Ember

by DhampirsDrinkEspresso

Summary:

Indebted to the Fairy Courts, human blacksmith Clyde Logan has only to suffer a final season in Winter and he will be freed. But the Winter Prince is impulsive, erratic, and casually cruel, and Clyde finds himself playing a dangerous game. With only weeks left in Winter, the Prince demands an entertainment of the blacksmith and Princess-Consort Ophelia. What cost is a dalliance in the name of survival?

Notes:

Ember Playlist on Spotify

Chapter 1: Firebrand

Summary:

Winter Prince Hamlet demands the human blacksmith demonstrate how to pleasure a woman: the prince's own wife.

“Blacksmith! Come and entertain us!”

Clyde winced and set his jaw before turning to face the prince, already deep in his cups and surrounded by the empty-headed idiots he called friends. He bowed low, folding his left arm until the glinting metal of his hand met his shoulder.

He didn’t await permission to rise.

“I fear myself a dull source of entertainment, your highness,” he said, careful and steady.

The prince tilted his cup and frowned. “More wine!” One of his cronies snatched the tall pitcher from the servant before he could approach. Soft steps in the hallway signaled the passage of the queen and her ladies, and perhaps among them—

“OPHELIA! COME!”

Clyde stared straight ahead, even though he could feel her approach, the stirring of air as she passed, and he smelled a sweet blossom scent as if she carried spring wherever she went.

“Husband.” She curtseyed to the others, all titled nobles of the Winter Fey court, and extended her hand for a perfunctory kiss. Clyde tried not to frown. She was Princess-Consort of the Winter Court; she should bow to none of them. She shivered, delicate wings buzzing lightly with it where they were folded against her back.

“Cold as always, my Ophelia,” the prince said sourly, face pinched. “Come, sit on my knee. The Blacksmith is to be our entertainment.” He tugged her down, his low sprawl leaving her to either twist awkwardly or stretch indecently across him. She opted for twisting, one of her delicate wings bent slightly in a manner he could only imagine painful.

Prince Hamlet waved a hand. “Well, on with it.”

“Not sure what you want of me. My trade is metals, not jocularity or song.”

“Hm, a story then! Tell us of your travels!” He paused, a wicked smile gleaming in the firelight and Clyde knew the words he would speak. “Regale us with the tale of your false hand!”

Ophelia gasped and frowned, shaking her head just slightly. Prince Hamlet laid his hand alongside her neck, tugged her down until she was draped across him, and he could press his lips to her ear, though he bothered not to lower his voice. “What was that, my wife? No?” Her lips pressed tight and flat, color fading to nearly white with the force of it. The blaze of Hamlet’s jealousy matched the way Clyde’s anger flared. The fire roared behind the nobles, sparks flying as a log fell and sap popped and hissed. One of them swore and batted at an ember singing his doublet.

“It’s rude,” Ophelia whispered, shrinking in on herself in defeat.

“Rude she says. Is my wife correct, Blacksmith? Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”

“Personal story,” Clyde said. “I’ll tell it if you want, but then, you’ve heard it before, highness.”

“Indeed.” Hamlet settled back, releasing his hold on his bride but not allowing her to return to an upright state. One of the courtiers leaned, peering down her dress, and another dared touch her wing, stroking the edge as she tried to contain her disgust.

The fire roared again, and a chill wind swept through the room. Torches flickered, two guttering out completely. Wine sloshed to the floor as an ember swirled and danced as if borne on the fingertips of a sprite to hit the man stroking Ophelia’s wing, landing on the back of his neck and falling inside his collar.

Ophelia’s eyes widened slightly, only for a moment, but Clyde saw it and bit at the edge of his tongue. The queen’s ladies passed by again, and several of the prince’s retinue took their leave, seeking softer company for the cold of night.

“If it pleases you, Highness, I should turn in myself,” Clyde attempted.

