#medieval!au

The ropes around your wrists are replaced with a silk marriage tie, and you are dethroned and wed again overnight. The new King John smiles like he's pleased with your choice, and toasts you and your- husband.

Huge and quiet, only nodding and repeating his wedding vows when prompted, he stays tied to you through the wedding feast. He lifts food to your lips, though it tastes like ash in your mouth, and his teeth nip at your fingers when you do the same. Where else will those teeth mar you? You'd seen this man behead five of the royal guard alone, ripping apart the knights meant to protect you and your former husband- what sort of cruelty will come to you, the living symbol of the crown he helped depose?

The crowd, rough and full of more of King John's men than your own previous court, cheer and call out when your husband stands, hauling you with him by the silk still wrapped around your wrist, and you shudder. You didn't want to die, but you're scared. You have had enough nights with your former king to know the bed is a place of pain or discomfort at best, hands fisted in the blankets as you endured.

What worse things will you endure now?

Your husband motions you forward. "Show me where your rooms are," he says, and you walk silently ahead of him. You've been allowed to keep the same rooms as before, at least for now. Maybe you'll move elsewhere.

When the door closes there is no one else with you, not even a maid- most fled, and the smart ones are back with the new king's men, being charming and sweet to keep their own heads attached.

Your hands shake as you pull at the laces of your gown. You couldn't tie it well without a maid before the feast, and it's loose already, fabric pooling around your hips, your ankles, and you're too scared to scream when huge, rough hands close around your waist.

"Easy, little wife," your lord husband murmurs. His hands are warm, burning hot against your skin through the thin shift. "Last piece. Let me see you." Your shift follows your dress, down over your shoulders and only briefly held up by his hands, before joining the rest of your finery on the floor.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, the only sound except breathing and the low flames in the hearth. Your husband's hands scrape up your ribs, callused and strong, fingers brutally thick, and you whimper and bite through your lip when he cups your breasts.

"Shh," he soothes, and squeezes, gently, as chapped lips touch your ear. "You're alright. Breathe with me," and the huge chest at your back expands, releases, drawing you into his rhythm as his hands squeeze and caress your breasts in time, only gently, no pinching or groping. Your lip stings. You're shaking in terror and breathing in time with a man still wearing the silk wedding tie around his wrist, the same hands that killed guards you knew stroking your skin. There's a glazed disconnect creeping over you, a curtain of snow falling between you and the world, and you shuffle obediently back as your husband takes you to the bed. You wait as he arranges pillows and furs, building a nest of soft bedding, the firelight catching on his pale hair, the curve of a scar, his eyes as he turns to look at you.

He doesn't lie you down, or bend you over; instead you're brought to sit in his lap, your back still against his chest, and your legs spread apart over his thighs. He's still dressed, you think numbly, and then his hands leave your breasts and move down, curving over your belly and below, fingers spreading across your thighs as his thumbs reach where you're soft and sensitive, and he-

Oh, it-

His lips finds your ear again and suck, gently, as his hands move so carefully over your flesh it aches, touches so sweet you shake even harder than you had in fear, the pleasure of his hands warming you, burning through the snow covering your mind until you gasp and moan, suddenly alive again, hips rocking to meet where his fingers have spread you open, one of them carefully crooked inside, you're wet, so slick and throbbing, what is this- how is he- you feel so achingly empty and yet full on his finger, your body grasping at him in a way you never felt, not in all the nights pierced by your king-

"There you are, so beautiful, so fucking- come on, come back to me, mine now, my wife, all mine," your husband growls, and his teeth catch the shell of your ear, his body flexing against yours as your thighs quiver. "Feel that? Feel so good on just my finger. Can't wait to get that hot cunny on my cock." His hand between your thighs presses harder, cupping you, the finger in your body rubbing something inside that makes you writhe against him. You're moaning, high pants and whines that slip out before you realize it. The other hand rises up, finds your breast and plucks at your nipple before gently holding your throat- fear nearly closes you off again, but instead of a choking squeeze he only turns your face, lifts your chin to make you look at him.

His eyes are dark in the dying embers, his scars and skin mottled with a flush. "Look at me. Keep your eyes on me," he says, and his hand is so strong and hard in and against your body, you're straining and gasping, moaning loudly, wet and aching and you need it, you need something, you can't keep up this pulsing hot pressure, it's going to break something in you- and then your husband shifts his hand and all the burning heat rolls outward, a wet bloom between your thighs that you can hear, slick squelches and your own gasping cries as you shatter apart with your eyes locked to his.

He crashes his mouth into yours, swallowing the sounds, even as his finger curls and pumps harder into you, making you whine, shuddering. Too much, it was too much even before and now it makes your belly cramp, but even as you squirm, hips jolting, your husband releases you- and oh, the way he smiles, bringing his hand up to his face as you watch, eyes enormous in shock as he licks his finger clean.

You curl panting into the pillows as your husband deposits you off his lap and stands, still shaking with whatever he did to you. All your muscles are trembling, and the soft silks and furs feel luxurious, soothingly cool against your sweating skin. It's like all the pressure and heat melted and sank into you, became pleasure, overwhelming and wild, a taste of something strange and unknown.

Your thighs ache, your belly too, and between your thighs all the soft and delicate flesh is throbbing, slick and hot, like a bruise. You gently draw a finger down between your legs, and bite again at your bloody lip as you touch a firmer bump of flesh that makes your body clench tight. It all only aches, no sharp pains, and your fingertip is damp as well when you lift it away- cloudy fluids that smell heavy, rich, something that makes your cheeks flush.

Your husband laughs a little, and you startle, staring at him. He's crossed over with scars, pockmarks of old disease and healed wounds, his face only the least of it. It's amazing he has all his fingers, you think, and then you realize the heavy organ between his legs and the size of it, and the fear crawls back up your throat.

He's thick, broad from base to tip, so heavy it hangs down over his sack. There's a damp smear at the tip as well. The touch of his hand has left you so sensitive your own exploring finger made you flinch, how painful will this beast of a man be when he puts that whole thing in you?

Your husband beckons, and you crawl over the bed to the edge, kneeling up. You're shaking again, and worse when he frowns. "Just got you relaxed," he says, cups your chin. "The old king did fuck you, right? He actually used his cock on you?"

Your mouth opens and closes. You dart your eyes down, back up, and get a nod of encouragement. "Yes. I was a dutiful wife, I accepted my husband to bed when summoned." He frowns even deeper, and you hasten to add, "I won't fight you, I promise, I will be a good wife-"

You're shushed with a finger to your lips. Your husband is scowling. "Fucked you but you didn't even know what I was doing when you peaked. Fuckin' waste of a king, doing fuck all with a lady like you." You gape at him, what does he mean peaked? Was that the- the touches he gave you, the pleasure, the bursting dam?

You're caught staring, unsure, already biting at your lip again when your husband bends to kiss you, tongue licking at the sharp, stinging pain, and you're herded back into the pillows again. He seems intent on covering you, first with his mouth and then his hands, gently prodding and licking, touching you in so many strange places- your ears, your throat, and when his lips meet the pounding pulse there you moan, heat blooming through you again. He repeats the motion, tongue stroking hot and wet, and you find yourself reaching up to trail your fingers through his hair. It's surprisingly soft, short pale waves against your skin, and he seems to like it- he rumbles low in his chest, and sucks at you harder, so you do it again, and find that you like it- the way his eyes close, how his body arches and settles more firmly against you.

Then his lips drift lower, over the curve of your breast and to the nipple, and you gasp out a little shriek, sparks flaring in your skin. Oh, oh this is- this is like his hand between your thighs, sensitive and hot, a gentle ache growing in your breast and belly together, and your husband moans, soft and sweet, as he fits more of your flesh into his mouth and sucks.

Your nipple is tight and throbbing, more pleasure flowing through your veins and growing where your thighs have spread around your husband's body. You can't catch your breath, watching as his lips purse and tug, and there's the gentlest touch of his teeth and you- oh the ache and you know what's coming, worse to know what's coming, the burning need and the damp heat building again.

He keeps sucking, licking wetly over your breast before taking your nipple again, over and over as you pant, hips squirming, trying to get pressure where you're so sensitive it nearly hurts. You can't do it, not with your thighs apart and your husband bracing himself above you, but when he switches to the other nipple and tugs it between his teeth you wail.

"Please," you beg, though you don't know what you're pleading for, "please, my lord, I can't- please-"

He hums around your breast, and a broad hand slips between your thighs, cupping you gently. His finger breaches you again, a gentle stretch, but still you crave more. You want him to touch you like he had been, where he'd moved the digit in and out so torturously, found secret places that made you shake and break apart, the peak of pleasure. "My lord-"

Your husband releases your nipple, and blows on it, something you could never imagine but makes your body throb. "Hm, you want more, wife? Want this again?" His finger curls and tugs at you from the inside, and you gasp out a desperate yes. "Say my name."

You gape at him over your heaving chest as he kisses his way down your body, licking into your navel, another surprising place of sparks and heat. "My- my lord husband-" you gasp, and then shudder as his hand shifts, his shoulders as broad as a curtain wall pushing your thighs apart. His mouth is right against those delicate places.

"Say it and I'll give you another peak, and get you ready to take me. I know you know it. Said it for our wedding vows." He looks up at you, only the barest light left to curve over his cheek, the rest of his face thrown into shadow between your thighs. "Come on. Smart girl to keep your head attached, smart enough to remember. Say my name." He blows again, and there's a spike in the ache in your belly, a quivering going up and down your legs. "Say it. Say my name so I can fuck you so good you'll forget your own, say my name," and your mouth drops open on a moan as his tongue licks hot and wet from your entrance up to the straining, tight-wound point above it.

"Si- oh, oh, my- Simon!"

You gasp a breath and lose it immediately as his mouth sinks down, sucks and licks like at your breast but more, so much more, slick and hot and his twisting, wriggling tongue finding every fold and hidden place, curling up and around, you can't breathe, his finger curls and is joined by another- your body pulses, straining, hands in his hair to keep him there because the worst thing in the world would be if he stopped. You need Simon to stay between your thighs and keep drawing the pleasure out of you, drinking from an endless well, and the fire bursts into stars behind your eyes as your husband flings you over another peak.

And he doesn't stop, still tonguing at you, moaning against you, and you're so swollen and sensitive you can feel it, the vibrations crawling up his chest and into your belly. You pound your fists at his shoulders, moaning, begging, hips writhing as he pins you, takes what he wants, and abruptly all your fighting bursts out of you with a wet gush you can hear him swallowing.

You gasp weakly as he finally withdraws, his lips and chin dripping, your arms and legs weakly splayed over him. Your cheeks are damp. Everything is limp and shivering, even your teeth chatter, as the sudden end of the unceasing pleasure makes your skin prickle, hot and somehow still cold, fingertips tingling.

Then Simon sits up, and bends your thighs up, knees to your chest, and his- his cock- it presses to your entrance, as broad and unyielding as the man behind it, and your breath is all punched out as your husband takes you in a single smooth movement.

Your mouth moves weakly, lungs frozen, thighs and belly as tight as before, against the huge intrusion forcing its way inside.

He's too big, too big, you can't breathe around it, and you're going to rip in half-

Simon bends and kisses you, sucks at your bottom lip, making it sting again, and you feel the sweat on his brow and the strain in his muscles as he holds still, as he groans and buries his cock inside you and waits, gives you time to remember to breathe, and you're suddenly crying again, tears streaming past your temples and into your hair, because this huge terrifying man has given you pleasure and comfort and is- being good to you, in a way your former king and husband never even thought of.

You pet his hair again with trembling fingers, breathing around the ache, feeling the way your body is so slick that all the small, involuntary twitches of his hips makes him move smoothly in you, how the swollen folds have parted around his cock and now cling to him, taking him, claimed by your husband with the silk wedding tie still looped around his wrist.

You grasp the end, and as he pants and moans, as your body shivers, you clumsily wrap it around your wrist again, holding the end tightly, keeping it in place. "I'm ready, Simon," you breathe out, and he presses another kiss to your lips and draws his hips back and away, and then inside again, deep and heavy blows that force the air from your lungs in sharp moans.

Every roll of his hips drags his cock in and out, and the pleasure returns, deeper inside; one and two fingers had felt so good but this is so much more, too much for your body, but somehow you keep taking more of it every time. Simon is panting, every clench or squeeze of your entrance around him drawing another soft sound from his lips, and you crave more. He gave you so much, and now you want to give him that pleasure, not as a means to an end but to enjoy it, to drink your name off his lips.

"My wife," he murmurs, and his hips snap against yours harder, faster. "Gonna be so good to you. Put you on my cock every night and wake you up with my mouth in the morning. Give you all the babes that limp-dicked king couldn't. Fuck, you feel so good, so fucking tight, this little cunny." His hand cups your breast again, rubs your nipple, and you moan around a pulsing clench that makes you feel every inch of his cock. "Does it feel good, wife? Tell me you like getting your tight cunny fucked."

You bite your lip, Simon's thumb tugging it out of your teeth. "I- I like-" You can't say it aloud. You didn't even know that word before tonight, didn't know that a soft touch could bring pleasure undreamed of. "I can't! Simon, I can't!"

He chuckles, a low rasp that makes you throb. "Oh, don't cry, there's time. I'll fuck you every night until you can, and again after." Simon shifts, spreading his knees, and your legs are pulled up against his shoulder, you're nearly bent in half, and now at every stroke his cock pounds you so deep you start to think again he'll rip you apart, but oh what an exquisite torture it would be. There are no words left in you, even if he'd ordered you to speak, just the ever-tightening pressure and heat in your belly as you moan, wail, as your head thrashes against the pleasure being forced upon you.

Your- cunny- throbs, aches, clinging tightly around Simon's cock as it pulls out and splitting around it as he pushes in, and the delicate bump at the top is smacked over and over against his hips, each touch another spark to the tinder. You pull at his hair again with the hand holding the wedding tie, bringing his face to yours, so he can cup your cheek as you cling to him. His lips rub against yours, a sloppy kiss too wild and feverish to be more deliberate, and you feel the straining muscles of your legs burn.

"One more, wife," he groans, "one more to make it take," and the hand holding your legs drops abruptly- your thighs part- his hand squirms between your legs to the slick hot flesh where you're parting around his cock- oh- oh- the dam bursts-

You cry out against his mouth, sobbing, as his cock breaks you apart and his thumb on your flesh rubs and rubs and you burn up, you fall apart, you scream around his tongue in your mouth as your exhausted, worn out muscles all clench together, cunny hot and wet and throbbing, pulsing with your heartbeat, as your husband groans against you and a new slick flood joins the hazy, wet mess between your bodies.

You gasp limply as Simon takes your mouth, letting him suck and lick at you, as his hips press tight to yours, like he's trying to stay as deep inside as possible. He's shaking as well, his thighs jumping against yours, his heart pounding, and you weakly grasp his hand when his fingers twine into yours around the wedding tie.

He stays there, barely keeping his full weight off you so you aren't crushed, for so long your eyes start to drag closed. It's only when your hips shift and you whimper, sensitive and sore, that he eases away.

There's so much leaking out of you, your body over-full, and you whine and try to hide your face when he parts your thighs and looks, clearly delighted with it. A thumb pushing his seed back inside makes you quiver. "Easy, wife. Just making sure it stays in." He pets at you, stroking the soft folds and hair, like soothing an animal. "Did so good, love." He tugs your hand away to kiss you again. "My love. My wife."

Simon kisses you as he finally allows your thighs to close, stroking your hips where they ache, and you're drawn into his chest, cuddled close. A long and terrifying day, a night that broke apart everything you thought you knew about the marriage bed- you're falling asleep even as the blankets are pulled up, soft covers tugged around your bodies. You can't fight it off, not now that your body is finally able to rest.

"Simon," you murmur, lips pressed to a scar that snakes across his chest, "Simon, my husband." The world outside of the bed has vanished into shadow.

His lips press to the top of your head, hand cradling your belly. "Oh, wife, thank you. A whole new life for us is just starting."

No birdsong, no castle disturbances have ever pulled her into the day– it has been this woman, with her pristine, wine-red uniform and her coiled brown hair, that has woken and readied her each morning, even against her most ardent wishes. If there ever was a time when the princess’ parents had been the ones to wake her, it has long since been forgotten. 

Ava heaves a sigh and relents, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and grimacing at the cold of the wooden floor cold against her bare feet. “Good morning, Lara.” Her maid begins to pull clothes from the wardrobe, setting about with the preparations of the day. But before Ava can make her way to the vanity to brush out her hair, a noise from behind startles her, and she turns.

She blinks as she beholds a new maid, already working to make her bed. “Hello,” Ava blurts, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Who are you?” The maid drops the sheets in her hands and curtsies deeply. “I am Lyssa, your royal highness. Your new maid.” Ava’s brow creases. “I don’t need a new maid," she says in confusion. “Lara is my maid.” Lara turns, her face even despite the disturbance. “The queen requested that you take another,” she explains. “In preparation for your impending courtships.”

