Chapter Text
The war is over. It was not easy, and the injuries Rhysand took in protecting Tamlin were severe enough to keep him off the main front. It has been months since he’s had any time with their new King—a lord of three tribes, Tamlin has certainly earned the title. The king of many faces, they call him. Though he has never worn any face but his own, he sheds the skins of a hundred different animals in the middle of battle. Tamlin the Ever-Changing. There will be many names for him for years to come. Good. He deserves to be revered.
In their time apart, Rhysand remains Tamlin’s closest advisor. The two of them take advantage of Hybern’s attack. They use their father’s armies to defeat the foreign enemy while dismantling both tribes from within, but not with fear or violence. Their people are warriors, sentries and soldiers who follow strength more than they follow fear. Berserkers do not change into battle as an escape from one horror into another; they are proud and relentless. They search for glorious death, and they look to strong leaders like the trees break and bend for even the smallest kiss from the sun.
Tamlin is a force to be reckoned with, but where his brawn fails, Rhysand perches like a wise raven on his shoulder, whispering the next course of action.
Trust me, he’d say.
I trust you,Tamlin would answer, turning to nuzzle the twilight magic.
It has been a long time. The seasons have come and gone. Rhysand paces along the creek where they first met, following it towards the sound of splashing water. He hadn’t noticed the waterfall back then; steam rises from it, marking the start of winter. Rhysand digs his hands in the pockets of his long black coat. It had been a gift from Tamlin, sent from across their lands to find him and remind him that Tamlin is thinking of him. How Tamlin managed to find black fur to line the collar will always elude Rhysand. He buries his face in it, breathing in the scent of it.
He feels strong arms wrap around him, hugging him close and lifting him from behind. Tamlin kisses Rhysand’s neck, the press of his lips wonderfully warm in this cold weather. Rhysand’s nose has gone pink from the temperature, but the colour on his cheeks are Tamlin’s doing entirely. Rhysand turns, pressing his hands against Tamlin’s chest to steady himself, brows raising in surprise. He pulls his hands back.
“Ah, I’m,” Rhysand glances down, embarrassed. For all his courage the last time they were here, Rhysand has become… sheepish. It’s different when they have time and choice. No longer do they need to cling to one another, and perhaps the knowledge that Tamlin has become so much more than him is what scares Rhysand. Rhysand chooses not to linger in his doubts, if he did that, they would have lost their war. “You kept this form.”
Tamlin still towers above Rhysand. He wears a fur-lined cloak over finery. He’s a king, now, and he has no reason to hide. His powers would allow him to take any shape, and yet, he remains in his cursed, feminine form. The only difference is that he does not bind his breasts. He does not hide. Rhysand hadn’t meant to fondle them, and the feel of them under his hands linger.
“I did.”
“Why? You have always wanted to be like your brothers.” Rhysand tips his head up, sinking into the affection he finds in those emerald eyes.
“I wanted to be with them,” Tamlin corrects. “And my gender did not allow for that.”
Now, there are few who can say anything against their stubborn king. There is an adjustment period for those who are not familiar with Tamlin and his ways—his easygoingness when it comes to titles, and the fact that he cares more about the safety of his people than any formalities. He does not care what anyone calls him, be it a blessing, a curse or a fated usurper. What matters to him—Rhysand can see it in his eyes—is that he is here.
When did he fall in love with me?
“I kept this form because you seem to like it so much,” Tamlin teases.
“Not that much! I would suck your cock as much as your cunt,” Rhysand blusters, aiming for pride, but his mind catches up to his mouth. Worse, the youth he was never allowed to have catches up with him as well. He never knew what it was like to have a first love; it had been a first fuck, taken from him in the name of manhood. All princes know the touch of a woman. He would not be worth anything without it. He coughs, searching for tenderness inside him. “I apologize for my crassness.”
Tamlin smiles at him, chuckling softly as he tips Rhysand’s chin up towards him. “Do you truly mean it?”
“Hmm?”
“That you’d devour my cunt as heartily as if I had a cock.” The question is earnest, but leaves no room for Rhysand to escape. Tamlin has grown so much from the beaten down son under his father’s foot. He is bold and holds people to their word, clever and observant in ways that catches even the brilliant Rhysand off guard. He’s even learned to look his opponents in the eye and challenge them, just as he is doing now.
Rhysand inhales sharply, a disguised gasp. Arousal creeps down his spine, settling at the base with a warmth that chases away the near-winter cold. He nods, face open with desire. “There is nothing more I would rather do than serve you. Let me press a kiss upon your lips, my King?”
In some ways, Tamlin is like his father. Only good ways. He wears his power well; it fits him like a glove, similar to how the former Lord Celyddon was meant to be a warlord. It’s a shame he could not be anything else. Tamlin sheds his cloak, letting it fall to the floor. One by one, he divests himself of layers of clothing until there is nothing left but bare skin. Rhysand watches him in awe. It’s far more intimate to see Tamlin here compared to the violence of the battlefield where he would be painted with mud and blood. Out there, his eyes would frantically search Tamlin’s body for wounds or signs of injury, but here—oh, oh, he can watch.
Rhysand’s dark eyes trace the shape of Tamlin’s muscular body, awed by the way he still has curves despite having a build that rivals his fellow berserkers. His breasts seem perkier with the joys of freedom, no longer cast away as signs of weakness, and they beg for Rhysand’s attention. He licks his lips, unable to tear his gaze away from those dark pink nipples. He wishes to suckle at his breast with abandon, hungry and desperate to put himself to use, especially for Tamlin’s pleasure. His gaze trails Tamlin like a touch, tracing his defined abdomen with greed, then drinking in the curve of Tamlin’s hips to finally settle on the blonde curls covering her cunt. Liking this form is an understatement. Tamlin’s female body, despite being so distinctly male in Rhysand’s mind, haunts him. The duality hardens his cock, a tell-tale sign that he reveres all that Tamlin is without trying to box him into a single thing.
