Summary: A second part to Money, Power, Glory.
Basically that Tom is the king of England, and you are a princess of France. To end a long war an arranged marriage is set between you. However, you don’t turn out to be the wife he’d imagined and he doesn’t turn out to husband you imagine.
Basically imagine that a boisterous, cocky and brave Gryffindor marries a bloodthirsty, scheming and clever Slytherin. And they’re both really horny about that.
Or, since the last part was inspired by Othello, this part is the Macbeths. Whatever.
Also slightly inspired by Love Love Love - The Mountain Goats
Themes: King!Tom AU, period drama (16th century England), hate/love relationship
Word count: 6k
Warnings: This is not a morality tale, don’t expect anyone to be well behaved or kind. Mentions of death and blood. Smut (+18), biting and slightly rough sex but nothing too extreme (still very much +18 though, so please respect that), also lots of swearing.
“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
Mary Shelley
church
“I do wish you wouldn’t make such a terrible fuss every time” you say quietly, careful as to not let your voice echo. Your lips hardly move as you speak, and Tom is the only one that can hear you over the loud organ music playing as you walk down the aisle of the church. Your hand is gracefully placed in his as he leads the way.
Tom looks bored, as he always does attending mass, and you feel everyone's eyes on you as you take your seats in the first pew. The music stops and Father Alexander takes his place at the altar and is lit up by a multitude of colours as the sun shines through the stained-glass windows around him. In his slow and old voice, he begins his sermon.
“All I’m saying is, this is a fucking waste of time” Tom whispers back. His hand is still holding on to yours in a tight grip. “I could be planning the tournament right now instead of just sitting here.”
You manage to not roll your eyes. “Oh please, planning? Don’t you mean you and your posse could be fooling around on horses and playing with sticks in the mud like toddlers?”
Tom squeezes your hand in warning, and you lay your other hand atop of his, squeezing him even harder back. “Don’t be childish” he hisses.
This time you have to close your eyes in order to stop yourself from rolling them. You hope that if Father Alexander sees you, he’ll assume that you are deep in prayer. Which you are. Praying for the strength not to strangle your husband.
“I’m not childish, I’m not the one playing battlefield in the backyard with my brothers instead of taking care of state business, dearest.” You manage to keep your voice controlled and low but the resentment in your words are clear.
“Come on darling? You’re telling me you’ve never dreamed about being on a battlefield, swinging your sword and killing your enemies, feeling the rush of blood and adrenaline, fighting for your survival? For your place in history?”
“Have I dreamt of being covered in sweat and mud and blood and then having some moron trying to put a sword in me? In all earnest no. It seems an unnecessarily painful way to die.”
He turns to you, ever so slightly as for Father Alexander not to notice, and the multicoloured light from the window moves to fall on him instead, turning him red and golden. Of all the people in church the light has chosen him to fall on and it seems fitting somehow, that he should be chosen. He’s in his fine robes, dark for church, with brown locks of hair falling over his face and his head is light of a crown. “Then what do you dream of, my dear wife?” He says, voice low and almost seductive.
You meet his eye, see both the challenge and the genuine curiosity in them, and you answer, “roses.”
“Liar,” his quiet voice is laced with venom. “You dream of me.”
“Yes, I live on nothing but dreams of you, sweet husband, I don’t need food nor air or sleep, just you. I think of you all the time” you whisper in a mock-sweet voice. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to live on nothing but dreams of you, and then you want to despise me for it. To be able to mockingly complain to all your little chums about how silly your wife is, how needy and clingy she’s acting. How she’s suffocating you with her love. I will suffocate you one of these days, but it won’t be with love.”
Tom snorts loudly and you shove him hard in the rib with your elbow. He moves his hand to his mouth and lets out a fake cough to try and save face. Father Alexander pauses in his sermon and gives you both a disapproving glare before continuing to drone on in his tired old voice.