That quickly, Ava’s mood sours. She clenches her jaw, knowing she has been given no choice but to once again relent. Impending courtships, indeed. She knows the real reason her mother has sent this girl to her: so that she would have another, more loyal set of eyes on her daughter whilst the suitors infiltrated the castle. Her expression flat, Ava swallows her protests and makes her way to the mirror, allowing Lara to begin undressing her while Lyssa finishes with the bed.

“Might I have been consulted before a choice was made?” she murmurs to Lara, her voice too low for the other maid to hear.

“I tried, my lady,” Lara informs her apologetically. “The queen’s request was urgent. I made the choice of Lyssa myself.” That, at least, was some comfort. As stern and unforgiving as Lara was, she was more loyal to Ava than anyone within the castle– with one glaring exception. If Lyssa had been her pick, Ava can only assume she was the best choice given the circumstances. And, she supposes, it never hurt to have more people in her personal court.

Ava nods once, fighting a sigh. 

Lara pulls her nightgown over her head, leaving the princess entirely bare. While it has never become totally comfortable for her to be naked in front of complete strangers, no flush of embarrassment rises to her cheeks. The life of a royal requires inspection, required exposure. She is used to it by now.

Still, she is grateful for the familiar drape of her gown, a rich blue with silver thread today. The sleeves fall nearly to the floor, the skirts obscuring her feet, but Ava does not mind the impracticality so much. As in many things, she has become accustomed to discomfort. 

With two sets of hands working on her today, she is readied far faster than before. Her clothes are laced, her hair brushed and pulled halfway up with silver pins, and Lara even does some pretty work with a few rouges to make Ava’s skin rosy and fresh. By the time she is properly made up, Ava is pulling at the bit to escape her bedchamber. 

Not waiting for Lyssa to pull open the door for her, Ava strides out into the hallway, her slippered feet clipping against the stone. And before her, coming from the opposite direction, appears her companion for the day.

The knight stops in his tracks when he sees her, his blue cape swishing against his armored legs. Ava’s eyes sweep up and down his figure, from the leather shin-guards to the tousled brown hair to the eyes– those warm, golden brown eyes– that widen slightly at her arrival. 

“Princess,” he greets her, bowing at the waist. 

“Sir Steven,” she returns, resuming her measured pace toward him. 

“You’ve risen earlier this morning,” he tells her. She can tell he is miffed that she’s caught him off guard. He always prefers to be firmly ready and stationed outside her door before she wakes.

Ava bites down on a retort, on her rising annoyance that he isn’t the cause of. “Indeed.” Steven knows her well enough to be able to guess at her mood, at the reason behind the high speed they take down the hallway. “Did you sleep well, your highness?” he asks cordially, like he does every morning. It’s a wonder after so long spent together that he might still inquire about so simple a thing. Ava has never known a knight or guard or man of rank who paid any mind at all to how she felt– let alone how she slept.

“Like a babe,” Ava answers dryly, pushing aside her study of the knight. She glances to and fro as they walk– checking for other guards, other witnesses to her irritation or their conversation. Steven walks behind her as always– three paces, true to a fault. It is the way of things; she and her sworn sword, always three paces out of step, and yet attached at the hip nonetheless. It has been that way for three moons now, ever since he pledged her his fealty and became her personal guard.

“And might I ask where we’re going this morning with such haste?” he teases her, his steps echoing on the stone behind her. 

“I have some spare time before my first lesson,” Ava explains, her jaw set. “I think we shall use it to pay my dear mother a visit.” “It must be rather urgent,” he observes, likely knowing how, under normal circumstances, Ava would rather do anything but go out of her way to speak to her mother. “May I ask–”

Ava turns to face him, walking backwards. Her eyes land on his, and something is alive and buzzing in that stare that so matches hers– that challenge he has always risen to. “Ask no questions, and I shall tell you no lies, Sir Steven.” A smile dances over his face as he follows her. “Very well.”

Steven watches with amusement as the princess bursts into her mother’s receiving room, not bothering to wait for the herald to announce her. 

The queen sits on her favorite cushioned loveseat, the voluminous skirts of her dress spilling onto the ground beneath her. Her once-brown hair is powdered to disguise the gray, and her nose is perpetually angled ever so slightly upward. As her daughter barges into the room, she turns slightly and gives her a saccharine smile.

“Good morning, my dear,” she croons, holding her arms out to prompt an embrace. 

Ava ignores the motion and crosses the room quickly, stopping before the loveseat and folding her arms. “Mother.” Steven has to admire her nerve. Standing there like that, so bold and unperturbed by her own impropriety, she is a force to behold. In the time he has known her, the princess has always been that way– like a hurricane of her own making, strong and tempestuous. 

“To what do I owe this little visit?” The queen asks, her eyes sweeping over her daughter observantly. Whatever she makes of the princess’s appearance, the rich blue gown, the long waves of her hair, she doesn't let on. Steven can’t help but think she must be insane not to be impressed by it. He himself could hardly take his eyes off of the girl this morning.

“I have a new maid,” Ava informed her mother flatly.

So that’s what all this is about. Amusement spreads through him at the idea that all of this fuss would be made over a change in staffing.

“Ah, yes,” The queen nods, a smile spreading across her lined face. “So you have come to thank me. Very well.”

“I do not require another maid, Mother,” Ava fires back accusingly. “I have Lara. I have always had Lara. She is more than enough.” “Lara is old,” the queen corrects her. “She will seek to marry soon if she has any sense. And then who shall you have to serve you?” “Lara is barely thirty,” Ava cuts in. “And in that event, Mother, I shall choose another maid myself. In the meantime, this entire venture is nothing but wasteful.”

The queen sighs delicately. “Oh, my dear girl. There is so little you yet know about all of this! You simply do not understand the way of things here.” The patronizing tone makes Steven straighten despite himself. He hates being talked down to, and he hates it more when people talk down to his princess. But for once, Ava has greater self-control than him, because she merely replies evenly, “And would you deign to enlighten me?”

The queen sits up straight, her hands folded in her lap. She’s a small woman, and often cruel, but to her credit, she never lacks composure. In the same nettling voice, she explains, “Should your maid relinquish her uniform before the next is trained, my dear, you will be left with a hole in staffing. And with your nuptials imminent–”

“Mother,” Ava groans, her head tipping back. “The suitors have not even arrived. My nuptials are anything but imminent.”

Steven blocks out the words. The last thing he needs right now, when he's trying his damndest to track the course of this argument back and forth from queen to princess, is to be reminded of concepts like foreign princes or political marriages or the particular emotions they might raise in him. It’s really best for everyone in this room he carries on without thinking too long on the suitors.

The queen’s face ices over, and she goes on sternly, “Should you be left unattended during such an important event, you will be forced to train a new maid amidst all of the preparations. And that, we simply cannot have.” “Oh, an unimaginable fate,” Ava agreed, her voice dripping with irony.

Steven’s temper melts, and he has to stifle his laughter at the jab, pressing his lips together for all he’s worth.

“You may not care now, daughter, but the day will come when you shall see the use in my wisdom and experience.” The queen’s voice has become shrill to combat her daughter’s mockery. Steven finds it hard to imagine this altercation ending well. “When you are a queen, and in charge of your husband’s household, you will have a great many maids. I myself employ twelve.” And nine of them sat around doing kitchen work for most of the day, Steven wants to add. There was no practical use for that many servants for one woman. The queen’s extravagance was a subject of constant bemoanment in the servant’s corridors.

“Well, when that happy day arrives for me, then I shall welcome Lyssa back with open arms,” Ava croons, unwavering in her irreverence to her mother’s wishes.

The queen’s lips purse, her brows pinching. “You will keep Lyssa, Ava,” she says with finality. “Or I shall assign another maid to your care, and you may see how well you do with three.” Steven feels more than sees Ava quiet, sees the utter frustration travel up and down her body. No choice– she, as much as anyone in the castle, has come to know what it is to have your freedoms stripped from you. She hates pity, especially from him, but he cannot help but feel it now.

“You will learn in time, my dear,” her mother finishes, her bony hands smoothing over the skirts of her gown. “This is for the best. And you shall keep two maids in your employ until I explicitly say otherwise.”

Ava’s jaw clenches, and she turns on her heel and flees the room. Steven has sobered completely now, recognizing the fury on his lady’s face. Quickly, he bows to the queen and follows after her daughter, not bothering to wait for a proper dismissal.

“I swear, all that powder has finally made its way into her brain,” Ava mutters as she storms back down the corridor, not having to glance behind her to know Steven is matching her steps. 

Steven doesn’t answer. As freely as he is usually allowed to speak with her, there are some lines his duty and his oaths will not allow him to cross. Insulting the ruling queen, however pompous and deluded he thinks she is in actuality, would do him no favors here. Even if Ava would agree.

“Three maids!” Ava exclaimed, turning slightly so her voice travelled back to him. “Can you even imagine that? What could one person possibly need of three maids?”

“I’m sure Lyssa sees it as an honor,” Steven offers evenly. “I’m sure the promotion has helped her, my lady.” And then, his tongue loosening around her as always, “They look up to you. All of the maids do. They see a future in you.”

Ava scoffed. “I’m sure all Lyssa sees is a pampered little girl with too many sets of hands trying to make her look beautiful.” The statement is jarring, but Steven is almost glad for it. Sometimes, he needs the reminder that the princess is not as spoiled as people might think– that for all the luxury surrounding her, her life has its own unique cruelties and challenges. “Is it truly such a bad thing?” he asks, more curious than anything. “What difference does it make how many people serve you?” Ava slows, more contemplative, more defeated. She looks at him over her shoulder, her face dull. “Two women watching me sleep. Two women making notes of my whereabouts. Two women reporting on me to my mother and thinking I don’t know.” She turns away, making a right turn out into the statue garden. “Yes, Sir Steven. It makes a difference.” Damn him, but he can never bear to see her this way. He has always needed to see her smiling, see her well and protected. It’s his job, and it has been for three months now. “It’s a beautiful day,” he offers as they enter the garden, the climbing blooms fragrant. Entwined with the white marble of the statuary, the imposing stone eyes of Ava’s mythic ancestors, it really does paint a pretty picture. “And you were so punctual this morning, we have some spare time.” The teasing comes easily to him– light and harmless. It’s far more natural than pretending to be as unfeeling as a knight is meant to, as stony as the figures around them. Steven has never been that way; he’s only grateful the princess seems as tolerant of his antics as he is of hers. 

“What are you suggesting, Sir Steven?” Ava asks, plopping down onto a carved bench, her hands braced on the lip and her expression sour. 

Steven stands over her, his hand resting idly on the pommel of his sword. Despite himself, despite the impropriety, he grins at her. “We may even have time for a ride. If we’re properly disobedient.” The effect is instantaneous. Ava’s face lifts, her brows shooting into her hairline. Unbound by frustration now, she smiles back at him. “A ride? You really think so?”

Riding is one of her favorite activities. Beyond the castle walls, out where she can pretend she is free, Steven has witnessed the way she comes alive. She does not get to indulge in that passion nearly as often as she would like to– partially because of her parents and their rules, and partially because Steven complains that he can never keep track of her or stop her from running wild when they go out riding.

“We would have to be fast,” he warns her. “If your tutors see us, they’ll have my head.”

“I understand,” Ava agrees readily, jumping to her feet. He can almost see her brain spinning with ideas, enthusiasm limning her.

Steven glances to the guardposts he knows encircle the garden, then gestures to the open, arched door. “Come on.”

The princess grins as she overtakes him, speeding off down the hallway again. 

“We can be out no more than an hour,” Steven reminds her as they make their way to the stables, the walk shortened by the various routes they’ve mapped through the castle in their time together. “You cannot run off today, my lady. I won’t have time to–” “Yes, yes,” she waves him off, exasperated. “I swear I shall not drive you to wit’s end this morning.”

A smile tugs at Steven’s lips as he keeps his three paces of distance from her.

Ava turns and looks at him, walking backwards like she knows will bother him. Even though she claims this is the only way she’s able to speak with him while they walk, he cannot help his grumbling; particularly when she so frequently nearly collides with people headed the opposite direction. She’s excellent at learning what gets on his nerves. 

“And do you swear you shall not bemoan me my fun, my dear knight?” she challenges him. Steven meets her eyes, fighting his amusement. “Your idea of fun would send any other man sprinting for the hills.” “Mm,” Ava intones, her skirts swishing as they keep at their rapid pace. “How lucky for me, then, that my own man is made of far sterner stuff.”

Her own man. Try as he might to ignore it, the words stick in Steven’s head. She’s right, in a way. He is her man. He is the watchman, the protector, the warrior; she is the delicate treasure to be safeguarded by him at any cost. In this way, they belong to each other. 

“I’m far too indulgent to you,” Steven sighs as they cross the green expanse that leads to the stables. “One of these days, my superiors will catch on.”

“On the contrary, you’re not nearly indulgent enough,” Ava argues, practically skipping across the grass. She waves a hand. “Always watching, always worrying. Sir Steven, the constant supply of concern by my side.” That’s rather rich, considering the princess is more prone than any noblewoman he knows to pitch herself into the first opportunity for a thrill she lays eyes on, no matter the danger. Given that it is Steven’s job to protect her from those very dangers, it is a subject of no small anxiety for him. He opens his mouth to correct her, “I would not have such concern if you didn’t insist upon–”

They reach the stables, and Ava interrupts him to speak with the first stablehand she sees. “Sir Steven and I should like our horses saddled. With haste, if you don’t mind.”

“Right away, your highness,” says the boy, bowing low for her. Steven does not miss the way his eyes linger on the princess’s face just a moment too long– does not miss the wistful look in the boy’s eyes, either. He tries not to let his hackles rise. It is no secret in this castle that the princess is beautiful, and no secret either that she is desired not only by the noblemen fit to contend for her hand. It is a part of why Steven forces himself to stay so guarded, so resolute when it comes to her. At least whilst in the presence of others.

It is only a matter of a few swift moments before the horses are saddled and brought to them, and Steven offers Ava a hand she does not take as she mounts her deep chestnut quarter horse, patting its neck in greeting. Steven shakes his head and smiles to himself, hoisting himself up on his black charger beside her.

Ava spurs her horse, and Steven lets her trot ahead of him, knowing it will only be a matter of moments before they’re off at a gallop. His horse is faster than hers, and hardier by half. It would be easy to keep up with Ava were she not always insistent on making the exact opposite decision he thought she would. 

Indeed, her head whips back, her eyes skimming past Steven’s face and toward the windows of the stable, checking once more for prying eyes. And then, smile growing, she urges her horse into a gallop, and they fly across the field.

Steven grins at the joyful whoop Ava lets out, her head bowed to her horse’s neck. Her long hair whips in the wind, pulling loose from its pins, but if she notices, she doesn’t seem to care. He could watch her like this, that infectious happiness tearing from her in bursts of jubilant laughter, for the rest of his life. It’s not unlikely that he really will. 

Eventually, they slow to a trot, the horses winded from the distance. Steven’s charger is bred for war, for short and powerful sprints, and it tosses its mane in irritation. Still, he cannot bring himself to mind the exertion– not with the blissful wind whipping coolly through the joints of his armor, the fresh air bracing and cleansing so early in the day. Ava turns to him as he pulls his horse up next to hers, one of the only times they ever walk side by side. 

“Do you feel better?” he asks her, even though the answer is already written on her face.

“A bit,” she teases. Tipping her head back, her eyes flutter closed as she lets the sun brush her face. “You were right, Sir Steven,” she hums, content. “It is a beautiful day.”

The tall grass beneath their horses’ hooves sighs in the breeze, sprinkled with wildflowers and chirping insects. Beyond them, a copse of trees looms– the beginnings of the forest the princess has dragged him to explore with her more times than he can count. She’s right– it’s picturesque. He only wishes they had more time to enjoy it. “The world must be aflame for you to be agreeing with me, princess,” he tosses back, his tongue looser now that they are free of keen palace ears. He has never been able to stop himself from being open with her, despite how he knows he should watch his words. She pulls it out of him– the best and the very worst.

Ava grins, eyes opening. “You know, if you were not sworn to me, every day could be like this for you.” The words, like so many things about her, surprise him. “What do you mean?”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, expression studious. “The other knights, the stablehands… they all have their freedom, in some small way. They may come out here as often as they wish. They are unbound by a disobedient girl who likes to run wild.” Her body is jostled slightly by the movement of her horse, but she ignores it as she stares at him. “If you had not sworn your oath to me, you could have been like them.” Steven stares ahead, willing his expression to remain plain. “I knew what I was getting myself into.” Ava’s smile widens. “Liar.” He laughs despite himself. “Fine. Perhaps an exaggeration.”

“You do love this, don’t you?” Ava presses, head tipping back again. “The freedom. The adventure. You love it as I do.” “I do,” he agrees, unable to keep truth from her. “And I made a vow, and I will hold to it, my lady. Two things can be true at once.”

“But do you wish to?” she cut in, her voice harder than before. He looks over, and he finds her eyes boring into his. 