“It does not please me, Blacksmith.” He stroked absently at Ophelia’s side then cupped her breast, in full sight of the room. She let out a distressed mewl as he pinched and smirked at Clyde. “Tell me, Blacksmith, have you a wife at home?”

“I’ve not been so blessed as yourself, highness.”

Hamlet sat up, crushing the tip of Ophelia’s wing momentarily. She winced but stayed quiet. “No wife…a lover then? Perhaps more than one. Tell us of that. How does a man so rough as yourself fare? Or do you prefer the company of other men? It is no matter.” Clyde shifted his weight, unconsciously echoing the way the princess squirmed in hope of attaining a more comfortable position.

“Again,” Clyde said, “Personal. Private. But I’ve had no complaints,” he paused, couldn’t help an arch of his brow, an arrogant smirk as he added, “and several requests for an encore.”

“And in your experience, do they just lie there, cold as fish?” Ophelia stared at the floor as the men around her laughed and mumbled.

“A wise man pays attention to what his lover does and does not like,” Clyde ventured. “And he does the former.”

Hamlet shoved the Princess-Consort off his lap and too late Clyde realized he’d blundered into a trap. “Show us, then.” Hamlet leaned back in his seat again, gestured lazily and two servants carried a chair to the center of the room before slipping away in silence. One of the prince’s cadre protested and stormed out. Another followed but stopped short of leaving, then turned and barred the door. “My wife enjoys nothing. I challenge you to prove otherwise.”

Ophelia covered her face with both hands, wings sticking straight up for a moment before falling forward in a translucent curtain.

“Sit, Blacksmith, and teach us!” Hamlet gestured to himself and the other men in the room. The prince stood abruptly and wrapped his hand around Ophelia’s arm. “Come along then, dearest,” he tutted, half-dragging her to where Clyde sat, resigned to their shared fate.

The Prince of the Winter Court was not known for his even temperament. Brash, impulsive, and even cruel. Those were the whispers across the seasons and all the way to the Isle of Boone, just off the coast of Summer.

Clyde bit back his own protests and steadied the prince’s wife as she tumbled into his lap. She trembled, half from the chill air so far from the fire with no braziers to warm the rest of the room. Clyde allowed himself a moment of indulgence, and the Princess-Consort gasped slightly as the metal of his left hand warmed at her back, the heat suffusing through her until her wings no longer drooped and she relaxed her jaw. “Won’t hurt you,” Clyde mumbled.

Ophelia glanced over her shoulder then back to Clyde. “Survive.”

She turned, arranged herself in his lap, movements short and stiff—angry. The scents of lilac and apple blossoms filled Clyde’s nose, and the barest hint of something sharp and fresh, a smell that just made him think green.

The scent of Spring, from Winter freed.

The flowers tucked in about her hair unfurled, tiny blooms fresh and new. He sucked in a breath as she hooked her legs over his thighs and began to tug at her skirts. Clyde didn’t need to see her face to know she glared at her husband, the other man’s cruel smirk all the proof he needed.

The fire roared up again, a smaller piece of wood rolling free of the fireplace and not stopping until it reached the prince’s booted feet.

The man laughed and reclaimed his cup, staring over the top of it as he sipped.

Clyde lifted his left arm, used the weighted warmth to press Ophelia back against his chest.

Survive, she’d said.

They would.

🔥🔥🔥

Woodsmoke.

He smelled of fire and man, and not at all unpleasant.

Few of the Winter Court had ever seen a mortal before, so the arrival of a mostly human blacksmith was a novelty at first, but three months into his term the interest had waned, particularly when he did not avail himself of the favors offered by most of the queen’s ladies.

She watched him, sometimes, in the heat of the forge, bent over his work. There was a window in the royal apartments, near the queen’s bedchamber, where Ophelia liked to escape. Sometimes she sought only a moment of quiet thought. Others she would sit and read, occasionally even reduced to needlework.

Little had changed upon her once-secret marriage to the Winter Prince, not even after the secret was found out. She loved the boy Hamlet had been, saw glimpses of him still, but they were fewer and farther between with every passing Season, until she barely recognized the man who called her wife.