“You know I always imagined that if you were to kill me, you’d choose poison.” He whispers, looking straight ahead again.
“Poison?” You hiss. “You think if I'd risk murdering you, I’d choose poison? A quick and painless death? No, not for you. Besides. If I murder you then I won’t be queen any longer and since you are yet to bless me with children, I will be removed from court and quite possibly murdered. So, don’t waste any time worrying about me murdering you, my darling. Daydream of battlefields instead.”
He’s quiet for a few long moments, seemingly struck silent, before breathing out “well that will make me sleep easy at night.” The sarcasm is heavy in his voice.
Father Alexander continues to speak and Tom sighs and squirms in his seat, impatient for it all to be over. “Still think this is ridiculous, we are wasting our time here.”
You sigh, “how many times do we have to go over this? These people believe that the crown on your head is God given. The church is the foundation on which all your power lies and if you fall out with them, they are an enemy you cannot defeat. Remember King John? How he was excommunicated?” You’re looking straight ahead to not raise suspicion from Father Alexander. You don’t want to make him think that he doesn't have your undivided attention. “If you show doubt about God's existence, or if you are reluctant in showing your faith, then what on earth does that say about your right to the crown?”
Tom lets out another long, bored sigh and you struggle yet again not to roll your eyes at him. Removing your hands from his tight, warm grip you lay one in his lap, and you feel him through his trousers. His whole body stiffens next to yours and he breathes in sharply.
“That ought to keep you interested,” you smirk. He’s hardening underneath your palm as you move your hand up and down his length through the fabric.
“I hope you know” he murmurs through gritted teeth, “that I’m not walking out of this fucking church with a hard on. So, you better finish what you’ve started, dear wife.”
tournament
A summer tournament has been arranged to celebrate the union between England and France and knights from all over Europe have travelled to join in on the competitions and the feasts. You have spent months helping with the arrangements. Flowers, food and horses have been sourced from all over the country. Knights have been travelling for weeks upon weeks to participate, for a chance to fight for glory and for the prize sum of one hundred golden coins.
You are sitting on a golden throne in the stands, white roses surrounding you: braided into your hair, embroidered on your dress and twisted around the railings of the stand. Around you in the arena, built specifically for this occasion, stand the onlookers, watching the competitors and cheering for their champions, waving their flags and chanting for blood with eager voices. Beside you sit the rest of the court, watching quietly but with keen eyes as the violence unfolds in front of their eyes in the stadium below. Next to you, not on a throne but on a beautifully carved chair, sit Sir Richard, dressed for the occasion in his finest robes, in his house colour; blood red.
He leans in closer to you, his eyes still on the fight below, and he says in a quiet voice, “he’s a fine fighter, the king.”
As if Tom had heard this, he swings his sword at the other fighter. The steel catches the sun as he attacks his opponent, and it almost gives the impression that it is thunder that strikes the man down, and not the force of the blood-thirsty warrior standing above him. The king is clad in his armour, but arrogant as ever he has removed the helmet, and so the sun shines down on his dark curls. Leaving his head unprotected.
Tom is winning of course. He had won the jousting too. Only the archery had humbled him a little with a 9th place, as it is not where his talents lie, having always preferred close combat. Tom prefers to do his killings up close and personal.
He’s such a beastly person. And yet.
You can’t look away.
His competitor, a mountain of a man, has gotten up from the ground and reaching for the sword he bellows loudly and lounges at Tom. You almost expect him to flinch, to hide, to run. But whatever else Tom is, brash and bold and brutal, he’s not a coward. Even if you’d never admit it, you can’t help but be impressed at how bold he is in the way he doesn’t jump out of the way, in the fact that he doesn’t even flinch, but instead he stands his ground. He fights back. He looks completely unfaced with it, almost excited at the change of pace in the fight, and he blocks the blow from the giant with ease.
