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She meets him on the bridge at dusk.
He is there before her, as always; absent of his armor, as always. She'd learned the hard way that he's just as formidable without it. It wasn't long ago that he first bade her here, the exposed flesh of his throat almost begging for her dagger. It wasn't long after that he had her pinned to the ground, the same dagger digging into her ribcage. She had trouble explaining that rip in her bodice to Tataru.
It was then that he'd delivered a proposal; a sparring match, just the two of them. No weapons, save for the ones the Twelve gave you.
She'd lost, of course. As she lay gasping on the ground he simply prompted her to come back stronger in a few suns. She scoffed, but found herself returning all the same. She felt little kinship with the Scions these days–little kinship with anyone, really–and the brawls served as the sort of break from reality she craved.
They both found blows easier to exchange than words, after all.
Their fights grew more intense with each meeting. Punching, kicking, biting, scratching, bodies tangled together in a mockery of intimacy. She'd be lying if she said it didn't make her ache for it. After her first loss, a sick part of her even hoped he'd take advantage, but she quickly realized the only way to capture his attention was to win.
She is determined to turn her foul mood in her favor today. This place was starting to take a toll on her, this place that he forced her to come to, him, with his golden hair glimmering in the sunset. Him, with his strong nose and his tired eyes and Gods, does audacity of his beauty make her ill. She closes the distance between them, scarcely allowing him time to acknowledge her before she kicks him in the gut.
He stumbles, but maintains his footing, already laughing it off.
"Dispensed with the pleasantries, have you?"
She ignores him and kicks him again, harder, managing to upend him this time. He grins up at her gleefully.
"Excellent."
He's back on his feet in an instant. A flurry of blows flies her way, each one more difficult to to dodge than the last. They both know he could land one if he wanted to, but he likes this song and dance, likes watching her grow ever more feverish until she can no longer keep pace.
This time will be different. She makes a mantra of it. This time will be different. The world slows down around her as she hones in on his attacks, settling into the rhythm of their combat. She studies him all the while- his blown pupils, his flushed cheeks, his eyes that flicker to her lips for just a moment. She takes the opportunity to deliver a swift kick to his ankles. He goes down quickly this time, and she allows herself a moment to bask in her pride before pouncing on him.
"I win," she pants, the childish declaration of victory all she can muster as she catches her breath. He is quiet, save for his own labored breathing. This close, she can see the smattering of freckles across his cheeks, the pale tips of his eyelashes, the beating of his heart in his jugular. It sends a twinge down her spine. She leans in without thinking, her lips grazing his skin. As teeth meet flesh she feels his pulse quicken, sending another shock through her, driving her fangs deep enough to draw blood.
He moans.
The sound snaps her from her stupor a second too late; he's already flipped her onto her back. She struggles weakly, the weight of his body keeping her pinned there as he attacks her neck, a trail of bruises blooming in his wake. His thigh slots between hers, and with a flood of shame she feels her body react.
"You enjoy these spars as much as I," he says, rocking against her ever so slightly.
She shakes her head, wriggling again in protest, but the gesture only serves to create more friction between them. He presses his knee more firmly into her crotch, stilling her movements.
"Don't deny it," he continues. "It is pleasurable, is it not?" His lips trail their way towards her collarbone. "People like us do so seldom get to experience pleasure."
"Speak for yourself," she spits back, but the words sting true nonetheless.
He reaches beneath her skirt to squeeze her, still soft but so pathetically wet. She whimpers. He thumbs over the slick spot forming on her smallclothes and chuckles, withdrawing his touch as quickly as he gave it.
"Do you think yourself above such things?" he murmurs.
She shakes her head, hips bucking in a silent plea for his hand. His lips find her instead, mouthing at her through the fabric before he speaks again.
"Good." He tugs down her underwear. "We are but animals, after all."
She rolls her eyes, but her indignation vanishes along with her cock down his throat. She gasps, hands flying to tangle in his hair as he swallows around her. He takes all of her easily, too easily, the warmth of his mouth so suffocating she nearly sobs. A part of her does sob– what the hells does she think she's doing? Was she really so desperate for touch that it had come to this? Splayed out on the ground beneath Garlemald's crown prince?
Her crisis of conscience is embarrassingly short lived, because his lips are pressed against the base of her cock and he's running his tongue along the sensitive skin there and it's taking everything she has not to let herself go so soon. She tugs at his hair and whimpers again. His mouth only edges lower, sucking softly, like he knows precisely what will undo her. When his tongue trails up towards her tip she can't help but cry out.
"Ze–"
She bites her lip, forcing his name back into her mouth. He blinks up at her and hums bemusedly. The rush of embarrassment only stokes the fire in her belly as he laps at her, holding her gaze all the while. Her hips buck once, twice, and she's spilling over all across his damnable face. He licks his lips.
Sitting back on his knees, he rakes his eyes over her, breath ragged and gaze hungry. Her shame far gone in the haze of her afterglow, she speaks.
"Would you... May I... return the favor?"
He regards her for what feels like an eternity. Then, slowly, he undoes his trousers, and the sight of him sends her dizzy.
Even her most self-indulgent fantasies hadn't prepared her for the flush pink cunt now facing her. She swallows a bit of drool and shuffles closer. His cock, swollen and glistening, begs for her mouth, though she wonders fleetingly if it's substantial enough to even fit inside her. She wraps her lips around him, his taste filling her senses, all musk and sweat and heat.
He grabs her by the hair and pulls her closer, rolling his hips against her face. She lets her jaw slacken a bit, pushing her tongue deeper into his cunt, feeling her mind go fuzzy at the edges. A muffled moan escapes from her lips.
"Oh, you are ravenous, aren't you?" he rasps.
Drunk on his liquors, all she can do is nod. She is floating somewhere just above her body now, his grip on her serving as her tether to reality. She sucks greedily at his cock, savoring the way it throbs on her tongue. Even as the cobbled ground digs into her knees she thinks of how content she'd be to stay here forever.
So lost in her stupor is she that she's almost disappointed when he finishes. He shudders, hips twitching, nails digging into her scalp as he comes with a groan. She licks him clean, only pulling back when he begins to pry her off. When she finally meets his gaze, his expression is unreadable.
"You're needed elsewhere, I'm sure," he says, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "As am I."
He fastens his trousers and rises to his feet. She watches him until his silhouette disappears over the horizon, a horrible pit of guilt making its home in her stomach.
Guilt, and something she didn't want to put a name to.