By the season of the Blacksmith, the months that Winter once again reigned supreme over all the fey, she supposed his transformation finally complete. Her Hamlet was gone, a changeling left behind.

Still, she had the life she had chosen. Service to Queen Gertrude was pleasant enough, and Ophelia was, well, perhaps not happy but mostly content. Her husband was thoughtless and cruel with his words, but she did not believe he would truly harm her as she had heard whispered in hallways and behind closed doors.

She’d been told she wed too young, and was even starting to believe it herself, but there was no going back. Then their Season began, bringing madness and a human man called Clyde.

A man who smelled of woodsmoke and warmed her with a touch of his hand.

Or sometimes a simple lift of his eyes when he paused to drink and spied her in the window. Sometimes, he even spared her a smile. Beyond that, they had scarce interacted more than a polite bow or nod of acknowledgement in passing.

She settled more firmly against him, all the anger she could muster leveled at her husband.

How dare he humiliate her so? Bad enough that he let others touch her wings, implied that once she bore an heir she would be theirs for the having, but this new cruelty was more than she could bear. No hate could burn brighter than that born from the ashes of love, and as Hamlet watched her over his cup, the last vestige of affection she had for him died.

Survive.

Her own voice rang in her head as she spread her legs wide and lifted her skirts. Her stockings had slipped to just below the knee, and she braced herself a chill that never came. A pocket of warmth, their own Spring in the midst of snow, surrounded them, and it had to be the man, for this was not one of the meager powers she could wield. She watched a burning bit of wood roll and weave, flame bobbing merrily until it came to rest at Hamlet’s feet, flaring impossibly high before it went out and settled into charcoal and ash.

Interesting.

Movement startled her, and she gasped as warm fingers settled solidly against her thigh. His hand was callused, though not so rough as she would have imagined, and his touch was solid and sure. Clyde dragged his fingers from her knee to the top of her thigh, stopping just shy of where her leg met her body. He did it again, on the outside of her thigh, a firm pass back to her hip and Ophelia felt a different warmth, the one that sometimes settled upon her when their eyes met or he offered a small smile.

He moved to the inside of her thigh, fingertips barely brushing against the hair between her legs, just enough to stir and tickle, and she felt as if something low inside her belly jerked. Instead of lifting his hand away and starting back at her knee, he gripped her other leg, massaging the meat of her thigh and she made a sound, breathy and surprised.

His other hand, the gleaming gold imbued with magic by the High Queen herself, slid down her belly to rest atop her left thigh, and the skin of his right palm and fingers rasped lightly over the fine wool and embroidered silk of her dress.

He chuckled and she realized her wings had unfurled once more. She had folded them carefully, so they draped around her rather like a cloak as she normally did for sitting, but the squeeze to her left thigh had startled her enough the upper set had opened and spread, straight out to either side, and she gasped as the movement of his arm brushed against the delicate underside.

Never had someone else touching her wings felt good. She leaned forward slightly and concentrated until they folded in again, once more draping along her back and (hopefully) mostly out of his way.

Clyde’s fingers were hot on her belly, and a pulsing heat built between her thighs. He pressed lightly, just below her navel, and she shivered. Ophelia listened once more to the rasp of skin over fabric, breath coming out in quick little puffs through her parted lips as his touch trailed up, and up, so close—

And he stopped just below her breasts, which felt strangely heavy, like her skin was too tight. “Patience, Princess,” he whispered in her ear, as a low whimpering sound escaped her and she shifted uncomfortably.

His manhood poked her bottom and the back of her thigh, and she was struck with a sudden desire to see it, to look and touch and hold, perhaps even taste. Her tongue dragged across her lower lip, and her eyes fell closed, only to fly open as Clyde dragged his hand up and over, somehow covering both her breasts at once. He pressed and rubbed, flexed his fingers to squeeze, and Ophelia slumped down and lightly kicked her feet, simply because she needed to move.