The fight goes on for nearly half an hour. Tom takes his fair share of hits to the head and his armour gets baptized with a few new scratches from his opponent’s sword. It would be a lie to say that you are not on the edge of your seat the entire fight through.
In the end he wins, as you knew he would.
When he is given the flower wreath of white roses and his one hundred golden coins and is declared the champion of the tournament by Sir Richard, Tom straddles his horse and rides around the arena one last time to the screams of excitement coming from the crowd. He looks like a victor, his previously shiny armour now dusty and worn. There’s blood on his lip and sweat on his brow and dirt on his cheek but he smiles brightly at his jubilant audience. You look at him and you cannot help but to think of Hercules, of Ajax and Achilles, of heroes of old, as he basks in the glory of his victory.
He opens up his sack with gold, the prize for his hard labours and the proof of his triumph, and he throws piece after piece into the cheering crowd, each golden coin reflecting in the sunlight before being snatched up by eager, grateful hands. He gives every single coin away.
There are things we do for money and things we do for glory.
When his money bag is empty he steers his horse around and he rides around the arena until he’s in front of the royal stands. Pulling out his sword, still stained red with blood, he places the white flower wreath on the tip and then, looking you straight in the eye, he guides the sword with his strong arm and the flower crown flies through the air before landing in your lap. A few of the white rose petals are stained with dirt and blood.
There are things we do for glory and things we do for power.
feast
As you arrive at the feast you immediately locate your husband. Tom has a goblet filled to the rim with blood red wine and he throws his head back in a barking laugh that can be heard even over the music and the chatter. He’s howling at something Tuwaine has just said and some of his wine spills out on the wooden floor around him. He doesn’t care, just slaps his comrades arm in approval, before telling him something that must have been equally as amusing, for the whole circle of friends around him burst out in laughter too.
Harrison is standing beside him, and for a moment his eyes meet yours across the hall. There’s something quite elegant in the way the nobleman stands; polished even. Tom stands with his legs spread wide, and his posture confident, proudly taking up space and looking constantly ready to throw himself into battle. More lion than man. Harrison is different, slim and almost unnervingly unmoving, his spine straight and unbent like iron. A different animal altogether. He raises his cup to you and you think you can see the hint of a smile on his face. Tom turns to see who Harrison is greeting and as you raise your cup back at the blond man with a seductive smile on your face the phantom sound of Tom’s knuckles cracking and his jaw locking rings in your ear.
Good.
You need him riled up tonight, on edge, you need anger to cloud his judgement. For he still thinks of you as a weakness, an indulgence he cannot afford, and rare are the occasions on which he frequents your bedchamber. Only when he cannot hold out any longer and the temptation becomes too much, when it feels impossible to keep away, only then does he give in.
Because he’s scared, scared you’ll get under his skin, far deeper than he can get under yours.
Normally you would enjoy torturing him just for the sheer childish pleasure of it, to see him squirm and second guess and fight with himself. You’d drag the teasing out for weeks, watch the frustration build and build within him, his madness for you growing stronger and stronger, until one day -
But you are still to be with child and time is slipping away from you, for a childless queen is considered a weak one. And so, let the games begin.
Tom is still looking at you, sulking, and swallowing down more wine. You are wearing a red velvet dress, embroidered with gold, with the cut in the front low and your breasts pushed up. Raising the cup to your mouth to hide your smile you sip some sweet wine. Tom had thought his greatest challenge today would be to win the tournament but oh, how wrong he’ll be.
A girl catches your attention from the side of the hall. She is blatantly staring at the king, making eyes at him and toying with the pearls hanging around her neck.
Oh, oh no no no sweetheart, as if that’s likely to happen. Imagining yourself strolling over to her, taking her silly pearl necklace in your hand, and twisting it until she chokes, you sip on your sweet wine. Tom, however, doesn’t seem to notice her, but is instead yet again laughing at something Tuwaine has said, his arm slung around the shoulders of his comrade.