“I will not trap you here, Sir Steven,” she tells him, the words firm. “I will not jail you as I am jailed. You are a talented knight– I know this. I have seen it. And…” she trails off, her declaration weakening. “And you are a good man. I shall not see you shackled to me forever.”

Steven takes in the statement, the meaning behind it. “Do you wish me to leave my post, my lady?”

“No,” Ava blurts suddenly. “No, of course I don’t.”

“Then why do you ask?” Her lips press together, and she shakes her head. “I suppose… I suppose Lyssa made me think this morning. All this fuss over me– such talent and skill wasted tending me. So many people with lives devoted to my care.” She glances over, trying to read his expression. He hopes he gives nothing away. “I could speak to my father,” she offers him. “I could see you reassigned, if you wish it. Somewhere your talent could be appreciated. Somewhere you could be free.”

For half a moment, he thinks about it– leaving the palace and finding a station in a neighbouring town, where the tavern girls were friendlier and the merriments less grand. An inviting home, free of the chill of castle rules and decorum. In his chest, he knows which choice seems colder.

“No,” he answers plainly, his eyes on the thicket ahead. “Do not speak to your father, your highness.” “You wish to stay here?” she asks him again, and he wonders if he has imagined the hope in her voice. 

He nods once, reaching over and taking hold of her reigns. Gently, he pulls both horses to a stop, and Ava blinks at him in surprise. He turns to her, armor creaking.

“I am sworn to you,” Steven tells her, his voice low and charged, “And my oath will last until I am bones in the earth. This is my place, your highness– this is my vow to you. I will not break it.”

Ava’s eyes, darker than wine, search his, her throat bobbing. 

Steven releases her reins, breaking the look. He kicks his horse onward, and they carry on their way. And as Ava follows, nearly three paces behind, he hopes desperately she cannot hear the pounding of his heart.

---

two: you and your sworn knight share a dance

You squeeze your eyes shut when Minho tucks an arm around your waist and presses you to him, pushing your nose into his neck; breathing in his scent - rain and sweet vanilla - you allow yourself a moment of comfort in his strong embrace before breaking away. A crash sounds below, and you grab your staff.

Jisung bursts in. You smell the fight on him before you see the bruising blooming across his face; there’s adrenaline spiking his scent and blood splattered across his front - not his, you note with relief. There’s a wild look in his eyes, the same look you saw the first time Goemul came for you.

‘He’s back, and with more troops,’ he gasps. ‘Chan says - ’

A chilling battle cry rings out, cutting him off.

Ice skitters down your spine. None of your pack are arrogant enough to have a signature war cry - there’s only one person that could be. Minho visibly bristles, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his sword before he shoulders open the bedroom door and you hear his footsteps pound down the stairs. You move to follow, but Jisung grabs your wrist.

‘Chan says you have to go. You need to run.’

You scoff. ‘Absolutely not. This is my pack.’

An edge enters Jisung’s voice. ‘And you’re our omega.’

You give him a look and he can see there’s no way he can convince you - you sprint down the stairs, him hot on your heels. Immediately, the smell of the fight overwhelms you as your feet hit the floor: at least twenty other alphas versus your eight, and a few betas fighting amongst the enemy too. Face twisted fiercely and teeth bared, Hyunjin barrels by, slashing at a stocky, snarling alpha with a rusted sword. It’s one of the ones Felix had scavenged for melting down, and you can see the wooden hilt is rotting.

Without hesitation, you raise your hand, and the attack runes painted there for an occasion just like this glow azure blue, so bright they’re almost white, and the alpha collapses, his heart ruptured in his chest. Panting, Hyunjin glances up and gives you a nod before diving back into battle, aiding Jeongin with the two betas tag teaming him.

You thrust yourself into the melee, fighting with both a sword you snatch off a fallen knight and your runes and staff. Energy begins to flow from you, leaking from your soul each time you use your runes - you’re careful to rotate your usage of the different ones inscribed on your skin, making sure you don’t tire a specific one, yet still you feel the itch of their overuse, and the knights pouring in aren’t thinning.

You catch sight of Goemul through the grappling bodies, and a flash of pure fear rivets you to the spot despite yourself. He’s locked in combat with Chan, but the spike in your scent catches both their attention, Goemul’s roar piercing through the sound of clashing blades. Chan hands seamlessly over to Changbin, and you feel his gaze pinpoint on you as he cuts through any attackers that try to stop him as he approaches.

You try to ignore his insistent stare, instead whacking one of the intruders over the head with your staff and forcefully bringing your knee up into his stomach. Chan is sweaty, his shoulders heaving from the fight, and guilt stings your chest - if it wasn’t for you, Goemul and his pack wouldn’t be here.

‘I thought I told Jisung to tell you to run.’

His voice is rough, raspy no doubt from shouting orders to the boys, and nearly drowned out from the din of the fight, yet you hear him clearly, attuned to the sound of your pack leader’s voice.

‘I wanted to stay and fight. It’s my fault, anyway.’

‘This is not your fault,’ Chan snaps. ‘We all knew Goemul would come after you.’

‘And yet you took me in anyway,’ you mutter.

He gives you a sharp look. ‘You need to run. We’re not going to last much longer. We’re tired, and we weren’t expecting it. We need you to break us out when they take us prisoner.’

You don’t think about the other option, the option that doesn’t include taking prisoners and includes death, instead breathing out an anxious: ‘What if I can’t?’

‘I know you can. I trust you, omega.’

Even in the midst of a fight, Chan knows what to say to put you at ease. He knows what is needed to look after his pack, and you know that he knows this, without doubt. You can see that your alphas are tiring, can see that this attack came as a surprise - Changbin is fighting with a hammer used for shaping swords, for fuck’s sake.

You swallow thickly. ‘I love you, Channie. Keep them safe, please. Keep yourself safe.’

Curtly, he nods. No promises. You turn on your heel and run.

You’ve been told all your life that omegas don’t fight, that omegas aren’t fierce. Omegas don’t retaliate, and they take whatever they’re given by their alphas without complaint.

Too bad that’s all been proven official bullshit.

The night is hostile. Clouds scuttle across the sky, polluting the moon’s pure silver light, and the soggy leaves beneath your feet muffle your footsteps - it’s cold, dark, damp, but you’re kept warm by the hot fury that you’ve been nursing since that night, knotted in a ball nestled right beside your heart.

Leaves are flattened beneath your boots. Wind weaves its way thinly through the tree trunks, singing lowly to itself. The stars are blotted from the sky, the moon a thin, faltering sliver. You walk onwards, staff sturdy against your palm.

Tonight is a perfect night for revenge.

Tonight you’re going to make sure Goemul leaves your pack alone for good, and tonight you’re going to make sure that you’re reunited with your alphas. It doesn’t matter that you’re an omega - you will fight. You can fight.

Your staff is testament to that. So are the attack runes painted in practised calligraphy on both your hands, the black ink winding up your forearms - you’ve added more since your alphas were taken from you, enough to extinguish the possibility of exhausting all of them. There are runes to boil a man’s brain in his skull, runes to explode his lungs even as he draws breath, runes made so you can protect your pack.

You are also half feral with the beginnings of your heat.

Blood rushes through your body, your heart pumping so hard in your chest you think it may punch through your ribs; your pupils are fully dilated, anticipating the fight. There’s a roaring in your ears, and intertwined in the thunderous, earsplitting noise of it is an insistent whisper: protect, protect, protect.

There’s no preventing this timing. Every second you spend without your pack, they could be hurting, bleeding, worse. All the preheat does is give you a vicious edge - the desperation of a cornered animal, the strength of one who has nothing else to lose.

You think this is what your ancestors must have felt, back when there were no cities, no castles made of rock, no swords or books, just the primal urge to hunt and fight and protect. You wonder if they smile down on you. You wonder if they slip silently across the narrow path before you, guiding you with ghostly hands, spurring you forward, closer to your pack, closer to the keep.

Closer to Goemul.

Once, he owned you. Owned you, because he does not believe omegas can belong - they can only be owned. You would spend nights curled on the stone floor, trying to rid yourself of his awful scent, nights where you would stare up at the pitiless rafters - even they smelt like him, wishing you were anywhere but where you were.

And then came Seungmin, carrying with him the scent of warm embers and freedom.

Somehow, here you are again, back on Goemul’s territory. You knew he wouldn’t let you go easily; you are proof to those he crushes beneath his boot heels that there is an escape.

There are two knights posted outside the keep’s wide wooden doors - thankfully ones that won’t recognise you. Faintly, you can hear the sounds of a feast within, yellow light spilling out into the night. Overhead, the clouds coalesce, and something in the air sharpens - the first patter of rain hits the tree canopy, muting your footsteps as you step forward.

‘Halt,’ one of the guards commands. ‘State your purpose.’

‘I’m just a blacksmith, sir,’ you reply meekly. ‘Looking to sell my wares to the lord and his men.’

The other guard grunts, sending a nod to the one who spoke, and swings open a hatch set in the big doors, the hinges groaning in protest. Ducking your head, you step into the great hall: it’s a huge, cavernous room made of rough, dark granite with flaming sconces fixed to the walls and violent tapestries hung between them; it’s where Goemul receives his guests.

Just the sight of the place makes your stomach turn, but it’s the heavy stench of musk that forces you to hide the shaking of your hands in the folds of your cloak. The musk in Goemul’s scent is heavy and suffocating, like a dirty, soaked blanket dumped discourteously over one’s head - nothing like Chan’s.

You glance around the hall. There are about three alphas to every omega in the room; the latter are interspersed throughout the former, either chained or collared - something that you remember all too well. Two lounge on the podium beneath Goemul’s chair, which is really more of a throne with its gaudy ornate carvings, their hands on him, their eyes brimming with fear.

You remember that, too.

And there, in the corner, you see them. Your nails dig into your palms. Your pack. Your pack. Crammed in a tiny cage, chained to a ring set in the wall, curled against each other. Nothing can hide the anger that rises in your scent when you see that Chan has pushed his way to the front, protecting his boys, bruises flowering across his face and neck and arms, dried blood smeared on his tattered shirt.

You know Goemul. You know that the cage is purpose built to hold prisoners used for entertainment.

Unmistakable now, fury soars on you, permeating the smell of the feast, permeating Goemul’s pungent musk.

Slowly, heads begin to turn. They don’t recognise you - you’ve masked your scent with runes scrawled down your collarbones and ringing your wrists, written over twice to hide the smell of your preheat. Still, they stare, with a sort of reluctant curiosity.

‘A blacksmith, my lord,’ one of the guards announces from behind you.

Goemul narrows his eyes, trying to see your face from the shadows of your hood. ‘What for?’

‘Looking to sell her wares, she said.’

He guffaws, and the sound of laughter ripples through those sitting at the banqueting table even though they don’t know what’s amusing him. Slowly, he gets to his feet, the two omegas scrambling to give him space - you see the glint of a chain pulling tight, fixed to the base of the podium. The guard beside you shuffles his feet nervously. Somewhere within the darkened cage, you swear you see someone stir.

‘What wares, guard?’

Gleefully, Goemul inhales like he’s feasting upon the guard’s fear as he realises you carry nothing, just the staff in your hand. You hear his muttered curse, the whoosh of air when he takes in a hurried breath, preparing to spill out apologies, not knowing how this has raised his lord’s wrath so intensely but knowing that he needs to beg and scrape if he wants to live.

‘Leave.’

Goemul’s voice hasn’t even finished ringing through the hall before the guard is tripping over himself to slam the hatch behind him, not waiting to see if his lord will withdraw his mercy. Slowly, Goemul settles back down on his throne, the omegas assuming their previous positions, their hands running over his legs as if to appease his anger.

You let your cowl fall back, revealing your features.

A murmur ripples through Goemul’s men.

He waits until they’re quiet. Around the room, the omegas watch you with wide eyes - you know they recognise you, you know they’re wondering why you would ever choose to return to this cursed place. Nearest to you, one jerks his head a little, as if to tell you to run.

‘I knew you’d come crawling back, my omega,’ he grins, smiling with too many teeth. ‘Although, I guess I do have something of yours, don’t I?’

‘I am not yours, Goemul,’ you hiss.

Lightning flares outside, followed by a strident clap of thunder.

‘Your pack is, though,’ he chuckles. ‘We had so much fun together, little omega. Channie and I are well acquainted now, since we had our nice pack leader to pack leader conversation.’

‘You keep his name out your mouth,’ you snap.

‘He bled a lot, though,’ Goemul muses, faking thoughtfulness. ‘I can’t seem to understand why.’

His dark eyes bore into yours, waiting to see your response. You can tell that he knows his goading is getting to you - he’s smiling that infernal smile, the one that makes you want to peel his skin from his bones and force it down his throat with a dagger.

Outside, thunder growls, low and furious.

You raise your staff. ‘You leave me no choice.’

Eyes locked on his, you bring it down. The oakwood hits the stone floor with a sound far louder than it should be, as if the very rock beneath your feet has split, rended apart down to the Earth’s very core. A muffled whoompf follows, and one by one, the torches in the sconces are snuffed out by an unseen force. Darkness descends.

All around, you sense scents spiking - they may be Goemul’s men, but they still feel fear; you doubt any of them have met someone who wields sorcery, let alone an omega. A hush falls over the hall, loaded with the anticipation before a fight.

‘A little bit of shadow won’t scare us, omega,’ Goemul calls.

You don’t reply. You’re busy stalking silently across the room, a key in your hand. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the one from the ring on Goemul’s belt - it’s covered all over with unlocking runes moulded right into the metal, something you forged yourself.

There’s a tinge of wild anger in Goemul’s voice when he speaks again. ‘Omega?’

When you reach through the bars of the cage, a warm, calloused hand is already waiting. Now that you’re close, you can smell their individual scents, the hurt and the exhaustion on them. Your eyes have adjusted to the gloom just enough that you can see Felix curled against Changbin, and although they’re both smiling proudly at you, eyes fierce, you can see the pain in their faces too. It sets bitter anger roiling within you, as deep and wrathful as the storm outside.

You know Goemul is listening. You hope he is, as the sound of a key in a lock and the clatter of chains rings out through the room. You hope he feels the control slipping through his desperate, clawing fingers as nervous whispers riffle through the great hall, as alphas reach for their swords, disbelieving that Goemul failed to make a single, lone omega submit to him.

And then, low and menacing and crystal clear, Chan growls.

You feel everyone in the hall freeze at the sound. There are no words to the deep rumble vibrating in his chest, just the white hot, primal fury of a leader whose pack has been hurt. Simply the tone of it roots half the men in the hall to the spot, the hairs on the backs of their necks rising, their palms slick with sweat as they stare wide eyed into the darkness.

‘Goemul,’ Chan snarls, stepping from the cage. ‘I swear I will not rest until you are dead.’

The last part comes out as a roar, and with it, chaos descends.

Before the echo of Chan’s voice has even died down, air whooshes past you - what must be Changbin and Minho shooting out of the cage. A strangled cry sounds as they finish off the closest two alphas, wrenching their swords from their belts to fight with. Someone’s hand brushes your waist as the rest of your pack members swiftly exit the cage: Felix, by the gentle scent of violets that washes over you, and yet on it you can almost taste the yearning to fight.

Your alphas are not vengeful. Protective, however, is a different story, and as each of their unique scents spread out across the room, meeting Goemul’s alphas that slash out blindly with their swords blow for blow, you know each of them are thinking of what all of you have gone through under Goemul’s orders.

Above it all, Goemul’s battle cry rings out, but you don’t flinch, don’t bat an eyelash - you’re ready for him this time, fresh runes all over your skin. Your alphas may be injured, but they’ve been cooped up in a too small cage for almost a week and they’re sure as hell fucking angry.

A feverish, clammy hand grabs your wrist. Hot air laced with the stink of ale puffs against your cheek. ‘Witch.’

You take a step forward, stabbing out with the butt of your staff and catching your attacker in the stomach. A throng of them have formed around you, angry and growling and still reeling that one omega has caused this much havoc, their movements uncoordinated and laced with more fear than any of them would ever admit.

Under the low illumination of the lightning strikes, you can just about see they’ve made a ring around you. Maybe they think that their numbers will prevail over your sorcery and they’ve got a quick kill, because some of them are smiling as if the fight’s already over. You almost feel sorry for them.

Almost.

As you strike out with your staff, you think of Chan, welcoming you into his pack, back when all you could do around alphas was flinch - patient, soft spoken Channie, bloodied by Goemul and his men from shielding the boys with his body, half conscious from the violence.

You think of Minho as you break a man’s nose, Minho who said little to begin with but would always be silently checking on you, making sure you were comfortable, leaving you an extra blanket in winter before he eventually slept by your side, his body warm against yours, currently with a split lip and cracked ribs.

You knock a man’s sword from his hand, catching it in your own, and think of Changbin, always there to make you smile and feel safe with his big arms and tight hugs, always acting tough but in truth all soft and gooey on the inside, his knuckles now bloodied and face twisted in pain.