Clyde’s teeth pressed into the side of her neck, just under her ear, and she trembled so hard she nearly slid from his lap as the sensation echoed in a pulse between her legs. He sucked at her skin, and she wondered if something inside her had broken, because it didn’t hurt. Not at all. She even tilted her head so he could do it again, lower, as his fingers traced up to the top of her bodice and dipped inside, toying with her nipples until she wanted to shout.

Instead, she whimpered, whining as he left her, but then he settled his hand between her legs, cupping the pulsing, coiling heat that had become her body. He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Look at your husband, Princess,” Clyde whispered only for her ears. “Let him see what I do to you, show him how it makes you feel.”

His fingers moved, pressing in, tips tracing that line where her body opened, spreading her apart for his touch, and he hissed and whispered in her ear about heat and wetness as he stroked her, up and down, touch light yet still firm.

Was this what the queen’s ladies whispered about? The thing that made them giggle and smirk, that secret knowledge that they held themselves superior for learning?

If it was, she could hardly blame them.

The pressing, stretching sensation of something pushing inside her body made her gasp, and her head lolled back to rest on Clyde’s opposite shoulder as he put his finger inside her, thrust it like the part of him she wished it were, and she clutched at his arms and locked her feet behind his calves.

There was a sound, wet and almost sucking, as he pulled his finger out of her and plunged it back in, and she rocked in time with it, breath coming in pants.

“Ophelia! OPHELIA! WIFE, LOOK AT ME!” Hamlet roared, and she lifted her head almost lazily, smiling at him where he stood in front of his usual chair, fists clenched.

Clyde chose that moment to slide his finger free of her only to return with a second and she cried out. He pressed his palm against her, and she leaned slightly forward, rocking and rolling her hips as her wings unfurled and stretched wide. Clyde grunted into her neck and she felt that hard part of him slot against her backside, almost between her cheeks only her bunched up dress and his trousers were in the way.

Ophelia clutched at his left arm, fingers scrabbling at warm metal from just below the elbow, as he leaned forward and changed the angle of his hand, fingers pushing into her and thumb pressing higher, rolling over and over the place that made her eyelids flutter and her wings buzz. She stared into Hamlet’s eyes as whatever was building deep inside her burst apart, and she screamed and convulsed in the blacksmith’s arms.

Hamlet grabbed a dagger off one of his men and leaped forward in a rage.

“I think not,” Ophelia whispered, and a wall of berry brambles sprang to life between them.

Clyde groaned, long and low, and she felt a curious twitching against her.

The fire roared, a ball flame rolling to the ceiling, and the brambles shuddered and turned to ash.

 

Chapter 2: Sparks

Summary:

In the aftermath of what happened on her husband's order, the depths of Hamlet's betrayal become clear, and the desire stoked between Princess-Consort Ophelia and the human blacksmith burns high.

Ophelia, Princess Consort of the Winter Court.

Child of Spring.

Another man’s wife.

Clyde watched, frozen, as she stood shakily from his lap, a warm breeze whirling, stirring her hair and skirts. She surveyed their surroundings, crackling anger palpable, wings fully extended and trembling with tension. The ash from the brambles that had momentarily blocked Prince Hamlet’s progress blew across the floor, swirled and grew, rising up and then splitting, twin cyclones slightly taller than a man to either side of her.

Clyde stood shakily. He should leave while he could, slip out while they were all distracted, and yet he was drawn to her, his own slow, measured steps carrying him forward instead of the relative safety of away. She glanced over her shoulder at Clyde’s approach then turned her attention back to her husband.

“Wife, what do you think you are doing?” the prince snapped, still on the floor and, it seemed, somehow unable to rise.

“Oath-breaker!” she hissed, the sound of bells echoing throughout the castle at her proclamation, and Clyde would have sworn the wind howled a little louder, whistling at the high windows.