Unperturbed by the king's complete lack of interest the young woman keeps on making eyes at your husband, fluttering her eyelashes and pushin up her chest. Recognising her as Sir Richard’s oldest daughter you consider your options. You are under no illusion, no matter how sweetly Sir Richard treats you, and has always treated you, ever since you were a little girl, you know that he would gladly see you exiled or even executed in order for his daughter to marry the king. You also know that while you remain childless - and especially as long as you’re without a son - this will be a childishly easy task to achieve. And Tom, no matter how sexually infatuated he may be with you, does not possess any deeper emotions for you than lust. Were he to be enamoured by someone new he would drop you in an instance for his new shiny toy. Looking over at the gray haired old man standing in the corner, talking with the bishop and Sir George Lessing, sipping his wine, you see him looking over to where his daughter stands, before turning to look at Tom, and then he smiles.
And you realize the scheme he’s planning.
Boiling with rage you step away from the scene for a moment and out into the cold evening air of the terrace. Standing there on the side you inhale deeply, or as deeply as your corset will allow, before breathing out again. You need to be in control of your anger, evaluate the situation, and then take action. For a wrong move now would have deadly consequences.
Staring out into the palace garden, sunken in darkness on this moonless night, you consider your options.
You could threaten her? Promise her that if she ever so much as talked to your husband you would have her beheaded and showcased as a warning for all the other little fools who dare to cross you. But no, no that would only make her want him more; knowing just how forbidden he is and what a challenge it would be to win his adoration. Besides, she would take your threats as an assurance that she actually had a chance with the king - that she was a worthy opponent of you.
No, no you can’t afford to openly make her your enemy, well aware of the young lady’s popularity amongst the other women at court. It would not do to openly threaten her, especially since you suspect that the girl will just run along to her daddy and cry about it, she looks like the kind who will, and then you’ll be in real trouble. For Sir Richard’s influence amongst both the church and the other nobles and if you threaten his family for nothing but suspected plots then there will be hell to pay.
And you can’t lie to her, unfortunately, and say that your husband is a terrible lover. You don’t give him a bad reputation around court. He needs to be admired after all.
So maybe, maybe, since you cannot be her enemy, you must be her friend, and inform her of the dangers of a ruined reputation at court. That you can see her infatuation with your husband, and that you can understand it, for after all he’s such a handsome man, but that a romance between them simply cannot be. For his heart is already taken and his loyalty will not sway.
And since she will be your friend, attempting to seduce your husband will feel less thrilling, less alluring, and all the more cheap.
Yes, that is the route you must take. You must become her sweetest friend, her closest confidant, and make her understand, without ever sounding as if you blame her, that when she inevitably fails to seduce your husband and the whole court find out about this failure (“for intrigues like these always come out one way or another, darling”) then along her illusions of becoming the new queen the prospect on her receiving any decent marriage proposals will disappear in front of her eyes like smoke. And, kindly, you will warn her that she might end up with someone like Lord Henry, a middle aged bachelor usually seen with a wine soaked beard and an ill temper, as her only suitor. And instead you will steer her in the direction of Willoughby Forsyth, a handsome, dashing young knight, whispering in her ear about his promising role in the army, of how handsome he is and how rich he will be once his father passes. And you will sigh and add how unfortunate it is that it’s so hard to impress him. How he has already turned down so many other ladies at court, saving his heart for that someone special.
And then, you will watch as any thoughts of Tom will disappear from her empty little head and all her flirting will be aimed at young Willoughby instead.
Taking one last deep breath you lean back against the wall, smiling to yourself, once again at peace with the world; looking forward to setting your plan in motion.
“I told you, we have to be careful” a voice whispers in the dark night. A voice full of anxiousness and anger.
“Oh, come on now, the king's too busy living it up with his chums to care what we’re discussing” another voice says, this one more impatient.