While you cut down another alpha that runs at you, you think of Hyunjin, who calls you his muse, who crafts the most beautiful ornate daggers back at the smithy, and who gave you his favourite one with a sweet kiss on your forehead and a promise to never leave you, painted with bruises that spread wide over his back.

Your stolen blade clashes against an attacker’s as you think of Jisung, your Jisung who never fails to make you laugh, never fails to wrap his arms around you from behind when you need it most, beaten until he blacked out, his eyes almost swollen shut from the bruising.

The runes painted on your palms glow bright while you think of Felix, who baked you sweet treats and wiped your tears every day that they fell, who healed your soul with his sunshine smile, nose bloody and near broken from repeated blows.

Fatigue makes your arm tremble as you swing your sword, but you fight on, thinking of Seungmin, who was the first to find you, the first to plant the seed of hope, always the one who dispels your doubts with the sureness of his words, his head now bowed and teeth gritted to fight to keep down the cry that builds within him from the pain.

Your blade gets stuck between an alpha’s ribs, so you whirl your staff in your hands and think of Jeongin, sweet, sweet Jeongin who would hold your hand after the nightmares, whispering reassurances and holding you until you could fall asleep again, his big hands carding through your hair, bloodied and beaten for nothing but sport.

You fight, and as you do, you think of your alphas. You let the insistent whisper from before rise to become a roar, rise to drown out the sounds of the battle: protect, protect, protect. It burns like liquor as it rushes through your veins, and you find it strengthens you, even as the energy spills from you through the usage of your runes; it guides your blade, guides your staff, ensuring your strikes hit home.

And then, all of a sudden, no one’s attacking you any more.

No one is running at you with swords, derisive words on their lips, no one is throwing punches at you or trying to sweep your legs out from under you so they can kick you when you’re down. You sway a little, half expecting someone to appear out of nowhere, but all the remaining alphas subservient to Goemul are fighting elsewhere or have fled - they weren’t prepared, instead lulled into a false sense of safety within their own keep. There’s a ring of bodies slumped on the floor around you.

Something wrenches in your gut, twisting. A warning: your heat will be upon you soon - the longest you have left is a few hours. Sweat suddenly pricks at your body. You need to finish this, and quickly.

Chan blurs by, exchanging hurled punches and vicious kicks with Goemul. You’re leaning against your staff for support, catching your breath, but as three alphas dive into the melee, clawing at Chan’s back and hauling him off Goemul, and as you spot the two omegas, still chained to the podium and cowering under a half collapsed table, unable to escape, you find you aren’t really that tired after all.

You’re on Goemul within seconds.

He grins. ‘Hello again, my little omega - ’

You punch him across the face. Hard. His head snaps to the side, and you grab his shirt, slamming him once, twice against the hard, unforgiving floor of his great hall, savage red fog hazing your vision, not letting up even when you feel the crunch of his nose beneath your knuckles.

‘You’re stupid, Goemul,’ - you spit the name he’s created for himself - ‘for underestimating omegas. You think you’re destined to lord over us all, when all you are is a fucking scared little pup clinging to control and power you don’t deserve.’

Despite it all, he laughs, and blood glistens on his teeth. ‘You’re driving yourself crazy, little omega. I can smell the heat on you - you can’t kill me if your body needs my knot. All you need to do is to ask for it, sweet thing, and I’ll give it to you.’

Your grip on him falters, and he flips you, pinning you to the floor beneath him. Struggling against his grip, you thrash, your careful runes long forgotten, crimson rolling in like mist over the hills, and something wide and primal yawns open within you - your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth at him, pupils dilating as you lurch your head forward, snapping at his throat.

Goemul dodges just in time, holding you at arms length even as you claw at his face and neck. All you can hear is protect, protect, protect and the hidden voice beneath it saying kill him and end it, make him pay, do it for the pack, for your alphas.

His eyes widen. ‘You’re a maniac.’

You look up, over his shoulder, past him, your laugh chilling. ‘Yes.’

Impossibly, his eyes open further, bulging, and a low, strained gurgle sounds from deep in his throat. Trembling, one of his hands comes up to his chest, and he looks down, surprise and fear contorting his features as his finger gets sliced open on the tip of the blade protruding from between his collarbones.

Goemul’s eyes roll back, and his body slumps over you, deadweight. Dazed, you gaze up at Jeongin, admiring his handsome features, albeit splattered with gore from the fight and covered with a look of disgust as he places a foot on Goemul’s back and wrenches his sword out. It makes a wet, sucking sound as it goes, and your alpha dumps the sword on the floor in favour of heaving the cooling body off you and pulling you into his arms.

Mint and lavender, clean and fresh and soothing, rush at your senses as you take a deep breath in. You’re clinging onto Jeongin so hard that it must be hurting him, but he doesn’t seem to mind, holding you just as tightly to him, burying his face in your neck, his nose right against your scent gland as he just inhales.

Eventually, you jostle him, your senses coming back to you. You need to grab your staff; you can still fight, even though the ink of more than half of the writing on your hands and wrists has flaked off, the exhausted runes leaving light burns in their wake.

‘Where’s my staff?’ You mumble, wriggling in his grip. ‘I can still - ’

A hand smooths over your hair, someone coming up behind Jeongin so they can look you in the eyes from where you’re peeking over his shoulder, searching for the familiar oakwood. You blink. It’s Minho, his eyes soft, hair a mess.

‘It’s over, jagiya,’ he murmurs. ‘You don’t have to fight any more. We’re safe now.’

Eventually, his words echo in your head, beginning to register - over, safe now - and you go limp in Jeongin’s arms, burying your face in his shoulder and letting out a damp, shaky breath, hands fisting in his shirt. Your impending heat burns at your core, pulling you this way and that, but the nearness of your alphas grounds you, keeps you tethered to them.

You have just the presence to reach out to Minho, fingers brushing over his side as the healing runes written around the tops of your forearms flare to life, their glow different from the ones intended for attack - they’re the orangey pink of a rising dawn, like tiny suns pulsating beneath your skin. They begin to burn, uncomfortably hot as you heal Minho’s cracked ribs, then Felix’s nose and Han’s swollen black eyes, followed by all the injuries of your alphas that you can with the energy you have spare.

You’re panting by the end of it, drained. You’ve still neglected some of the less serious flesh wounds, but the well inside of you that was full to the brim with potency when you first entered the keep has run dry. If it weren’t for your heat fast approaching, you might have more energy, but you don’t, so that’s what you’re forced to settle with as you close your eyes and try to stop yourself from wriggling too much in Jeongin’s grip.

‘I’ll take her,’ someone says, and you’re being transferred into another’s arms.

Clean linen and cinnamon, crisp and familiar, crashes over you, and you nestle into Jisung’s arms, trying to absorb his body  heat as he kisses your face - the urge to nest is beginning to grow stronger, now that the adrenaline from the fight is leaving your system, and he’s so warm.

Somewhere far away, you can hear Felix’s low, comforting voice as he talks to Goemul’s omegas, and Chan’s too, instructing them and pointing them towards the east wing of the keep - you know at some point, they’ll want to talk to you, but for now you rest your chin on Jisung’s shoulder, closing your eyes and leaning your weight against him. Some of them remain in the hall, putting the bodies in neat piles up against the wall to be buried later or tending to anyone with injuries.

‘We’re going to find somewhere for you to nest now, baby,’ Jisung says into your hair. ‘Hyunjinnie is going to take you while we look.’

Another set of arms wraps around you, lean and wiry and smelling like roses and grapefruit but mainly roses, achingly close, strong enough to make you want to cry. He nuzzles at your neck, his long hair tickling your face and collarbones. Part of you is singing, happy only now that you’re surrounded by your alphas, happy that -

Hyunjin’s tongue flicks over your scent gland.

You know he doesn’t mean to set off anything - he does it a lot, just to calm you or show affection, but you’re teetering on the brink, hanging in the balance, and this is what tips you over. Just like that, your first wave of slick comes, and all of a sudden there’s an insistent ache between your legs. You stiffen in his arms.

‘Alpha,’ you whine, voice small.

Around you, you hear rather than see the boys pause. No doubt their instincts are kicking in, already perked up at the heady spike in your scent, telling them to look after their omega and knot and  breed and give you pups. There are the other omegas in the room, too, but even they freeze, affected by the possessive twang rolling off each of your alpha’s scents.

Hyunjin shifts just a little against you, and you feel his hardening cock heavy against your hip. A gasp escapes you, and it’s like the sound of it jolts your alphas back up to the present, because they’re moving again, hurrying, in a slight frenzy as they continue to help move the bodies and organise the rest of the omegas.

The fog of your heat is descending, and the rational part of you hates this timing - you need to look after your alphas, tend to their wounds that you couldn’t heal, but the animal part of you clamours over it, making you squirm uncomfortably, pushing Hyunjin away as you spin around, searching for a place to nest. You breath comes out in gasps: you can’t have your heat without a nest, but you don’t know if there are rooms free, if -

A firm hand sweeps up your back, landing on the nape of your neck and holding it, not quite scruffing you but breaking through your rising panic, making you listen. The scent of cocoa and gentle musk overcomes you, and when you look up at Chan, his dark, authority filled eyes pinning you down, another round of slick gushes out of you, and he smiles a little at your response to him.

‘Pack leader,’ you yip, ducking your head. ‘L - leader, alpha - ’

‘You’re going to be okay,’ Chan soothes. ‘Your alphas are here, okay? We’re going to get you to the bed Changbin and Jisung have found for you so you can nest. Just hang in there, omega.’

‘What about the other omegas?’ You ask, struggling to meet his eyes.

‘They’re in the other wing,’ he replies, then preempts your next words. ‘We’ll find new packs for them; we’re not going to replace you, sweetheart. Just let your alphas take care of you, yeah?’

Gently, he takes your hand in his and rubs his thumb along the scent gland at your wrist. A quiet, needy noise tears itself from your throat, and suddenly your legs are buckling - Chan catches you and scoops you up, one hand cradling the back of your head as he carries you through the passages leading from the hall and into the guest wing.

You’re lowered onto the softest mattress you’ve ever felt. It’s funny how all your time trapped in this keep, you never slept on anything but the cold stone floor - but now, your alphas are here, either still in the great hall, here with you or in what you understand is the bathroom next door, and Goemul’s dead, and you’re safe.

Chan kisses your crown and leaves you be for now as you hurriedly arrange the blankets. The bed is huge, wider than you are tall, yet you still crave your nest at home, items of clothing hoarded from your alphas tucked neatly amongst the bedding you’d padded it with - the sheets here are clean, but devoid of smell. It doesn’t compare.

You sit back on your heels. ‘The nest, it’s nowhere near good enough.’

Seungmin appears by your side, rubbing his thumb over the scent gland in your neck, his lips in your hair. ‘No, omega, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.’

The praise relaxes you, calms you, and you melt into his touch, leaning against him and pushing your face into his side, resting your cheek on his bare skin - like the others, he’d surrendered his shirt for your nest without complaint. His touch is feather light as he strokes your hair, and your eyelids droop a little.

Seungmin pecks your lips. ‘You need to sleep now, before your heat fully hits. We’ll all be here when you wake up.’

He watches you lay down, perching on the mattress so you have an alpha close to you while you fall asleep. Yawning, you curl up close to him. This will be the last proper rest you get until the end of your heat.

You close your eyes, the scent of warm embers washing over you.

You wake up sweating.

The ache between your legs has spread upwards and outwards, and you curl into a ball from the pain of it, eyes blurry as you blindly reach your hands out, searching for an alpha. You can hear yourself babbling, begging for a knot, begging to be filled up, because they’re all right there, curled up on the mattress, surrounding you, but they’re all asleep, all eight of them leaving you here in heat on your own, without a knot, and you can’t think beyond the need; you’re going to implode if someone doesn’t -

Sure hands unfurl you, flipping you so you’re spread flat on the mattress. The weight of one of your alphas traps you in place, and you moan, back arching when a hot tongue slides along the column of your throat, halting at your scent gland and sucking the sensitive skin there.

Sweet vanilla rolls over your senses. His teeth bite and suck at your collarbone, and you groan, head all jumbled with need, your body still locked up from the cramps as you fumble with his boxers, urgency rendering you clumsy.

Mercifully, one of your alphas has stripped you down to your underwear while you were sleeping, and you find you don’t even have the time to take them off, instead hooking your leg around Minho’s hip and grinding your throbbing core down on his hardening cock. Lightning pulses through your cunt at the way his lids half close in pleasure, filling you with the need to please your alpha, to be of use to him.

He tears your underwear off with a flick of his wrist. Your pussy is only getting wetter.

Dipping his head, Minho claims your lips, and the brush of his tongue against yours makes your head spin faster than it already is, your hands coming up to tangle with his hair as his hips roll to meet yours.

‘F - fuck,’ you choke out, jolting when Minho sinks two fingers inside you and scissors them.

His lips travel lower to trace down your sternum. ‘Gotta stretch you out for the boys, jagiya.’

You find yourself squirming a little; his fingers are curling, pumping in and out of you at exactly the pace you normally like, but your body is working itself up to the wild throes at the peak of your heat and you need more, so much more. You tell him so, and he chuckles, kissing you again like it’s going to distract you from the way he’s lining himself up at the entrance of your cunt.

Barely the tip of him is in before you’re clenching hard, painfully hard, scrabbling at the bedsheets and crying his name so loud it’s a wonder the boys don’t stir. He licks and sucks at your scent gland, relaxing you until your muscles ease up and he can move - despite all your slick, you still feel the burn of his cock. He’s stretching you out, just like he said he would.

Agonisingly, he pulls out, just to slam back in again, balls deep, punching the air out of your lungs. Minho fucks you roughly, like you need at the start of your heat, his cock reaching so deep inside you you think he might be in your guts - he’s not fast, just so intense that tears are forming on your lash line and you’re panting, fighting for breath.

Then, he’s forcing your legs up onto his shoulders, and the new angle makes you wail, because he’s destroying your cunt in a way that has your thighs shaking and your chest heaving, pleas for more spilling out of you uncontrollably.

Minho has a way of wringing pleasure from you, fucking you so good that you can’t do anything but repeat his name over and over; you feel yourself suspended on the edge, fire licking up your sides, so close, so close, so close -

Mid-thrust, he pauses.

‘Alpha,’ you scream, voice breaking pitifully. ‘Alpha, please - ’

There’s something half sadistic in his eyes when he looks down at you, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, teasing as he enjoys the way you struggle, bucking against him desperately, begging like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

‘Sungie’s woken up from all your noise, omega,’ Minho remarks impassively. ‘Maybe you should give him a hand.’

No sooner has he finished speaking than an achingly hard cock makes its way into your palm, and you cast your teary eyes upward, only half there as you witness Jisung’s head fall back in pleasure when you begin to jerk him, because thank all that is good, Minho’s moving again, tearing you apart and putting you back together with those powerful thrusts of his hips.

He’s hitting that spot inside you, and each time he does, paralysing bolts of pleasure shoot down your spine. Your orgasm crushes you with its magnitude, whiting out your vision, and through it, you blindly beg for his knot, beg him to fill you, beg him to stuff you with load after load.

‘That’s right, omega,’ he grits out. ‘Let it all out for me.’

Tears finally spill over, trickling down your face, the pleasure leaving you rapt, brows drawn together and mouth hanging open, and still he fucks into you; you can feel the slight burn as his knot begins to engorge, and you know he’s so close, so almost filling you up.

Your thoughts grow indistinct the moment Minho spills hot inside you, his knot popping into place and locking you together. Jisung comes not a moment later, letting go with a short cry all over your chest, and if you were not full and happy with Minho’s knot, you’d be fretting about the waste. Instead, you close your eyes and murmur a pleased ‘alpha’, fingers brushing lightly over a bandage on Minho’s arm as the two of them begin to lick the come off you.

You must drift off, because when you resurface, Jisung, Minho and his knot are gone, most likely to the bathroom, and instead you can feel Seungmin’s long fingers working lazily between your legs, just enough to take the edge off the bite of your cramps. He’s got your back propped up against his chest, and you wiggle, bucking your hips up into his touch, inhaling the smell of warm embers.

‘What do you think you’re doing, omega?’

You freeze at the dominance in his tone. Remaining silent, you gaze up at him, wide eyed and head full of cotton as he pins you beneath him, the ravenous look on his face making your neck and cheeks flush. You can feel his cock against your thigh, but he doesn’t allow you to move, doesn’t move himself, just stares down at you, waiting.

Slowly, you tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable expanse of your throat - a display of utter submission. A low whine escapes you when his breath caresses your skin, his nose brushing against your jugular as he inhales your scent.

‘Good omega,’ Seungmin murmurs. ‘Our omega.’

‘Yours,’ you echo, and this time, he lets you buck against him.

Another hot rush of slick leaves you at the friction of his clothed cock against you, and you gasp his name, rubbing your cheek all over his neck and chest, trying to cover him in your scent. He allows it, letting you press yourself against him, desperation soaking your scent, your hands roaming his body urgently, trying to tell him that you need his knot because all your mouth can seem to do right now is say ‘alpha’, again and again and again.