The doors rattled, voices calling, then came clanging and a booming crash, followed by a splintering sound. “For years now, you have stolen my Warmth, bound my magic!” She took a step, leaned forward. “Winter gives way to Spring,” she said softly, “It is the natural order.” Another crash and the bar on the door gave, the hinges groaning. “I abjure thee, Hamlet, Crown Prince of Winter!”

The rush of footsteps echoed as guards flooded the room at their backs. Clyde turned, unsure where the greatest threat might lie.

“Ophelia, no, please!”

The plea came, not from Prince Hamlet, but his mother, Winter Queen Gertrude, shoving her way past the guards. A few of her Ladies hovered unsurely in the passage beyond the broken doors. No sign of the king, oddly enough.

Ophelia turned slowly, and Clyde sucked in a wheezing breath. Where before her face had been unadorned, brilliant scales of color framed her eyes, blue and gold and green, cheeks and neck dusted in patches with a delicate, glittery gold.

“He is foresworn,” Ophelia said, and the queen cried out, falling to her knees.

The princess swept from the room, wings beginning to flutter and buzz, and unsure what else to do, Clyde followed at a distance all the way to a snow-covered courtyard. Ophelia leaned against a column, her exhales fogging in the chill air, like tiny puffs of smoke. “None shall harm you, Blacksmith,” she said softly, and something shivered down his spine. “You are under Spring’s protection, now.” She looked at him then, finally, blinking away tears that glittered like jewels in the dim light of a full moon reflected off snow.

“What about you?”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy expression. Her eyes cast down as she shook her head, the glittery patches and colors around her eyes fading. “The bonds are broken. He cannot touch me.”

“I take it that means more than I’m grasping.”

“We married secretly, in the old way, swore the ancient oaths.”

Clyde found himself unable to speak for a moment, and he tried not to let too much pity into his gaze. Bond like that should be eternal. Only one partner knowingly breaking oaths made to the other could end it, and if that happened…well, it wasn’t exactly a pretty fate.

And for one of the high fae to do it?

Clyde shivered, almost pitying the fate that would claim the prince. No wonder his mother had been so distraught. If he was lucky, they’d send the Hunt to run him down.

Ophelia smiled, small and sad and bitter. “You should rest, Blacksmith.”

“Clyde,” he said, and offered what he hoped was a smile.

“Names have power, Blacksmith.”

“I know.” Clyde dipped his chin in a little nod and excused himself, heading for his rooms before he did something foolish. He removed his cloak and boots, stoked the fire before removing his soiled trousers. A few more weeks, a little over a month at most, and he’d be free. Home.

Alone.

He lifted his hand, pushed his hair back from his eyes, and realized he could smell her on his fingers. Unthinking, he shoved them in his mouth, sucking the taste of her off his skin before jerking his hand away with a grumbled oath.

A tap at the door and he frowned.

Again, insistent, three quick raps, and the latch rattled as the door creaked open.

“You should lock your door, Blacksmith.”

“Princess?”

She smiled and he had to close his eyes, but he still felt it like the warmth of golden sun on his face. The only sounds were his heart and the delicate swish of her skirts over the stone floor. Clyde sucked in a breath, eyes snapping open as her fingers pressed against his chest, skin to skin at the open low neck of his shirt.

“Pants!” he gasped. “I didn’t…I should—”

She laughed and pressed her fingertips to his sternum. “I think this will do nicely, Blacksmith.”

“My n—”

She pushed, her wings stretching behind her, and he fell heavily on the deep mattress, the ropes creaking in the high frame. Clyde watched in confusion as she stood by the bed and scowled at the door. “All this time, I thought…” she shook her head, expression transforming to one of sadness. “I think I should quite like to feel it again, the way you…” she cleared her throat, eyes on a tapestry and spots of color in her cheeks. “Is it…normal? To feel so…”

“Good?” he offered cautiously.

Her wings drooped and she drew a shaky breath, eyes dropping to the floor as a little frown creased her brow and puckered her mouth. “Neither rugs nor rushes on the floors,” she muttered. “Poor hospitality for an honored guest.” A glance to the hearth. “And you need more firewood.” She trailed off, shook her head.

