you.  Never saw his body gulp the warmth of summer in its veins.  Had never witnessed a man become weak over a woman like this.  

“Mine!” He grunts out, eyes on yours.  “Mine!” He is possessive.  Letting the forest know you only belonged to him.  You are the reason that he was coming into power.  “Mine!”

He still wasn’t saying the words, and you fear you will be nothing more than wet skin for him.  “My Queen!” And there it was.

Fala’s haunting words whisper into your mind as euphoria overtakes your body, “It’s simple really.  I control you.  I am your maker.  Ari controls you, he is your king.  But…should you become Queen, he has a weakness.  I then control you both.  And I will get my revenge.”

“Ari!  Ari!” You scream into the woods as your eyes go blank.  Nothing had ever felt better.  Nothing will ever feel better.  You were his.  And he is yours.  Ari growls up to the canopy as he empties his load into your stretched hole.  His cream starts leaking down his thighs because your body just couldn’t handle anymore.  Just not now.  He still had some stretching to you.

“I control you both,” Fala whispers as she heads back to her cottage.  “I control them both.”

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