You sink back into the shadows, pulling your skirts closer to you in order to take up as little space as possible. You recognise the first voice as that of Sir George Lessing, and the second one you’re pretty sure belongs to a nobleman by the name of Sir Alfred Britton.
“I tell you, if we can only convince Sir Richard to join us then we’ll have all of Cambridgeshire behind us.”
“There are still not enough of us to openly show anything less than utmost loyalty for the king. If we are to rebel then we need a much larger army than you or I or Sir Richard can gather, especially since we need to move in silence.”
“We will have to gather forces from abroad” says Sir Britton eagerly.
“Well, we can forget about France now that the king has married that french harlot” Sir Lessing spits out. “The Russians are unreliable, and the price they’ll ask for will be much too high. The Swedes are too busy fighting their neighbours and the Spanish are currently so wealthy they could buy us all. The Prussians might be our greatest hope at the moment.”
“We might gain some support from the Netherlands as well” Sir Britton says, refusing to have his hope in the rebellion stamped out.
Sir Lessing sights “yes, but as I’ve told you, if we gather support from these countries then we need to pay them back too, and the question is if we can afford it. But we will not discuss it further here, it is not safe. I will invite you and the others we’ve convinced to join us to come join me at my estate sometime soon. We will discuss things further then.”
You stand very still, carefully making sure that not even your breathing can be heard, until you hear the sound of footsteps until you are sure that you are alone on the terrace once again.
Cut the head off one beast and another one shall take its place.
Bedchamber
He comes to you that night, as you knew he would, unable to stay away.
Your maid has just left, having freed you of all your clothes apart from your white nightgown and relieved you of the tight updo your hair was previously in, and you are standing by the fireplace, warming your hands. He comes barging in, as he always does, but upon seeing you standing there, calm, collected and completely callous regarding his sudden appearance.
“You haven’t congratulated me” he says, though it sounds like the words are coming out rather unwillingly, and he can’t quite keep the sulking tone out of his voice. “For winning the tournament.”
You turn your hands in front of you to warm the backside of them as well, keeping your eyes on the flames and away from Tom, but it’s harder to keep the teasing smile away from your lips. “Oh, dearest, bravest husband, forgive me for my neglect. And congratulations on your heroic victory.” But your voice sounds unusually flat, even to your own ears, your thoughts miles away from this conversation.
Yet your words still have an effect on him, you can practically feel the annoyance radiating off of him in waves.
“Well, everyone else was certainly impressed by it” he says sulkingly, and goddamn, if he doesn’t sound like a child throwing a tantrum because his mother isn’t paying him the attention he thinks he’s due.
You don’t answer, mind still far away, just turn your hands over yet again, staring into the flames.
And then he’s in front of you, his hand pressing up your chin until your eyes meet his, and there’s no trace of a petulant child there; just evidence of a king sensing danger, and maybe the eyes of a worried husband too.
“What’s happened?” he asks, voice gently but stern. He will not be swayed or fooled or distracted until he has the truth out of you.
“You have enemies within this castle. Enemies that plot your demise; both our demise.”
At first you sense disbelief, but then something hardens in his dark eyes. With his hand still holding on to your face he strokes your cheek, almost absentmindedly, before he asks through gritted teeth “who?”
Taking his hand from your face you lead him to the comfortable chair by the fire, with its feathery cushions and its soft furs. Seating him down you straddle his lap, his hands moving to your lower back, holding you firmly in place. And then, in a low voice and with your hand resting just above his heart, as the fire behind you cracks and sparks and warms you both, you tell him what you overheard earlier in the evening.
When you are done speaking his heart has begun to beat hard against his chest, his breath comes out deep, his hands around your back have tightened and something like a low growl escapes his throat.
“I’ll fucking kill them with my own hands” he whispers, every word laced with venom.
“That would be foolish.”