The princess closed her eyes and swallowed, then tipped her chin and straightened her shoulders, wings extending fully. “Yes, good,” she said with a little nod, and it took him a moment to realize she was echoing his last word. “Is that common, Blacksmith?”

“Should be,” he muttered, his own turn to scowl at her refusal to use his name, freely given. It only deepened when the weight of what she’d said pressed on him.

“I should go,” she said softly, before meeting his gaze. “I owe you a debt, Clyde of the Isle of Boone.” That tinkling bell sound he’d have sworn he heard earlier echoed in his head once more, and the air felt too thick to breathe. Wild magic crawled over his skin, sticky-warm like the days of late spring when summer hovered just out of sight. He opened his mouth to argue, to refuse, then snapped his jaw shut once more.

Best case scenario he’d insult and anger one of the high fae. Worst…well, weren’t quite sure, but it could be…bad. Her wings drooped, the very ends dragging along the floor in a quiet rasp.

“Wait!”

She paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder as he rolled to the edge of the mattress and shakily stood between bed and fire, clad only in the long shirt he’d worn that evening.

🔥🔥🔥

Ophelia, Princess Consort of the Winter Court.

Meaningless words and an empty title, chains around the neck of a child of Spring, when the one to whom all was due had so clearly left her behind, his fault or not.

Perhaps he truly was mad.

Perhaps such madness were catching.

“Wait!”

The sound of his voice echoed from the surrounding stones and she half turned, glanced back to watch him, a treat. The bed creaked lightly, groaning as he rolled and stood, barely clad, the licking flames casting shadows, giving hints of him as he moved and the light pressed through his shirt.

She licked her lips, aware of the act only when his eyes flicked to her mouth, and then back, and some tension about his shoulders eased. “What happens now?” he queried, waved his hand about. “Your husband, the oaths.”

She frowned. “Likely the Hunt will take him, possibly even the High Queen herself, or one of her agents. Beyond that…well, only those who have gone before him can truly know.”

“And are you…will you be okay?”

She turned to fully face him once more, her smile cold and bitter, the ache of it echoing in her bones. “You are kind, Blacksmith, a good man. I suppose with time, and perhaps a return to Spring, I shall recover."

She must have moved, unawares, and he as well, because he took a step—a single one—and the hem of her gown brushed his bare toes. His large hand reached out, covered hers, lifted it to his chest. She could feel the steady thrum of his pulse, the erratic jump when he said, soft and firm, “I told you, Princess, my name is Clyde.”

Her own breath caught and her wings and fingers trembled, running cold then hot, the warmth sending her wings up and out, flushed and tight in anticipation, while the warmth inside split, rising up to her chest and face, and yet shooting down to her toes only to rebound and coil heavy and desperate in her belly. “Show me again, Blacksmith,” she begged, desire chasing the words out of her mouth. “Make me feel it again, please,” and at his frown, she steeled herself, breathed in deep and slow. “Clyde.”

A tinkling of bells, a sound like shattered glass, and she turned her face up, a soundless plea on her lips once more.

His kiss began desperate, almost frantic, lips warm and firm, tongue seeking. Demanding. He touched her face, cupped her jaw and tilted her head back as they parted briefly, his breath ragged. He leaned down, pressed his nose to hers and stroked, pressed soft, warm kisses to her cheeks, over her eyes, on her brow, and traced her mouth with the pad of his thumb. A far cry from only a moment ago, and then his lips covered her again, a soft, warm press, that somehow still stoked the fire in her belly. “Ain’t no going back from this, Princess.”

He tilted her chin up, forced her to look at him. “We do this, ain’t no changing it.”

“Phee.”

“What?”

“My name, short for Ophelia…call me…you can…please, call me Phee.”

Chimes again, though whether it were in the palace or only her own mind she couldn’t say.

She couldn’t care.