In one smooth sweep, Seungmin gathers your wrists above your head and pins them there. A sound leaves you, so eager and pathetic that your cheeks flush and you struggle half heartedly against him, but he’s yanking off his boxers and running his fingers through your folds to transfer your arousal and make sure his dick will be wet enough. If you stay still, you think you might die.

Yet another round of slick is pouring from you. He chuckles, seeing your cunt clench as he spits in his hand and wraps his fingers around his cock - you know he’s doing it to taunt you. Whoever goes first always makes sure you’re prepped.

‘Ready for my knot, omega?’ Seungmin coos. ‘Think you can take it?’

‘Yes,’ you whine. ‘Yes, alpha, yes, give it to me, I can, I can - ’

Your mouth snaps shut when he thrusts into you, your eyes widening and back arching as thrill after thrill races up your spine, making your cunt bear down on him, squeezing him tight and  greedily sucking him in further. The moment he starts moving, you know he’s not going to go easy on you.

Seungmin is going to make you earn it.

He releases your hands, letting you grab onto him as he fucks into you, fast, unrelenting. Almost sly, his fingers drag down your stomach so he can rub them over your clit in tight circles - your pussy flutters in response, clamping down on him. A muttered curse escapes him; you can feel every muscle of his back taut under your grip, the vein in his neck beginning to strain, yet all he does is go harder.

Something within you buckles. Not a second later, you come, clenching around his cock, squeezing him so tight he’s forced to grind into you further, your cunt refusing to let him pull out. You expect him to ease up, give you a moment to rest but he continues the moment he can, unforgiving.

Overstimulation sears at you, cutting through the cloudiness fogging your brain, and you yawp, scrabbling at Seungmin’s back, thighs jumping with every drag of his cock against your walls as you rake your nails against his skin in a way that must be hurting his battered, not quite healed body, but he doesn’t shake you off, doesn’t seem to mind.

‘Stop thrashing if you want your alpha’s knot,’ he snarls.

‘W - want it,’ you babble, trying to stay still for him. ‘Need it so bad, alpha.’

‘Then take it.’

He punctuates his words with deep rolls of his hips, and this time you can’t not move, because the pads of his fingers are back on your clit, torturous, creating friction so impossibly blissful that it hurts, and he’s hammering his dick into you, so quick that you can’t form words any more, and then - and then -

Once again, you come, and he slams his knot inside you.

Your back bows, your fingers twisting into the sheets until someone grabs your hand and squeezes it as tightly you are squeezing theirs. It’s not Seungmin’s, you realise - his are too busy propping him up, holding him above you. Turning your head to the side, you smile: it’s Minho, half asleep with his eyes almost closed and a silly little grin on his face.

Huffing, his breath ruffling your hair, Seungmin pokes at your face, bringing your attention back to him. You tip your head up and fit your lips to his, a warm, happy buzz engulfing you now that you’re full, and he lowers himself on top of you so you can lie there together, joined by his knot nestled inside your sated cunt as sleep tugs you both under.

You wake up to cacao and musk, lips closed over your scent gland, gently sucking. Whatever Seungmin’s knot and the orgasms he plucked from you did to appease your heat have worn off, and fast, because you’re sweating all over, hips moving against the firmness below you and you don’t know where you are, just that there are hands on your body and a mouth on your neck keeping back the flames.

‘Leader,’ you mewl, half crazy on his scent. ‘Alpha, need your knot,’

‘I’ve got you,’ Chan croons. ‘Alpha’s got you.’

It begins to dawn on you that you’re straddling his lap, grinding down frantically on his thigh, his hands cool where they coast over your burning skin, smoothing circles over your back. Taking your chin in his fingers, he tilts your face up until you’re looking at him. The moment you meet his eyes, you still, hips hovering over his.

‘You going to behave for me, omega?’

You nod so hard it hurts your neck. ‘Yes, alpha, so good, so good for you. Promise.’

‘Sweet girl,’ he coos. ‘My omega.’

Leaving trails of goosebumps behind, Chan’s hands slide down your torso, down to caress the curves of your hips, down to right where you need him. There’s a moment where he just holds your cunt, fingers pressing between your folds until you break and rock against the heel of his palm, chasing away the building pressure between your legs in favour of momentary relief, wobbly voiced pleas rushing from you as your slick soaks him to the wrist.

Nosing at your throat, he laves his tongue over your scent gland, one hand coming round to grip your ass as he positions you closer to him. When he looks up at you, you see the same haze that blankets your mind clouding his eyes - you must be nearing the peak of your heat for your scent to affect him so. He’s barely holding himself back.

‘Okay?’ He verifies. ‘Can take it?’

‘Y - yes, yes,’ you reply, grinding your hips down despite his steady grip on you, searching for his cock.

That’s all it takes for him to lurch upwards, sheathing himself in your heat like it was made for him. The remainder of the sentence on your tongue dissolves into a keening moan, your lips falling open, eyes unfocused and rolled back; he gives you barely a second to adjust to his thickness before he’s pounding into you, holding you in place above him with his nails digging into the flesh of your ass.

You grab at his broad shoulders, needing something to anchor you with the way he’s jerking your whole body up and down with every punishing thrust. Chan’s fucking up into you like he wants you to forget your own name, like he wants you to forget everything but the surge of his cock through your spasming walls; he’s got you dumb, mouth agape, the sounds that leave you wordless but pleading.

It’s as if your senses have narrowed to the giddying scent of your alpha and the promise of his knot in the snap of his hips against yours - you can’t think of anything else.

Dimly, you realise he’s speaking between the sloppy kisses he adorns your neck and chest with, groaning and mumbling against your skin as his teeth nip at your scent gland, stimulating you in a way that brings century old instincts to the surface - it has you shuddering, nails buried into the meat of his biceps as you twist your head back to bare your throat to your alpha.

‘Good omega,’ he’s gasping, words slurred, reaching so deep inside you all you can do is take it. ‘Made for me, omega - fuck, fuck, squeezing me so well - gonna give you my knot, sweetheart, give you my pups, gotta breed you, gonna - ’

Chan moans so loud it’s almost a howl, slamming you down on his cock to the hilt one last time, fingers furiously working your clit. The hot spill of his seed yanks you unceremoniously over the edge, and you feel your pussy constrict around his knot - he hisses at the feel of it, his chest, mottled with bruises, heaving as he comes down from the high, eyes beginning to focus on you.

Fuck, he looks good, all sweaty and panting and still a bit dazed, his curls ruffled and a dumb little blissed out smile plastered on his face. Tugging you close, he lets his forehead fall against your collarbones, pushing his face between your tits - you giggle as he sighs happily into their plushness, tucking your arms around him and holding him close, sated and so incredibly, wonderfully full.

‘So good for me, sweetheart,’ he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin.

You preen at his words, and his hands move up from where they were splayed out on your back to stroke your hair, smoothing it down and untangling some of the knots with his fingers. Curling up as much as you can in this position, you lean your head on Chan’s shoulder, basking in the reassuring presence of your alpha.

Something warm presses against your leg, and you look down to see Jeongin, balled up facing Seungmin with his back pushed up against the length of your thigh, his angular face softened in sleep. Grinning, you brush a hand over his cheek, and he stirs, humming drowsily before settling again.

A hand rubs at the small of your back, and you turn to see that Felix has woken up. Despite the fact that his blonde hair is mussed and he’s squinting against the light of the torches in the sconces on the walls, he’s smiling sweetly at you, gaze bright and soft.

‘Felix, please could you grab that for me?’ Chan’s gesturing to a small platter on the bedside table.

Clambering over a slumbering Minho and Jisung and almost tripping up on Changbin’s outstretched leg, he retrieves it and hands it to Chan, who supports you with a hand on your waist so you can sit back and tuck into the slices of bread and cheese on the plate. You hadn’t realised how hungry you were until now - your stomach rumbles at just the smell of the food.

Through a mouthful, you beam. ‘Thanks, Lix.’

He leans over Changbin to kiss you sweetly, filling your nose with the scent of violets and sunshine. ‘Once Chan’s knot goes down I’ll take you to the bath, okay?’

‘Yes, please,’ you reply. ‘I’m all sticky.’

‘My bad,’ Chan chuckles, rubbing his hands up and down your sides and making your brain all fuzzy.

By the time you’ve finished the food, Chan’s knot has come down enough to slip out of you - both of you groan when he pulls out, his come rolling down your thighs. You glance over at Felix and see him watching, and when you look down you can see he’s semi hard and sending you a sheepish grin.

A great yawn splits your face in half, and you stretch your cramped legs as you shuffle awkwardly off the bed, pausing to give Chan a kiss before he scoots down and tugs the blanket over him, nuzzling close to Jeongin. Lifting you up, Felix carries you to the bathroom - Hyunjin looks up from where he’s perched on a rickety wooden stool in the corner, holding something delicately in his hands and smirking.

‘That cavewoman omega in you really likes it when Chan fucks you like that, huh?’

You roll your eyes. ‘Go on and pretend you weren’t hard.’

‘Why are you holed up in here, anyway?’ Felix asks as he helps you into the wooden tub.

‘Changbin was rolling around in his sleep,’ he shrugs. ‘Didn’t want to stab him.’

Proudly, Hyunjin holds up the piece of wood he’s been whittling - it’s a lovely piece of limewood, light and creamy in colour, and it must be a maquette for a sword hilt he’s planning on making, because it’s carved with whorls and flowing arches, as if the wood itself is malleable clay in his skilled hands.

‘I like it,’ Felix says as he helps soap your back. ‘It’s pretty.’

Hyunjin gives him a look. ‘Of course.’

You chuckle. ‘Yeah, Felix, when did he ever make something that wasn’t pretty?’

‘Hey, what about that time when - ’

‘No, it was pretty, you just - ’

Closing your eyes, you listen to the two of them bicker playfully, relishing the warmth of the water and the way it eases your sore muscles - you want to enjoy the momentary lucidity. You’re still somewhere in the highest intensity of your heat, and soon your body is going to want a knot again, even after having Chan’s so recently.

Right on queue, as if just thinking about it sets it off, your scent spikes, and you feel a wave of slick spill from you - it goes straight into the water, but both Hyunjin and Felix fall silent anyway, sensing your need from a mile away.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Hyunjin drags his stool closer to the tub.

Without further delay, Felix shucks off his boxers and climbs in. The water swills but doesn’t spill over, and he takes your chin and kisses you softly, careful not to lean too much of his weight on you; the moment he pulls back, Hyunjin is there, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip before pushing it into your mouth, and you moan around him when you feel the nudge of Felix’s cock head at your entrance.

All three of you groan when he slides in, and you turn your head to the side, unsurprised to see Hyunjin’s slender fingers curling around his cock, his carving abandoned to the side - your eyes glide upwards, locking on his as you suck on his thumb, still resting against your lips, and he visibly picks up his pace, face twisting in pleasure.

Hiding his face into your damp neck, Felix groans, low and deep, thrusting his hips forward until they kiss yours, so close that his pubic bone grinds over your clit. He fucks into you slowly and tenderly, and as he does, Hyunjin hooks his thumb under your chin and crams three of his fingers into your mouth up to the knuckle, grunting when your tongue swirls over them.

You’re still sensitive from Chan, maybe even from the two orgasms Seungmin coaxed from you, and the way Felix’s cock drags through you is driving you insane - almost as much as the praise they’re both showering upon you and the pump of Hyunjin’s fingers in and out of your mouth. Water is sloshing over the sides of the tub with each movement, and it’s as if you’re floating aimlessly, muscles lax and surrounded all over by this warmth.

Hyunjin comes first.

It’s Felix that sets him off: kissing you over the fingers buried in your mouth, his tongue sliding over them before he licks at your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, and suddenly Hyunjin’s coming with a gasp, wrenching Felix off your front by his shoulder so he can spill over the part of your chest that’s above the water.

That’s what makes you come.

The sight of Hyunjin bent double over you and Felix, jerking himself until he’s spent and then some to overstimulate himself, the hand that had been in your mouth gripping the side of the tub so hard his knuckles run white - it’s too much. Your pussy convulses around Felix, and only then do you find your words, gasping that you need a knot, begging for his come.

It’s all too easy for him to give you what you want - more water splashes out of the tub and straight onto the bathroom floor as he seats his knot inside you, plugging his seed in so not a drop is wasted. He flops over you, panting.

‘I didn’t expect it to come back so fast,’ you remark as the three of you catch your breath.

‘So much for the bath,’ Felix laughs. ‘Maybe we should draw another one.’

The next time you open your eyes, it hits you full force. The ache in your core is so intense that all you can do is flail, thrashing and writhing and crying, all tangled up in the blankets which are soaked with your sweat and twisted around your legs, all tangled up in the consuming flames of your heat. There are warm bodies all around you; you can hear their breathing, but none of them are responding, and fuck it hurts -

This can’t be happening again -

You squeak in alarm as someone manhandles you onto your front so quickly that your head spins, holding your arms down so you can barely move - you’re grinding desperately down on the mattress, and you can feel the sheets beneath you grow wet with your slick.

‘Stay still, omega,’ a voice growls. ‘You’re going to push someone off the bed if you don’t.’

‘Alpha?’ You whimper, rubbing your thighs together. ‘It’s not enough, please - ’

‘Binnie’s here,’ he soothes, tone gentler now. ‘Binnie’s going to take care of you, okay? Hands and knees for me, omega.’

Tears of relief trickle down your face and seep into the cloth beneath you - Jeongin’s shirt. You scramble to obey your alpha’s command, only halting when Changbin pulls you in for a quick kiss that leaves you dizzy, as if he sucked the air from your lungs and replaced it with pure, unadulterated need. Squeezing your ass, he fucking bullies you into position, manoeuvring you until you’re face down, ass up.

You fist the sheets in your hands, trying to stay still but he’s taking his damn time. Arching your back, you push back on him, feverish, reduced to the urges of your idiot omega brain that you can’t ignore for the life of you. Your thighs are trembling as he lines himself up, your breath coming out in harsh pants.

With a harsh stab of his hips, he ploughs into you.

You wait for him to move, wait for him to fucking destroy you, but he doesn’t; he just holds himself there, infuriating, playing with you, and you’re wailing and trying to push back onto him more but he’s got you in his iron grip and then he’s cracking a hand down on your ass and you howl and finally -

Finally he’s moving.

Changbin is railing into you, unrelenting. You’re clenching so hard around him, desperate for his knot that your vision keeps blanking out, your voice breaking as you call his name, and surely it’s waking up the boys, but you don’t really care because you need him, need -

‘Need it, alpha,’ you sob, ‘Need it.’

‘I know, omega,’ he grits out. ‘Let your alpha take care of you.’

And then he gives you all you ask. He gives it to you, alright. He gives it to you so that the slick is running out of you and down your twitching thighs, he gives it to you so you’re hoarse from screaming his name - he gives it to you until you feel all limp and boneless beneath him, and still he draws you out, drilling into you like he was born to do it.

Just when you think he might be satisfied, Changbin hooks a hand under your arm and pulls you upright, pinning you against his chest and hitting a new, cataclysmic angle inside you; roughly, he bites down on the spot where you shoulder and neck meet, and his hands come up to cup your tits, pinching your nipples and sending jolts of pleasure through you. He’s fucking up into you endlessly and you can’t even remember if you came already because he’s got you drowning in ecstasy, losing yourself in it.

And then his fingers are on your clit.

You can feel his knot, pressing against your core, so close, so close.

Inside your stomach, something pulls up tight, and you come so hard everything goes black.

You come to about half a minute later, cradled against Changbin’s chest, his knot safely within your cunt, satisfying you, and he’s hugging you to him, kissing every inch of your sweat coated skin that he can reach. He shifts against you when he senses you waking, nuzzling against your scent gland as he kisses a hickey on your neck - most likely from Minho.

‘Are you okay?’ Changbin asks. ‘Did I go too hard?’

‘No,’ you reply drowsily. ‘Was good. So good.’

Your hand meets his, and you smile a little as you twine your fingers together. The scent of roses and grapefruit fills your nose, and you close your eyes at the feel of Hyunjin nestling closer to you, sandwiching you between him and Changbin, your breathing slowing as you drift off.

You’re woken by a puff of air against your clit. Hyunjin chuckles when the muscles in your thigh jitter at the feel of it, looking up at you from where he sprawls between your legs, grinning like he wants to devour you. Whatever you’re lying on rocks to the side, and you bleat in alarm and narrowly catch yourself, glancing over your shoulder to find that your head was  resting on Jeongin’s chest, who is now smirking at you, eyes glittering mischievously.

The feeling of two alphas looking like they might eat you does something to your cunt that has Hyunjin transfixed. He licks his lips and you get the distinct sense that he might accidentally pop a knot too soon if he isn’t careful.

‘You two look like you’re plotting something,’ you mumble, trying to ignore the attention your pussy is demanding.

‘Yeah,’ Jeongin confirms casually. ‘Hyunjin’s going to go down on you and I’m going to fuck your mouth.’

‘Oh,’ you say, and this time you can’t ignore the way you clench around nothing.