Tamlin feels no shame or defensiveness anymore at the feeling of being gazed upon. He stands tall, letting Rhysand look as much as he likes. If anyone has earned the honour, it is the first one who believed in his strength, despite it all. He smiles, turning to wade into the water and towards the warm waterfall.
The knotted scars on Tamlin’s back make Rhysand’s heart clench, as he scrambles to disrobe and follow Tamlin into the water. He has changed, too. He wears more tattoos, tribal things from the deepest corner of the Night clan. They are runes to help with his magic, a prowess his own father had never let him explore. He chases Tamlin, the same way he has all these months—chasing for information and for signs that his brother-in-arms has not been slain in the midst of their cause. (Surely, it was for no reason other than their liberation. Nothing to do with the way he squirmed, thinking of finding his way back to Tamlin’s side and how they would celebrate victory together. He dreamt of shared cots and furs, but Tamlin had other ideas. They will start their new chapter here where they first began.)
Water pours down Tamlin’s golden hair, soaking his braids and warming his skin. His shoulders turn pink. Rhysand wades closer to him, grasping his arm and turning him to face him. He tips his head up and pulls Tamlin down towards him for a deep kiss. Tamlin tastes like honeymead and poppy bread, the food of a journeyer that Rhysand has grown sick of, but fed from Tamlin’s lips, he cannot get enough. Rhysand buries his fingers in Tamlin’s hair, and Tamlin wraps his arms around him. They do not hold each other tenderly. They reach for each other, trying to pull each other closer, desperately and letting their hands convey how much they missed each other—how long their souls have been reaching for one another across great distances. Their kiss is sloppy, and Rhysand tastes an inkling of blood where they could not agree to push, pull or nip at one another.
Tamlin gasps against Rhysand’s lips, gazing down at him through the curtain of water. Fuck me, his being seems to say.
I want you, the press of Rhysand’s body proclaims.
They kiss fervently, and every touch is accompanied by a desperate tremble. Rhysand has never wanted anyone so badly and his body thrums with desire, so much that he might burst. His cock presses against Tamlin’s thick thighs, weeping at the feel of his beloved king so close and yet so far. He does not want to be touched. He wants to serve.
Tamlin breaks their kiss, and Rhysand sighs. Rhysand pushes the water out of his face, watching Tamlin retreat onto an outcropping of rocks, taking his seat on this makeshift throne and sitting back casually. He is at home lording over his people, and Rhysand is one of them. He spreads his legs, revealing everything he has to offer to Rhysand.
“Come, feast.”
Rhysand’s heart responds quicker than he can, fluttering wildly with excitement. He lurches forward, throwing himself at Tamlin’s feet. The invitation is more than sex. By now, the council of tribes would have pushed for Tamlin to marry. Some of them will be trapped in the duty of a woman, which is to bear an heir regardless of her prowess. Those who see him a proper King will want him to fuck to show verility and strength. In this act of trust, Tamlin is choosing Rhysand, the same way Rhysand chose to believe in him months ago. His doubts that Tamlin would have outgrown him are gone, and he thanks his highness by kissing up the side of his calf. Rhysand presses his lips against the side of Tamlin’s knee, then deeper into his thigh.
The water is not enough to wash away the musk of Tamlin’s pussy. It’s intoxicating. Rhysand rises farther on his tattooed knees. He rests his arms on Tamlin’s legs, using his fingers to pull Tamlin’s lips open. His king’s insides are so pink and glistening. Heat radiates from him, visible in the misted cool air. Rhysand wastes no time latching onto Tamlin’s vagina. He sucks heartily at whatever he can get his mouth on, wanting nothing more than to taste the ambrosia of the gods. This belongs to him, and him alone. He refuses to believe that Tamlin has blessed anyone else with this gift. He undulates his tongue inside Tamlin’s wet hole, lapping up all his juices and trying to reach deep within him.
Above him, Tamlin sighs. He leans back on the rocks, putting his weight on elbow and buries one hand in Rhysand’s hair. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Worship your king. You made me, after all.”
Rhysand shudders and doubles his efforts. He licks and sucks at Tamlin. His own saliva dribbles down his chin, intertwined with Tamlin’s wetness. He presses forward, burying his nose deep in Tamlin’s cunt. Everything about Tamlin is overwhelming; Rhysand cannot think about anything else. He forgets to breathe, and pulls back to gasp for air, only to see the way Tamlin gazes down at him. Tamlin’s earned confidence is slowly unravelling in the face of sheer pleasure and devotion.
He finds Tamlin’s clit, licking liberally while maintaining eye contact with Tamlin. His hips roll of their own accord, lost in the fantasy of burying itself in Tamlin’s cunt. Tamlin tightens his grips in Rhysand’s hair, forcing him further down onto him.
“Harder,” he purrs, quiet next to the loud rush of the waterfall.
Rhysand can only oblige, sealing his mouth against the bundle of nerves and sucking hard. It tears Tamlin’s first orgasm from him, and Rhysand has no choice but to ride out the wild bucking of Tamlin’s hips against his face. Tamlin moans, tossing his head back, grinding against Rhysand’s mouth, and Rhysand offers his flat, wet, tongue for Tamlin’s free use. When he calms down, Tamlin releases Rhysand’s head.
“Can you go again?” Tamlin pants.
“As many times and it pleases you,” Rhysand smirks.
“Good, my pussy hungers for you.”
“Have you considered cumming solely from your nipples?”
“Don’t get too cocky.”
“Do not confuse arrogance with an offer.”
Tamlin lays back, and motions to his chest. “Very well.”
Freedom has never tasted so good.