Your words catch him off guard and he stares up at you in disbelief. “You want them to get away with it? To let them free when they’re coming for my throne? When they’ve been planning the demise of me and my family?” He looks disillusioned with you. “I wouldn’t have suspected that, not from you.”
You move your hand from his heart and to his lips, set into a thin line of disappointment, his jaw clenched tight with held back anger. Outlining the shape of them with your fingertip you speak, quietly and calmly, “I have no wish to spare them anything, but we must tread carefully now, honey. If there are noblemen who aren’t pleased with the circumstances then we need to find out who and why, otherwise it will just be like cutting one head off a hydra. We need to find each and every one of them, find the heart of it, and then we strike.”
The disappointment has disappeared from his features, though he still looks grim. He’s silent for a moment, thinking over your suggestion. “And how will we achieve that? By lying and scheming?”
“We will do it by any means necessary to protect our family.”
His eyes meet yours then, intensely and unwearingly, and in his dark eyes you can see the reflection of the dancing flames from the fire. His hands cup your bottom and he moves your body closer to his, until you are straddling his cock, and your breasts are meeting his chest. The thin material of your nightgown has slid up and is bundled just above your hips, your cunt naked against his trousers, and you can feel his cock growing underneath you.
And then he speaks again, voice low and dangerous, “I don’t know if I can do that, if I can hold my rage back like that. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be in the same room as these men and just let them carry on living. Be civil towards them when I want to rip their throats open with a blunt sword.”
“I know you think I’m a scheming witch, and I am. I’m the most scheming, conniving backstabbing, manipulating cunt you’ll ever meet, but you think you know anger better than me?” You ask, voice venomous. “I was born out of and raised on rage. Sometimes I get so angry all I see is red, when I want nothing more than to destroy and kill.” You move your hips backwards and forwards, rubbing down on him, his eyes never leaving your face as you speak, though his breath catches in his throat.
“Believe me, it would be so satisfying to just once give into my anger” you continue, still moving over him. “To bite and claw and kill. But will it bring me closer to my goal? To what I really want? No. No, most likely the consequences of my actions would kill all my hopes and dreams, they would all disappear in front of my eyes, like smoke”
The flames from the fire keep on dancing in his eyes as he takes you in, almost absentmindedly steering you hips over his groin with his big hands.
“And so I bite down on my anger and I swallow it whole” you continue, voice husky and sweet, your lips just hovering over his. “I keep my rage under control. Like a well trained beast. And I think about what would actually be useful. What would bring me my prize? I keep my head cold and I plan and I scheme and then I act.”
Your hands move down to where your cores meet, and as you speak you begin to untie his trouser. “Only fools let their feelings be in control of them, Tommy. And those fools will suffer the consequences from it. They will act out when their judgment is clouded by anger and they will suffer for that. Now, whatever else I might be; vain, vengeful, and vindictive. I’m not a fool.”
Bedchamber
No, he thinks to himself. No, my wife is not a fool. Lethal perhaps, but not foolish. Nor can he afford to be, not anymore.
Bringing one hand from your lower back he brings it to the back of your head, twisting his fingers into your hair, and bringing you closer to him until your lips meet his in a kiss. It’s slow, but heated, and quite frankly filthy in the way you keep rubbing against him, your hands feeling up the muscles of his chest and arms. It’s filthy in the way that it’s so far from chaste or pretty or pure or decent. Just raw desire playing out its course.
It’s not long until you’ve freed him of his trousers, and you’re straddling him again, as he guides himself into you as you lower yourself down. And then he’s inside you again, for the first time in two weeks, and he can’t help but groan out. With his head thrown back against the chair, his mouth slightly parted and with his hand yet again in a firm grip around you buttocks, he admires you with hazy eyes as you move up and down against him, your breasts pressing against your thin nightgown.
Leaning forward he kisses you on the soft place just above your collarbone. “I want to find the very softest, the most tender part of your body, and kiss you there” he says murmurs against your skin and between kisses.