Hyunjin groans, and you feel the mattress dip a little as he grinds into it. He buries a finger into your fluttering heat, cursing under his breath, and your eyes widen as Jeongin props your head up with a pillow and straddles your chest, his flushed cock nudging your lips. Your tongue darts out, flicking against his head, and he adjusts himself so he’s kneeling over you.

Opening your mouth, you take him as far as you can, and almost like he’s rewarding you for it, Hyunjin’s lips close around your clit. Surprised, you yelp around Jeongin’s length, hips bucking into Hyunjin’s face of their own accord; in response, another finger is eased into your core and you suck in a sharp breath of air.

That’s the moment Jeongin chooses to thrust shallowly into your mouth. You gag and get embarrassingly close to coming - Hyunjin lifts his head, feeling your weeping pussy seize his fingers.

‘She liked that,’ he remarks.

You don’t even get to reply because there’s an alpha cock fucking itself down your throat, surrounding you with the scent of mint and lavender. You’re not sure when you moved your hands but now they’re curled under the backs of his thighs, your nails sinking into his skin as he uses your mouth, and he’s got your hair fisted in his fingers for better leverage - even through the haze of your heat you can see his knuckles are still swollen and cut up from the fight.

He must have been pretty wound up because you can feel him tensing under your palms, curses flowing from his lips as he wrenches himself out of your mouth and basically shoves Hyunjin out of the way. There’s a moment where you’re painfully empty, bereft of Hyunjin’s nimble fingers, and then Jeongin slams his cock inside you, rutting into you once, twice, before he comes, his knot swelling within you and filling you up.

‘So good for us, omega,’ Hyunjin coos, appearing at your side.

Cupping your chin, he kisses you and you can taste yourself on him as he licks into your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours. Jeongin pushes him to the side, grumbling and barging him with his shoulder so he can press his lips to your scent gland, sucking a love bite just below it, his teeth grazing over your skin. You giggle at the look on Hyunjin’s face, cute and pouty despite the fact that you can feel his cock, stiff and leaking precum all over your thigh.

While you wait for Jeongin’s knot to go down, the two of them take turns kissing you, Hyunjin sometimes sneaking kisses to Jeongin too. It’s like you’re in heaven: stuffed full and content, with two alphas paying their utmost attention to you.

Finally, Jeongin eases out, and you feel the hot spill of his come - and maybe some of Changbin’s too - ooze from your stretched out pussy. He scoops up as much of it as he can and pushes it right back in, licking his fingers after: your body is wracked by a shiver at the sight, cunt aching to be filled again.

‘Need another load?’ Hyunjin teases, seeing the hungry look in your eyes.

‘Get on with it already, alpha,’ you snark back.

Eagerly, Hyunjin slots himself between your legs, gliding his cock head through your folds a few times before he plunges in. It shuts you up, fast. Throwing his head back, he groans, just a little louder than the wet, sucking sounds your pussy makes as he begins to move; there’s come slopping out of you with each thrust, smearing over the tops of your thighs and his, and he fucks it right back into you until you’re keening, bucking into him.

‘Shit,’ he moans. ‘Keep on fucking doing that, sweet omega.’

Breathless, you obey, rolling your hips to meet his so fervently that your muscles begin to burn, but it’s the good kind, the type of sensation that comes before your legs lock up, trembling uncontrollably as pleasure hits you so hard you go limp.

Pinching and rubbing at your clit in a way that is glorious, Hyunjin dips his head, giving you another kiss that tastes like you, and suddenly, at the touch of his lips to yours, you’re coming, shaking so hard that you’re shaking him. He groans your name, hands tangling in your hair to hold your face to his, and he travels a little lower to mouth at the hollow of your throat.

‘Taking me so well,’ he rasps. ‘Fitting around me just right, omega.’

A little jolt of lightning shoots through you as he lurches a little further into your cunt, coming, and there’s already so much seed inside you that a little bit seeps out around his knot, fat drops slipping down your skin. Sighing contentedly, you stretch your arms above your head as Hyunjin rests his head on your chest. You can feel the dull pain of your heat receding, giving way to a hint of lucidity, and now that the adrenaline is leaving your system, you start to feel aches flaring up all over your body.

Lifting your head, you keep a hand on the back of Hyunjin’s head so he doesn’t slide off you as you search for the familiar scent of clean linen and cinnamon, craning your neck as you twist to check he’s not among the boys dozing on the mattress around you. Just before you call out his name, the door to the room opens, and he walks in, cheeks full with some food he must have raided from the keep’s storeroom.

Jisung sees your face and immediately strides over. ‘Feeling okay, omega?’

You nod. ‘I think it’s almost passed.’

A stab of guilt punches through you. Jisung’s waited his turn, and there’s a chance that if you fall asleep now, you’ll wake up and find your heat has broken. He must smell the worry on your scent, because he leans forward and tucks some of your tangled hair behind your ear.

‘It’s okay, jagi,’ he reassures. ‘This is about you. Rest now.’

You’re already dreaming by the time he finishes his sentence.

‘Are you sure?’ Jisung clarifies again, even though you’re certain he can still smell the lingering honey of your heat on your scent.

‘Yes, alpha,’ you huff, unable to hide the petulance in your voice.

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Please,’ you whine. ‘Need your knot, Ji, please, alpha.’

‘Okay, but you tell me if you’re too sensitive, alright?’

You nod, already bucking your hips which succeeds to do nothing but drag his cock head through your folds. You’d woken up surrounded by Jisung’s crisp linen and cinnamon scent, the low burning need for a knot clawing at your insides, subdued at least by the seven other knots you’ve taken but still insistent enough that you needed Jisung inside you.

A wretched cry leaves you as he seats his cock inside you - he pauses, throwing his head back, biting his lips to stifle a moan - and you feel him twitch from within your squeezing walls. You’re not surprised; he’s been stuck in a keep with his omega’s scent rubbed all over him, the mattress and his pack mates, driving him crazy.

‘Fucking hell, omega,’ he mumbles, nuzzling at your face before he kisses you. ‘Don’t know how long I’m gonna last.’

Jisung begins to move, slowly but deep, a little smile pulling at his lips as he looks you right in the eyes, lacing his fingers with yours where they rest on the pillows beneath your head. He’s gentle, aware that you’re sore, pressing feather light kisses to the hickeys decorating your skin - some of which you don’t even remember exactly who gave to you, your memories clouded by your heat - and slowing his pace if your face screws up or your fingers tighten too hard on his.

Wrapping your legs around his trimmed waist, you pull him closer, crossing your ankles at the small of his back. His hand trails down and begins to rub steadily at your clit, and you feel the stirrings of heaven beginning to rouse within you: your toes curl, and a drawn out whine escapes from your throat, urging him onwards.

Jisung’s fingers speed up on your clit. ‘Come for me, omega.’

You keen as shockwaves run through you, leaving you spent, out of breath, pussy raw. Fractionally, Jisung slows the pace he’s thrusting into you, whispering sweet nothings onto your lips like prayers - your fingers sweep through his soft hair, the rest of your body limp against the mattress as you gaze up at him, eyes glazed.

‘Alpha,’ you whimper - it’s all you have the energy for.

‘Shit, omega - ’

Jisung cums with a gasp, knot locking into place as he trembles above you, trying to control the way he rocks his hips , grinding himself impossibly deeper into you. A tear slips down your cheek and he licks it off, the tender look in his eyes leaving you all melty in his arms.

Your pussy flutters around him, constricting around his knot as he carefully rolls the two of you over for you to lie on his chest, legs curled up either side of him so you can soak up the feel of his skin against yours. His arms wrap around you, and another hand, calloused from hours working in the smithy, brushes over your back before lips press against your shoulder blade.

‘How’s she doing?’ Chan whispers.

‘Good,’ you hum, answering for Jisung and cracking your eyes open a millimetre. ‘Really good. Really tired, too.’

He chuckles. ‘I’m not surprised, sweetheart.’

Minho speaks up, saying something that makes Jisung’s wide chest vibrate beneath your ear with a quiet laugh, but you don’t really hear it at all - your brain feels like it’s made out of cotton, and your limbs feel light and airy, Jisung’s skin so soft it’s as if you’re floating on a cloud.

‘Love you, alpha,’ you murmur.

You don’t clarify, and they don’t ask, but they know you mean each and every one of them.

When you next rouse yourself, you’re fully lucid, and Changbin’s shouting at someone from inside the bathroom. Groaning, you rub your eyes, and a low, tired throb emanates from between your legs - solid proof that your alphas took care of you through your heat, like they always do. You remember it: most of it vividly, some of it in flashes.

Flopping your arms out, you’re met with unpleasantly cold sheets. A frown furrows your brow and you lift your head - now that you’re shaking off the last dregs of your heat and the long sleep that has left a small bit of drool on the pillow beneath your head, you can faintly hear your pack’s voices. From what it sounds, most of them are in the corridor or the great hall, and you can just about pick up other voices too: the omegas you rescued.

You can also hear Changbin, clear as day, muttering grumpily to himself. Snickering, you listen closer, catching something about Seungmin, that little shit and damn towel. You open your mouth, ready to call out to him -

‘Seungmin!’ He yells, so loud you jump. ‘I know you can hear me! Where’s my towel?’

With a groan, you heave yourself upright and pull on the first shirt available: immediately, Jisung’s scent wraps tight around you. Choking on a laugh that you fail to stifle, you shuffle to the edge of the bed and climb off, taking pity on Changbin, while - rolling his eyes so hard it looks like there’s someone behind them pulling them with strings - Seungmin bursts through the bedroom door.

Just in time to see your legs buckle.

He darts across the room and manages to break your fall as you crumple to the floor, muscles protesting. Unfortunately, you manage to take him down with you and he laughs, loud enough for Changbin to hear it and think he’s the one getting made fun of, but with a mischievous spark dancing in his eyes that you know is aimed at you.

‘You’re acting as if you didn’t contribute to this,’ you retort, attempting to pull yourself up.

There’s a steady burning in your thighs, and once you’re upright, you’re wobbling like a newborn calf. Seungmin snorts, knocking you backwards onto the bed and kissing you, fending off your hands as you attempt to punch him in the ribs. Eventually, he lets up, mostly because Changbin has started screeching threats from inside the bathroom that can be heard over your giggled protests.

He sorts out his mussed hair. ‘I don’t regret contributing whatsoever. In fact, I enjoyed it.’

‘You’re always so smug after knotting me, huh?’ You send him a rude gesture.

‘As if you didn’t - ’

‘Seungmin, I swear - ’

Both of you giggle, and Changbin splutters, hearing your laughter. Still chuckling, Seungmin scoops you up in his arms and retrieves a towel that’s been stowed behind one of the pillows, taking his time to open the bathroom door and hand it back to him. Seeing Changbin, his damp hair hanging over his eyes as he grumbles at the two of you, unable to fulfil his threats with Seungmin using you as a human shield, sets the two of you off again.

The sound of your laughter attracts your other alphas. They file into the room, and Chan smiles fondly as he sees you Seungmin’s arms. Jeongin walks over and nuzzles his face into your hair, kissing your earlobe and pausing there.

‘Legs out of commission after being fucked too good, huh?’

‘Jeongin,’ you hiss, slapping his arm. Seungmin has the audacity to high five him.

Chan attempts to hide a laugh. ‘I’m going to ignore that.’

‘Well, you better not ignore Seungmin stealing and hiding my towel,’ Changbin mutters.

Seungmin laughs again, and you get passed to Jeongin while he wards off Changbin, who is still clad in just a towel. Warmth fills you - it’s good to have your boys happy and playful after seeing them taken and hurt by Goemul. You’re whole again now that you’ve got them back.

Eventually, the two of them calm down, and Chan smiles at you in a way that makes your heart swell and overflow in your chest.

‘Ready to go home, omega?’

taglist: @0bticeo @hyunjinsjeans @sleepyleeji @milkslovehotel

"My lady?!" Suguru called out, trudging through the thick, grassy plains of the royal courtyard's main garden. He passed a cobbled, mossy stone well, though quickly stopping to check down into the glossy water; anywhere you could possibly fit into he'd have to check. Knowing you, you would put yourself in the most compromising, uncomfortable position for a chance you could hide from your noble duties. He passed through long aisles of shrubbery, florals, and large sprawling willow trees.

His wrought iron and steel armour clanked as he walked, hitting itself around his joints and limbs, likely alerting you to his presence. If you knew he was coming, you'd probably hide further into the orchard. He'd probably have brought your disappearance to the attention of the court except for the fact he was supposed to be attending to you, and you had slipped out under his supervision. You always did have a way of distracting him; like you knew him well enough to know how to push the right set of buttons and slip away in the blink of an eye. Plus, being raised together meant he knew how seriously you took your 'adventures' through the same courtyards you'd spent your whole life in.

He was dragged out of his train of thought when he tripped on a hard, leathery item strewn loosely on the ground. He looked down to see white, mud-stained heel with a pointed toe. Your heel. A loud sigh escaped him as he looked up and around the branches high above him. He was stupid, looking on the ground, or any other place a normal person may be hiding. You were no ordinary person, he'd known this for decades.

"My lady," he sighed when his eyes finally settled on your form—sitting along the long, spindling branch of a weeping willow tree, the thickset limb more than strong enough to support your wait but not an adequate shape for you to remain modest in your formal garbs. Your shoes were kicked off to make the tree easier to climb, and it was clear that in scaling it you got quite filthy; the feet of your stockings were caked in mud with small holes along the bottom of your feet, pricked by tinier branches, twigs, and offshoots of the tree.

"Please, come down." Suguru extended his arms up in the direction in which you sat a good nine or ten feet off the ground, though he turned his head to the right, eyes shut, lest he see you from this vulgar position. "I can see your hosen, it's... improper."

You sighed loudly, dramatical. "Must I?" you whined, petulant as the day you two met. Petulant as a young child.

"Your ball is this evening and you're yet to get dressed, your Highness." He splayed his fingers out wider, palms open, ushering you to jump down for him to catch you.

Somehow, you managed to muster an even more exaggerated sigh than before, before pushing yourself off of the branch and dropping inelegantly into the young knight's arms. One arm wrapped around your waist, gloved fingers digging into your corseted waist, the other perched at the top of your thighs instinctively to keep you up as you wrapped your legs around his waist, in turn, for security. The way he held you was improper, surely. But wasn't it justified, for your safety? And either way, there were five layers of dress and another of armour between his forearm and your thighs.

He carried you, hand pilling down your skirt as to keep your legs and ankles hidden while you two passed through the courtyard. A handful of serfs tending to the garden stared and gawked, but all of them knew well enough not to gossip about the princess's personal knight—not to his face, at least—lest they want to be whipped, maimed, or worse.

"Why were you there?" Suguru murmured into your ear, quietly as to not hurt your delicate hearing, as your chin was propped up on his shoulder and ear was right next to his mouth. He already knew the answer, but was still curious as to what you'd say.

"Don't act as though you don't already know, Sir Suguru," you huffed, a puff of warm air hitting the exposed skin of his neck. Around the courtyard, he wouldn't wear his full uniform; usually just taking his mask and helmet off. It made it easier to breathe, to move, and allowed you to indulge in a simple pleasure you often talked about; running your fingers through his silken, black hair. Who was he to tell the princess what she ought not do with his hair? "If I can't be find, I can't go to my ball."

"Your debut was supposed to be two weeks ago already," Geto grumbled, "and you already missed that. You can't miss another." You seethed something incomprehensible, probably not wanting to be heard and just muttering your frustrations to yourself. Suguru didn't probe. He knew better than to do that. He knew you better than to do that.

He strode quickly through the halls and into your sleeping quarters, placing you delicately onto the bed and closing the wooden door behind himself.

He kneeled down, positioning you to sit on the edge of your bed, legs dangling off and on either side of him as he sat in front of you. "Your dress is in your cabinet," he murmured lowly, reaching under your skirt and to your wide hips. 'Birthing hips,' as your family would call them, though he always found that gross—he understood it reflexively if anything. The standard for a woman was wideset hips, and you were, after all, one of the fairest princess in the kingdom. The fairest he'd ever seen, personally.

He slipped his hands under your chemise and hooked two fingers on each side of your stockings, gently pulling them down and away. His eyes locked on yours the whole time, refusing to look under your bustle. Geto was nothing if not a gentleman to you.

"Are you going to escape if I waited outside for you, my lady?" He stood to his full high, folding up the muddied stockings and placing them in your dirty hamper to be scrubbed by the maids.

"Would you believe me if I said no?" you grinned, reaching behind yourself to tug at and undo the ribbon bow tied to keep your corset tight, cinching your waist as thin as possible and accentuating your hips further.

He chuckled, muttering a "no" and shaking his head. Despite that, he stepped outside, door closed with his ear pressed to it so he could hear if you attempted to make a break for it.

──────

"Sir Suguru?" you called gently, opening the door. "How do I look?"

Fuck.