Clyde claimed her mouth again, some new combination of his earlier fervor and such gentle softness she thought she might cry, small sounds escaping both of them as his tongue pressed in, teased along her own, then retreated. He laughed when she gasped, a happy rumble from the back of his throat when she stretched up and attempted to duplicate her actions. His hand moved, sliding down to wrap around her waist, careful of her wings, and she gasped when he lifted her off her feet and backed closer to the bed.

She anticipated perhaps being bent over the edge or tossed to the center and her skirts flipped up (and was more than amenable to either option) only to be kissed softly once more and then slid slowly to the floor, dragging along the front of his body so that there could be no question as to his…response.

He plucked lightly at laces and ties, and she scrambled to help him, suddenly wanted nothing more than to be skin to skin with this man, even if they did nothing beyond that. Once bare, she couldn’t be unsure, the heat in his eyes enough to leave her standing tall, wings out, no attempt to cover the delicate patches of golden iridescence that graced her curves, though not nearly so pronounced as those around her eyes.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, and though she wouldn’t think it possible, she felt her face grow that much warmer.

Then he pulled the shirt off over his head, and it was her turn to stare until they closed the small distance between them once more. The first brush of skin on skin burned like some purifying flame, and they fell to the bed, tangled together, his hands and mouth exploring until she begged him to get on with it and he chuckled, rolling to his back. “Come along then, up you go,” he teased, far too pleased with himself as he helped her straddle his muscled thighs. “Your wings,” he added. “Thought this might be…well, don’t wanna get carried away or hurt you.”

Her breath caught at this unexpected consideration. For years she had attempted to hide her wings, denying them, and yet he simply accepted and acknowledged them as a part of her, something she could feel. She’d never cared to have them touched, and yet it occurred to her that perhaps she might find it exceedingly pleasant. With Clyde.

His hand rested lightly on her hip and she frowned, noticing the care with which he took not to touch her with the other, the enchanted metal on the other arm. She reached out, slowly, watched him as she made contact with the golden surface, and a shiver of strangely familiar magic danced down her spine, set her wings to a buzz. She kissed the knuckles of the solid fist and smiled as she released her hold. “There’s no need to hold back,” she assured, “I want you to touch me.”

“It’s not mine,” he insisted, stubborn and rather…well…cute, with his frown lines and downturned mouth. Petulant.

“Whose is it then, if not yours?” she asked, finally reaching to wrap her hand around the slightly intimidating length (and considerable girth) so very close to where she wanted it. He hissed out a breath and grumbled, but didn’t protest, effectively distracted as she stroked him and lifted up onto her knees, shuffling forward and shifting about with a frown of her own.

“Like that, Princess,” he encouraged, groaning as the soft fullness brushed along her very-wet cleft, teased at the her opening, and it was her turn to hiss at the burning stretch as she sank slowly down. “Easy now,” he rumbled. “Why I wanted to take more time, get you ready.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Another time.” She was, perhaps, less convincing than she might have hoped due to the slight yelp as she leaned slightly forward, taking him farther as a result. She trembled with the effort, but her blacksmith cooed praise and stroked her skin, even took her hand and sucked her fingers into his mouth, his own fingers moving to her back, teasing at the base of her spine and sliding to the sensitive spot where her wings met her back. They buzzed again and she cried out at the sensation, as if she felt it between her legs instead of at her back.

“Is that so?” he asked, face giving away his surprise as he repeated his previous action and she shuddered. He seemed thoughtful. “Have to remember that,” he muttered. “See just how sensitive you are there.” She rocked back slightly, and up, then sank again, the movement smoother that time. “Another time,” he groaned, fingers sliding around to tease at her breast as she let her set the pace of their coupling.

Notes:

oh, look, it was less than 2 years between chapters 🫣

I maybe kind of forgot what was planned for this and apparently never saved my notes, but I think I have a handle on it and can still get to the same ending via a different route.

(and also, what if maybe reylo were to make a guest appearance in future)?