“Liar,” you say, breathlessly, “if you’ll ever find the softest part of me you’ll bite down on it.”
“Well, maybe,” he says, kissing you up your throat, smiling against your skin, “but I’d kiss you good and tender too.” Pulling at your nightgown until you’re released from it he throws it on the floor, he leans forward to kiss your breasts. Cupping them in his hands, stroking the soft skin, teasingly pinching your nipples and interchangeably kissing and biting you.
You’re riding him in the chair, your breaths coming out in short gasps and groans, your hands tugging at his hair until he growls against your chest. Taking your thighs in a firm grip he lifts you up into the air, as you clung onto his shoulders, and he carries you to the bed. Pulling off the furs on the bed he lays you down on the soft sheets, immediately joining you, placing himself on top of you, kissing every part within his reach, sucking and tasting you until he can feel the muscles underneath your skin tensing and you’re pulling his hair again, until he’s over you again, kissing your lips, opened mouth and wet and filthy - the furthest thing from chaste there’s ever been.
And then he’s sinking into you again, almost torturously slow, losing himself in the feeling. You're hot and wet around him, your nails sharp as they dig into his back, begging him to go faster. But he can’t help but to lose himself in the feeling of you tightening around him. He groans into your hair, his breaths hot and short, until his pelvis is flush against your hips.
“So fucking warm around me” he murmurs into your ear, sucking at the tender skin of your throat, cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples. “So fucking wet and and tight and sweet. His hand moves down to where your bodies meet, right down to your clit.
“There” you moan.
“I know” he says, and although his voice is thick with lust he knows he sounds smug as well. “Can feel you clutch on to me every time I touch you here.” He can feel you try to push back, try to hold him inside you before he pulls out again. It’s with a savage sort of thrill he kisses you, because he knows how much it annoys you that you can’t hide your genuine want for him. For a moment he thinks you're being unusually docile about it, but then you bite down hard on his lower lip, hard, and he can’t help but to smile into it.
The sound of sex fills the room as he fucks into you. It’s fast, and, fuck, it’s probably a little too rough, but he can’t help himself. He doesn’t know if it's the anger of having been betrayed, or maybe, just maybe, it's the fear clawing its way up his throat, that has him so desperate. The fear of not only are his enemies coming for him; but they’re coming from you as well. That maybe he will lose you. But the fact that you’re here, your damn near wantom moans in his ear, your hands tugging at his hair, dragging your nails down his skin, biting his at his collarbones, and he’s fucking you hard, watching how your breasts move with each thrust. He can’t look away, can’t tear his eyes away from you, your lips wet with his spit, your eyelids half open and pupils dilated with lust, as he moves in and out of you. Taking your hands in his he pins them above your head. He needs this, needs this to remind himself that you are his, that he’s the fucking king and they can’t tak you away from him, cannot get away with threatening either one of you. Needs to remind his hands, his mouth, his cock of you; needs you to be reminded of him as well.
There will be no more separate chambers, no more solitary nights, you belong to him and, fuck it, he belongs to you. He’s tired of pretending anything else, tired of wanking off when he’d much rather sink into you.
They’re wrong, he thinks as he feels you clamp down around him, so tight he’s seeing stars and your whimpering breaths come out hot and warm against his skin. They’re all wrong. All the prophets and their priests. There is no god. Just the soft inside of your thighs and your hands in his hair and your moans come out in hot breaths against his skin as you come around him. There is no higher glory than this. Not even a king could ask for more. And with a couple more sharp thrusts he spills inside you, his chest heaving, his skin tingling and pleasure shooting through his spine.
“Alright,” he says, after a few long movements, still a bit breathless, his hand holding onto your chin in a tight grip, the other one still pinning down your hands above your head. “We’ll do this your way. We’ll scheme and we’ll plan and we’ll spread lies. But make no mistake, when the time comes to strike; I will kill them my way.”
There are things we do for power and things we do for love.