You were in a floor-length, rosy pink gown. The ruffled neckline sat underneath a sturdy, whalebone bodice. Your hair was pinned up in a wavy, lose bun atop your head with a curled strands falling over your shoulders. Your upper arms had three thin golden cuffs wrapped tight, matching the gold waistband sitting on your hips, perched right below the hem of your corset. The skirt was large, he could count the ruffles of at least three skirts underneath the main dress, the one on top, not including the smock undergarments and wire-frame bustle. Gold portrait necklaces and strings of pearls dipped down from your artificially-lightened collarbone, all of your skin powdered paler, and sitting right above the crevice of the bosoms amplified by the corset over your dress.

"You look..." Ethereal? Angelic? Mine? Not a single word that came to mind was proper for a personal knight to call his princess. "...perfectly respectable, your highness."

"Eugh, you sound like my mother," you joked, reaching under your hoop skirt and fixing the leather of your heels that caught under your heel. "Lord, I hate dresses."

"Well, they clearly don't hate you," Geto joked, extending an arm for you to take to escort you. "May I ask, why pink? I believe white is... traditional, I can't imagine your mother would want anything but."

"Do I look as though I'd subscribe to my mother's tradition?" you grinned up at him, before your eyes flit back down to the floor. He thought for a moment that would be that, that you wouldn't explain any further, until you spoke again after a moment to gather your mind. "White is for purity, yes, but pink is for... femininity. It is sweet and youthful, and... my mother believes that is a better representitive of me."

A bright, hot red spread from the tip of the knight's nose to the tips of his ears at that idea. That you are more a 'woman' than anything else? Are you impure? Is that why your mother thought you ought not wear a white dress?

"I am not... defiled," you teased, noticing the blush against your knight's pale skin. "But my mother thinks I still act like a child, and for that she figured a white dress would be better."

A child. You were no child. Suguru remembered when you were a child, when you both were. When you met. You, a young lotus blossoming in the confines of a castle, him the son of your father's personal knight and raised by the hand of the best armymen in the kingdom to be your guard. He didn't know when exactly, in his mind, you became a woman. It was as though one day you were two inches taller than him, lithe and boxy in frame, a gap in your pearly front teeth, and the next you were quite a ways shorter than him, with sturdy hips and tummy rolls and two soft breasts he recently found himself longing to touch.

"This is going to be dreadfully boring," you sighed as Geto opened the large, brown doors to the ballroom, already booming with life and people. There were other socialites, noble and royal girls your age in their flouncy dresses looking just as fed up as you were, with at least two wealthy men for every one girl. This was going to be a nightmare.

Your mother squealed, rushing up to grab your hands cloaked in lacy white gloves, her own sister in toe. "You look absolutely charming, darling," your auntie said, placing a hand on your supple shoulder.

"Come now, my love," your mom dragged you by the wrist to the east wing of the ballroom. You passed by dozens of couples waltzing, drinking, chatting, and eating. Sometimes you wished you were normal, and could just unwind like that. Enjoy your own party.

"The belle of ball," Geto muttered in your ear, teasing, as he sped to keep up with you. Tat earned him a scoff and slap to the arm before he resumed his professional demeanor.

You arrived at a long table draped in an eggshell tablecloth, covered in all sorts of hors d'oeuvres, shellfish, wines, and any other delicacy being served at your ball. There were people seated of all ages and appearances, most of which with short, spiky hair, including the women. Most of that hair was black, contrasting the people's pale skin, with a few blondes or older nobles with grey hair mixed in. Your mother called your name to get your attention, drawing your eyes up to her before back to the table. "This is the House of Zen'in," she said to you. "Zen'in family, this is my daughter. The débutante."

An older man with grey hair slicked back down his neck, spiking out where it dispersed over his shoulders, and a thin matching mustache shaped up towards his ears, smiled leered at the sight of you. "Oh, what a doll," he said as you nervously folded your hands in front of you, "so why isn't she in a white dress? Has she whored herself out?"

"Oh, no," your mother nervously assured, eyes pinching shut in an uncomfortable smile, "she is, she is. We decided to go with pink as my daughter is... prefers to deviate from norms and traditions, though not disrespectfully, and we decided on pink as it truly displays her delicacy, femininity. Her innocence and purity."

Innocence. The word tasted bitter in Geto's mouth as he took what your mother said in.

"Oh, alright," the old man grinned, folding his hands over his robed belly. "I'm Naobito. Zen'in Naobito," he introduced

You extended a hand, giving your name in turn. His hand, when he shook yours, felt bony and cold to the touch, like he didn't have a heart to pump fresh, warm blood through his wrinkled body.

"This is my son," he said, perching the same hand on the shoulder of the young man sitting next to him, "Naoya."

You extended a hand to the blonde, who simply stared and scoffed. He stood, now visibly a few inches taller than you, and only then did he shake your hand. "A man ought not be lower than a woman with whom he's communicating with," he grinned. You felt a chill run down your spine at the sheer sight of it, his smile, his perfectly manicured hands, the words leaving his thin lips.

He sat back down, his father speaking up again. "How old is she? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Eighteen," your mother quickly answered.

"Perfect," Naobito smirked, "my Naoya is only twenty-six."

That broke Suguru. Truly, he couldn't stomach it. A man almost a decade older than you is perfect for you but he, barely nineteen, isn't? Would he never be enough for you? "Your Royal Majesty?" he murmured softly, eyes locking with the queen's. "May I be excused of my duties? Sleep has been awful to me recently, I must turn in early, if allowed."

The queen was not a tyrant by any means. Not only that, she cared deeply for Geto—his father protected her husband his whole life, and she watched the boy grow up alongside her own daughter. She always had a soft spot for his requests. "Of course, Sir Suguru," she smiled delicately.

He slipped past you, hand barely frisking your waist one last time before he weaved through the sea of socialites to his chambers. You watched as he left, confused, already missing him though he wasn't even gone yet.

But just as soon as you turned to watch him leave, your mother was snapping your attention back towards the Zen'in clan table.

──────

Knock, knock, knock.

"Sir Suguru?" you huffed from the outer side of his bed chamber's door. "Geto?" you snapped. You never used his last name, never addressed him improperly, but you needed to get your knight's attention.

Still, he didn't respond.

You sighed, bunching up your skirt and carrying it with you to scamper off to your room. It was very close to his; you two shared a wall. With how close you've always been, you sure you'd have shared a room if he was a girl.

Geto could hear your door shut, and he let out a light sigh he was sure you wouldn't be able to hear from your room. He couldn't look at you like this; knowing soon, you won't be his princess. You'll be Naoya's queen, in all likelihood. He knew if he let you into his room... you weren't coming back out until sunup.

He couldn't help but listen to you, though. You were never particularly delicate when it came to undressing, changing into your nightly garments, or getting into bed. Tonight, though, he could hear something different. He could hear you exhale drowsily as you settled into bed. The rustle of your nightwear bunching up and... the soft, breathy sighs that ensued.

Suguru's eyes shot wide open as he heard your breath hitch, break, and fall into a whimper. He heard the rhythmic thump, thump if you moving your whole body against your bed, and a faint wet smacking he was sure could only be your fingers pumping between your thighs. No one else in the castle would be able to hear, you were smart enough to ensure you were that quiet at the very least. But Geto could hear. He, in the room the opposite side of yours, could hear every little whimper and whine leaving your pretty, pink lips.

Including when you panted "Sugu—ru~ mm.. ha—ahh..."

Fuck his life. You were touching yourself. To him.

"Oh, oh, sir Sugu..."

He was half-tempted to do the same to you.

Your pretty little whines grow exasperated before everything just... stops, with a grumble. Perhaps you had grown frustrated with the little satisfaction your smaller hands were able to give you, compared to his? Perhaps he should go over and show you how much better he is out of fantasy?

Or perhaps he should stop thinking of you in this way.

Yes. However unfortunate it may be, you were become a woman of class now. To be married off. You would be disinherited, banished, if you were to marry your own knight. Best case scenario, you could abdicate the thrown and run away with him—but no, he couldn't do that to you.

He folded his yellowish-white pillow to cover both side of his ears, muffling any more of those tantalizing noises you may make later into the night. He must sleep at once. Hopefully by morning, he'd be back to seeing you the way he always has again. His best friend.

──────

A WEEK LATER

──────

You woke up to one of your maids squealing your name—with joy or worry? You were too tired to tell. "Your Highness!" one main screamed, banging her fist on your chamber doors. You scrambled up, still indecent in your sleeping garbs, tugging the skirt as low as it would go as you opened the door to at least feign modesty.

"Yes, ma'am?" you murmured, rubbing the tiredness from your sleep-ridden eyes.

"A letter," the woman declared, extending two arms out to present you with a letter the colour of snow with your full name written in large, loopy, cursive letters. "A letter from the House of Zen'in." She was almost more giddy than you, two more maids crowding behind her, covering their mouths as they giggled too. But who were you to refuse these poor women the drama that keeps them from going mad, in the endless loop of cleaning the same large castle day in, day out?

You smiled awkwardly, closing the door, and tearing the envelope open to reveal the three loose papers in the same pristine white. It was addressed at the top to you, and signed at the bottom from Naobito.

"After meeting at your débutante ball this prior week, the men of my family all had a lovely time meeting you. However, the heir of my kingdom, the dear Prince Naoya, is particularly important to me to see married. An man old as I may not live to see my favourite son get married, should I wait any longer. Alas, a woman as spritely and pure as you is perfect for him! As you may or may not have been informed by the elders of your own family, I have met with them, along with the other men of the Zen'in clan. Our convening has resulted in the decision that you are the perfect princess to marry our prince Naoya and deliver the next Zen'in heir, healthy and male..."

That was only the introduction, but the details on the following pages—what was hammered out by both your respective families, apparently—blurred into splotchy, illegible black squiggles your mind couldn't process or read.

Marriage. You hadn't even been eighteen for a month and you were already betrothed?! Oh, how your family was praised for letting their daughter "be herself," that you were allowed to wear a pink dress instead of a white one to your ball, that you weren't at every single party, that you talked to who you wanted to a good chunk of the time. They would probably get the same praise that they at least waited for you to be an adult, a mature woman, ready in the eyes of the court, for you to be betrothed. That was almost the worst part—you didn't want to be married, but by going about it this way, you parents had almost absolutely secure the fact that every day, with every person, you'd have to endure hearing how fucking lucky you are that you, the immature, pathetic, unladylike you that you are, got to meet your fiancé before he was your fiancé. Before you was your husband. "How lucky," you spat.

No. No.

When you felt this, this anger bubbling up from your tummy and blooming red over your face, there was only one place you could go. The garden.

You threw on the most casual dress you could find after a half a minute digging through your closet, a little navy dress that cinched right below your chest and flowed freely like silk from there. No underskirt, nothing to impede you from bolting out the window after crumpling the letter to toss it to the foot of the bed. Your parents made one fatal mistake when picking your room's space—putting a window to the courtyard in your room, out of the wall on the opposite side of the hallway.

Before any of the garden labourers could catch a glimpse of you, you bolted to the orchard in the heart of the castle. The fortress was huge, even by royal standards, with a courtyard the size of some of the more rural villages in your kingdom.

You remember being a child, taking a good ten minutes to be able to find your way around the garden. Through the flowers and rocked paths and into the orchard, off to the little pond you'd always visit with Suguru.

When you two were kids, he was only one year older than you, life was far less taxing. You'd both train daily, him to be your personal knight you and you to be elegant and ladylike as can be, but still. You had time to be children. Whenever you were given the choice, you spent that time here, at the artificial pond just west of the orchard's heart. Skipping stones, play fighting, swimming, anything and everything you two could even thought you would have fun doing.

Now it had been fourteen years, almost to the day, and you were about to be betrothed. And not to him.

You knew the handmaids would immediately alert your mother when you slammed the door in her face. Sure, you felt bad for being rude to her, but how would she react in that position? Surely you couldn't have been expect to have your manners up to par.

Once your mother was notified, she'd check on you in your room and see nothing there but the open window. You couldn't hope to escape from the entire castle, not with the moat locking in everyone who doesn't have express permission to leave. Which you clearly did not. She'd send out an army of maidens and butlers in search of you, and surely give Suguru a smack over the back of the head for not being awake to attend to you. But your mother was a flighty woman, surely she wouldn't hit him much further, and far too fond to fire or execute him. Especially not over such a minor inconvenience. She couldn't afford to get Geto mad—after all, he was likely the only person in the damned kingdom who knew where you turn to at times like these.

You stared into the reflection in the small pond. It was made by the gardeners, probably only twenty feet across and six feet deep at it's lowest point. The surface scattered shimmering sunlight through the azure rivulets sprawling out through eroded mud streams and was layered with lily pads coloured a murky green. When did you stop looking in the water and seeing a gawky tween, too ungainly to make friends and too social to be awkward?

Another reflection peered past you, over your shoulder. Pale skin, sleek black hair tied half-up in a bun, the faint glimmer of purple in thin brown eyes. Suguru.

"I always know where to find you," he smiled gently, putting a hand carefully on your shoulder. "My lady, why did you run away? Your mother has worried herself sick."

"Oh, she'd worry herself sick regardless. I just happen to be an easy scapegoat," you murmured, turning around to see his face instead of just his cerulean-tinted reflection.

He was quiet for a moment, staring deeply into your eyes. It was almost fucking intimidating. "I heard about the letter you got from the Zen'in prince," he murmured. "Why did you come out here?"

"What?" you stammered. "You just said it yourself, I got the letter from Naoya and panicked."

"No." He paused for a moment. "Why did you come out here." To this pond, you assumed.

...You could have sworn you'd heard that before.

"My lady? My lady! Why did you come out here?!" a very young Suguru, maybe eight, shouted to get your attention. You blinked the bleariness out of your eyes and suddenly, you were over two feet shorter, Suguru wasn't in his armoured uniform, and he was back with the apple-ish face of a cherub. "Why are you out by the pond? Your mama said it's time for your lessons."

"I don't want my lessons," you huffed, voice at least an octave higher. Why did you say that? It's like you weren't you anymore, like you were just living in a memory. "Mm, sometimes I wish I was a boy like you. Then we could wrestle and fight and run around all day!" you squealed with a giggle, pouncing on the older boy. Your skirt got caught on a root and you fell to your feet, palms scraping the rock and dirt, mud splashing on your face and both your outfits.

"Awh, no," you whined, staring at your now filthy, raw, red palms. "I'm sorry, Sugu," you murmured. God, you hadn't called him that in years. Not since your father heard you calling him that and screamed your ear off about 'properly addressing the staff' and 'being respectful and ladylike.' These days he was just sir Suguru, Geto if you're mad.

"Hey, it's fine," he giggled, helping you up even if it meant soaking his hands, too, in the soil coating your smaller hands. "I'll help you wash that off." He eased you to the edge of the pond, standing ankle-deep in the shallow shore, and scooping handfulls of clean, clear water, dribbling it over your hands, and rubbing it in to rub off what stuck after the initial rinse. "Dunk your hands," he murmured, holding your hands under the surface of the water to help clean it off.

As you washed your hands with the pond water, he brought a little more water up to wipe off the few splats that made it to your face.

You giggled softly, eyes locking with his. "I love you, Sugu," you beamed, like it was simple. Like it was easy. Back when it was easy.

What you wouldn't give to have that back.

"I love you too, my princess," he chuckled, pulling his hand backs when your face was finally clean. "Such a pretty princess," he giggled at the sight of your freshly washed face, your big grin. You let out a loud belly laugh, throwing yourself into his arms. So young still, you were a few inches taller than him, he hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, leading to you knocking him over and the both of you toppling backwards into the shallows of the pond.

He screamed out your name, scared at first but that gut feeling quickly turning into a fit of laughter bubbling out through his overly excited, eager, mouth. "Oh, you are so not making it for the training lesson," he laughed.

"Oh, you are so not making it for the meeting with Naoya," he groaned, voice back to that deep rumble that came with a decade of age and hardship. You shook slightly at the disorientation being back in the present moment, déjà vu fluttering from your mind like a kaleidoscope of butterflies. He was staring at the part of your dress covering your bottom half, where you were sitting, which you only just realized was soaked through in dark brown mud and river bed sediments. Oh fucking well, you were in nightwear anyway.

"No, mother would have my head in a basket before I refused to meet with him. Especially after I skipped the ball on my birthday," you spat, standing up. Geto quickly followed, looking down at you with pleading eyes.

"I talked to your mother," he said gently, "and she said you can have up to a week to stay with him, he'll be staying in the palace until then for whenever you decide it's time to meet."

Oh, what had you done to deserve such an angel down here on earth to protect you? Your tall, dark-haired guardian angel, with eyes of amethyst hand carved and traded in from the east of Russia.

"I don't deserve you," you said, voice breaking, eyes brimming at your waterline.

"Don't say that, my lady," he sighed, scooping his arms under your shoulders to half lift you and drag you back to the castle corridors, expecting you to get cleaned up and bathed before seeing your mother.

"It's true," you pout, going almost limp, ragdoll, in his strong hold.

"No, it's not," he argues, now doing all the work to carry you back. "You're smart, you're gorgeous, you're curious, and funny." He thought for a moment, eyes flitting away from you, too embarrassed to gaze upon your form at the moment. "You're my best friend."

"I don't wanna be your best friend," you whispered into the air, muffled by his body, "I want it to be you instead of Naoya. I love you."

He didn't respond. Had he not heard you? Perhaps you were too quiet, too tired to filter your own thoughts. "Suguru?" you repeated, "I said I love you," you huffed.

"I heard."

He let you down, setting you down on your feet in front of your bedroom chambers. He bent down to your eye level. "I was just hoping you would assume I didn't. I was giving you a chance to not repeat yourself."

Oh, he wasn't even armed with his trusty longsword and he still managed to stab you in the heart, to twist it deeper, to pierce through the back as your pitter-pattering heart bled out on his blade.

"Don't say that," you pleaded, tears now dribbling down your chin. "You love me too, I know you do."

"Exactly. If I let myself respond I would be breaking my oath to protect you. Because this marriage is best for you, your family. The Zen'in family will provide for you, will defend you. The best I could provide for you is the least they could do."

"I don't love Naoya," you begged, attempting to grab at him, anything to bring him closer, even if it meant digging the blade further.

"Go to your room, my lady," he said, pulling your pretty hands off his broad shoulders.

"Sugu," you pleaded, barely above a whisper.

He spat your name, loud, fucking intimidating. "Go to your room and change." He could see the hurt in your eyes, his heart sore at the way you flinched when he snapped at you. "Please." His voice softened, the way someone talks to a hysterical young girl they must soothe to sleep.

──────

A WEEK LATER

──────

"My lady, you're going to make a fool of yourself," Suguru laughed as you groaned loudly, shuffling through all the dresses you owned, which you'd already considered a thousand times today and rejected. "You're being a... rascal." Perhaps that wasn't the right word for it, but he could never bring himself to be truly rude to you.

"None of these dresses are good," you whine. "Too stuffy, too tight, too lose, too snobbish, too... eugh, I'll never pick a dress!"

He could see the glimmer of mischief in your eyes, familiar as with every other glint you got when an idea dawned on you. "My sir knight," you smirked, "may you pick my outfit? I simply cannot."

"That would be improper," he protested weakly, knowing he'd give in eventually. He could never say no to you, not for long, not when you looked at him the same way you had sine you were children. With a deep sigh, he finally played along, "...the one your mother bought most recently. The white and purple one."

"That stodgy old thing?" you lamented, "it's so... uninspired. It's nearly as dull as the old woman herself." You and your mother were close, yes, but since your arrangement with the Zen'in heir, Geto has noticed you taking digs at the queen more and more. He never stopped you but, naturally wanting not to be exiled, he never played along.

"You asked for my pick, and that is it."

"Fine," you groaned, beginning to undo the knotted lace of your undergarments to change

"Oh—you're—I should... leave," Geto said quickly, dashing to the door.

"Why?" you teased, smirking to yourself but leaving your tone as innocent and guileless as possible. "What if I attempt to run away again, to avoid the meeting with Naoya?"

"My lady, it's not proper to see you like this," he pleaded once more.

"I don't mind," you quickly shot back, slipping your sleeves off and scooting the slip dress off, bunching around your ankles before you kicked them across the floor. His shoulders tensed but he didn't leave.

He covered his eyes with a calloused palm, though when his fingers spread slightly to take a bashful peak, his shoulders relaxed to see that your back was turned to him. That being said, he held his hand up to cover your bare lower half, eyes glued to the hair falling down your back, dipping around the dig of your shoulder blades. His hand covered right below the little rolls and dimples at your lower back, such a pretty sight to behold.

You pulled on every single hoop skirt, bustle, petticoat, and underskirt before finally, you draped the real dress over all of the underpadding and he could finally move his hand away. You wrapped the delicate cotton and satin bones corset over your torso, holding the lace behind yourself. "Sir Suguru?" you requested, "may you lace up my corset?"

"Of course, your Highness," he mumbled under his breath, walking over to wear you stood. He pulled them tight, cinching in your waist, but not so harshly you would be, in any way, uncomfortable. "Is this okay?" he asked, tying a careful bow and brushing his thick hands over the top of your hair to smooth it down as best he could. Or maybe it was just to feel you.

You nodded, turning to face him. "Thank you, my brave Sir Knight," you giggled, putting your hand in his.

"Anything for my beautiful Princess," he teased right back, holding your hands with the most gentle of a grip he could. He was always so kind, so delicate with you, every since you were kids. Even when you were bigger than him. You kept one hand in his, the other lifting to cup his face. "What're you doing?"

"Do you think if you were a noble, we could marry?"

"Don't do this to yourself," he begged, suddenly turning dead serious.

"Don't evade my question, sir."

His mouth opened, but for a long, awkward moment, nothing came out. "...sometimes, I... like to think we would." You could barely hear him with how nervous he was to speak, to answer truthfully.

You pulled his face down, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he decided to follow the morals his parents conditioned into him.

He didn't.

Your lips connected at an angle, closed, reserved. Chaste. you moved almost as one, his free hand wrapping around behind you to press between your shoulder blades and bring you closer. Your foreheads bumped, noses rubbing as you moved, breaths mingling but nothing more.

You pulled away, half-lidded eyes fluttering open, staring at the aftermath of what had just happened. Your first real kiss, as your parents had aimed to keep you 'wholesome' as long as they could. Suguru's eyes stayed closed, even after you pulled away. He just stood ahead of you, eyes shut, breathing low and slow.

Not knowing what to say, you simply... didn't. Before he got the chance to open his eyes, for him to demand you two discuss what just happened, you quietly slipped past him and into the halls without him hearing.

Walking was awkward in the heavy dress, not to mention what had just happened weighing down on you. The dress was clinging in all the wrong places, the corset creating the illusion of an almost unnatural bust. It was white mostly, your mother had finally managed to strongarm you into buying a dress that would adequately symbolize your "purity." Bleh. Over top was a lilac overcoat, as if the Zen'in clan needed any more reminder your family was wealthy enough to afford purple dies in the outfits worn to a measly business meeting.

You walked out to the business room, in which your mother and father as well as Naobito and Naoya Zen'in waited patiently, all in their fanciest robes and garbs.

"Where is sir Suguru?" your mother asked, watching as you sat across the table from your soon-to-be-husband.

"He wanted to clean himself up before the meeting, he wanted to make a good impression on the Zen'in house," you said back to your parents, lies coming easily from a lifetime of needing to lie to grasp even an inch of freedom.

Your father nodded, waving his hand in an attempt to convey 'go talk to your fiancé, get to know each other while the big kids talk business.' You turned to Naoya, putting on your widest, fakest smile, the blonde reciprocating sharply.

"Is that how your breasts always look?" was the first thing he ever said to you.

"I—" you were shocked at his disrespect, "...I beg your pardon?"

"Your breasts," he reiterated like it was casual, dinner table conversation, "do they always look like that or is it just your corset?"

"I, uhm... suppose the corset is... helping?" you responded, rubbing insecurely over the girdle, wondering what else he was looking at. How else he was picking apart your physical appearance.

"It's nothing personal. I'm simply evaluating the genes you will pass on to our offspring," he shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair with a cruel smile. "I value the sexual appeal of my wife as if we unfortunately have a daughter, it'll be easier to marry her off if she doesn't look like man. What good noble would want to marry a twiggish whore?"

Something churned in your gut, how casually he said such disgusting things about women, about your hypothetical child. "Are you not going to say anything?" he asked, continuing his spiel before you had a chance to respond. "That's great, really. Too many consorts my father have brought me are all yap, yap. It makes me think, why not just marry a man? At least then what they'd be saying would be intelligent. I hate women who think they have something to say."

You were shocked. So shocked, to your core, that you couldn't help but sputter the first thing that came to your mind. Geto put up with far too much from you, to the point you've been spoiled in what you can get away with saying. You've never needed a filter before, since the only friend you were allowed to have was him. "Why don't you just marry a man then?" you asked, slightly dumbfounded.

His eyes shot open, smirk wiped off his face in an instant. "I beg your pardon?" he snapped, already aggressive.

"If you hate women, why don't you just marry a man? I can't imagine women like you back," you sputtered. You weren't thinking about what you were saying, just shooting back.

"You do not fucking talk to me like that, woman," the blonde man practically growled, both your parents still distracted with hammering out the details off the arrangement.

"It was just a question," you shrugged, rubbing one hand up and down your arm. As much as this man was loathsome, annoying, and pompous, you didn't want him to go batshit crazy. Mostly because that would get your parents mad.

"You do not ask me questions, you foul-mouthed bitch," he snapped, finally getting the attention of your mom. You locked eyes with her, pleading for her to dig you out of the situation, but alas... a female monarch holds less power than a male heir. She shot you a sympathetic glare before returning to the business conversation at hand.

At your mothers silence, her refusal to help or even get your fathers attention, something in you broke. You leaned forward, voice lethally stern, and stage-whispered, "if you want total submission you're gonna end up with a bitch either way. Either you're gonna be old and decrepit with a dog by your side because no woman was enough for you, or you're gonna find your perfect, submissive wife and she'll grow to resent you so deeply you'll be smothered in your slee—"

CRACK!

You heard the sound before you felt the sharp sting of Naoya's fist strike your nose. A blinding, white-hot pain sprawled outwards from your nose before you felt something warm and wet trickle down over your lip. It tasted metallic, tangy, and with a texture like diluted mucus. You lifted your hand to your nose, not realizing how badly it was shaking until you saw it in front of your eyes, and pressed it right under the right nostril. It came back stained scarlet.

Naobito didn't even so much as glance.

"I'm going," you said to your parents, shoving yourself up from the table, storming off with your skirt bunched in your arms to move around more easily.

"No you aren't, sit back down," your father screamed.

"I'll be in my room," you muttered back. You didn't slow down, let alone even consider continuing your conversation with Naoya.

Sure, your parents had hit you before. You were smacked, caned, and whipped, you were locked in your sleeping chambers of had food withheld, but you had never been punched. You had never broken a bone, or cartilage, or whatever. Much less by a near-stranger.

You had lied to your parents, once again slipping it out so easily they didn't even think twice. You weren't going to your room, you were going to Suguru's. You knocked three times. "Suguru," you demanded. Another knock. "Suguru." Knock, knock, "Geto." Was he playing the same game as last time? Pretending to be asleep? No, it was the middle of the day. You weren't going to fall for his silent act again. "I'm not going to leave just because you don't respond. I'll stand here as long as it takes, even if I have to starve you out. I won't bring you food or anything if you decide to act like a child."

Normally, that would get him with ease. The door would be open before you were finished. He must have been pissed—or incredibly distressed and upset—that you left before he could even open his eyes after you initiated the kiss.

"...I'm bleeding," you finally said, so quiet there was a chance he wouldn't have even heard it.

The door immediately swung open, revealing Suguru in the informal clothes he wore under his armour you almost never saw.

"Come in," he quickly ushered, closing the door behind you and rushing to grab a roll of cotton and press it under your nose. "Are you okay? What happened? Am I pressing too hard?"

It did sting, but the warmth he emanated was more than comforting enough to make up for the dull ache. "I'm... as fine as I can be, Noaya hit me, and no."

"Naoya?" he said, voice dropping to a low, frigid, monotone murmur. "Would you like me to kill him."

"No," you said, chuckling softly. Whether he was serious and willing to go that far to protect you or joking just to see you smile, it made you feel better either way.

The silence between you two was never awkward. You sat there on his bed as he kneeled in front of you, dabbing at your nose with a wad of cotton, until the sharp sting of pain was nothing but a haunting melody thrumming in the back of your mind. "You're the only one I trust to kneel at my feet," you murmur. Geto could tell by your tone that you hadn't meant to say it aloud, that it was an 'inside thought' made verbal by the presence of a figure so comforting your brain registered you two as one. "Why won't you run away with me?" The words tumbling from your mouth were not thought out in the least, though they were true from your heart. He could tell that much.

The knight's lips tugged into a straight line, hand falling down to his side, the cotton ball in his hand still a pale white as your nose had evidently stopped bleeding. "Because I know you well enough to know you deserve better than I could ever offer."

"Suguru..." you mumbled, heart feeling is though it was being tugged out of your chest, still beating and thrumming in the gentle touch of his calloused hands.

"Don't look at me like that, you know I can never say no," he said. The inflection of his voice made it sound like he was joking, but his words were sincere. Dead serious.

"Just stay with me the night," you adjured, cupping his face gently, tilting it up so he'd lock eyes with you. "I don't want to be alone in the same castle as that man."

"You know I'd protect you if he tried to break into your chambers," Geto sighed, placing his hand over yours, rubbing his thumb over the outside of your wrist.

"Please?"

How could he ever say no to his princess when she begged him like that?

──────

"Sir Suguru," you whimpered as he tossed you down into his bed, the springs creaking below you. You were bare, this was improper, and Suguru fucking loved it.

"No," he muttered, crawling atop you, muscular arms caging you in on either side of your head. "Call me Sugu. Like you used to."

Before you could respond, his lips crashed down onto yours, gnawing like a starved dog on a lamb chop. As he tugged at your lower lip with his perpetually pointed canines, the same ones you teased him for as a child but were now running the tip of your pink tongue along, you could have sworn you tasted the same coppery bite of blood as trickled down from your nose—but it could have just been residual blood from the beating, not from a possible split lip.

He pulled away, panting, face red with heat and exhaustion already. His lips came down again, softer this time, pressing carefully against your forehead. He didn't pull away after the kiss, just left his lips their, patient. He wanted to feel the warmth of your body against his one more time while your body was still sacred to him, still on a pedestal. He felt half-disgusting, not because he cared about any woman's virginity, but because said virginity was yours, and he was never good at taking things from you. You would never not be sacred to him, your body was still a hallowed form even writhing beneath him; he just wanted one last touch before the muck and mire he saw as his soul intertwined with yours. What a filthy man he is to want such a thing.

"Sugu," you whimpered, leg twitching as your foot rubbed against his ankle. Your fingers dug into his tense biceps, leaving faint, red scratches down his supple skin. "Please, I need you. Inside. I need to feel it."

"Wait," he responded, "patience is a virtue."

He lowered his body to press against yours, hardened muscle against longing flesh. His weight was mostly supported on one elbow, not wanting lay down his whole mass and crush or hurt you, the other arm working to stroke up and down your sides, committing your form to memory in fear this would be the last touch he got of you again, before you were a married woman.

His knees spread, lowering his length down and lining the blushing tip against the ache between your thighs. You took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the pressure about to beat into your core, but it didn't come. Not write away.

Suguru buried his face in your neck, quickly kissing the pulse point below your ear before muttering quietly to himself. Holding your breath, trying to remain as silent as possible, you attempted to listen; "Here do I swear... by mouth and hand, fealty and service to the Crown and Kingdom..."

Was that his oath to you?

He sounded out of breath. "To speak and to be silent... to do and to let be... to strike and to spare..."

Yes, it was his oath. The one he swore to you, both mere children, formally making any act against you one of treason. Solidifying him as your knight.

"Suguru..." you began, hands threading through his hair. You went to say more, to continue the thought, but he smacked a hand down over your mouth.

"Shh," he hushed, eyes lifting to meet yours through a shield of lush, raven eye lashes. "I don't want the king and queen to know what a traitorous heathen I am."

He burrowed his face further into the crux of your neck to muffle his own groans and grunts, hand pressing down on your parted lips, as he slowly pushed into you, bodies intertwining, tainting each other with the sanctity of seditious love.

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author's note: while I am very proud of this one, UGH this was supposed to be queer forbidden romance but as a woman i dont feel comfortable writing the experience of a gay man and there were no female knights in the middle ages for me to write yuri (im a sucker for historical accuracy to the best of my abilities). but fret not there is yuri to come </3

He would lavish in the way the candlelight danced on her skin. The steam of the water coming off her skin like she crawled right out of hell just to torment him, to fill his mind with carnal sin. But he stood still just on the other side of a sheer curtain, leaving little to the imagination. The steam warming his armor and in turn himself. Sweat dripping on his skin within the metal, chainmail growing uncomfortable, but he could bear it.

The multitude of candles strewn around the room illuminated her in a godly way, he was tempted to get down on his knees and worship her as she was. But he was sworn to protect, lest the King calls for his head. His eyes are veiled by the helmet, making him appear more as a statue than a man.

She yearns to tempt him, see how much he can endure before that knightly training is cracked and thrown out her tower window. To pull the armor piece by piece until he’s revealed to him as she is to him now would rival any romance poetry or gossip she's ever heard. A fantasy is what it is. 

His touch was original sin, tongue gracing the side of your neck like hellfire. That’s where you were going right? For indulging in awful terrible fantasies of a man who could never be betrothed to you. One so near yet far. He was unlike others. Standing guard day and night, still as a shadow unless he was walking behind you, eyes forever scanning for danger, for an opportunity to pay the ultimate price and lay down his life for yours, the most noble sacrifice.