Chapter Text
(“Y’fuckin– you fuckin’ bitch!” He spits out, throwing the items on his table all over the floor of the tent. “What the fuck! Is wrong with you, ya fuckin’ cunt!”
He screams, fingers in his hair.
“It was a gift to you.”
“A gift–” The prince heaves, staring at you with enraged, golden eyes. “A gift ?!”
You gaze back at him, not understanding his train of thought. You’ve heard him talk about this, how much he hated his older brother and how he was unfit for the throne. A weakling, unable to get his wife or any of her ladies-in-waiting pregnant.
“Ya killed my older brother,” he seethes, voice barely above a whisper. “The goddamn crown prince.”
“I do not understand,” you tell him, brows knit together. The now-crown prince stalks towards you, eyes blazing. “You said you wanted him d–”
Your eyes widen as he kisses you, his large hand cupping the back of your head. His lips are hungry, ravenous as your lashes flutter against his cheekbones.
“Yer fuckin’ insane,” he tells you, forehead resting against yours. Naoya is panting, his other hand tight on your waist, squeezing. “Do y’know what the fuck can happen to ya if someone found out? You’d be hanged, drawn, and quartered. They would kill ya. Father’d kill you.”
“You would not let that happen,” you tell him, in between the kisses he presses to your willing mouth.
His fingers are quick to undo the laces of your dress, calloused hands groping and squeezing your tits.
“You would not let them hurt a hair on my head.”
“No,” he groans, mouthing hot against your neck. “I wouldn’t.”
“You will make me your queen.”
He groans, biting and sucking hickeys around your neck, a foreshadowing of the ancestral queens’ choker. Rubies from the south. For now, he’d give you a pearl necklace, dripping across your collarbones. You feel his clothed cock twitch in his trousers as he grinds hard against you.
“Yes,” Naoya tells you, pushing you down to his desk.
His tongue traces a nipple.
“My mad little queen.”)
—
To be fair, you had never expected your life to be like this.
Raised by your older brother, he had promised you a future that would be nothing like how your father had raised him.
He didn’t want you to be a political pawn in any way. He knew you enjoyed the outdoors, the libraries, the scientific knowledge that would make any woman be considered a witch. He would allow you your freedom in the kingdom and in the castle.
You would be able to do whatever you wanted in your life.
However, as much as your brother promised you everything he could never have, he was still a man. He was mortal in every way he thought he could transcend his predecessor.
Gojo Satoru could not keep his promise, and he could barely contain his tears of rage when he had to give you away as the political pawn he promised to keep you from becoming.
Your brother had told you that you could marry whomever you want. You had imagined that if you did, it would be someone within the empire’s caliber – someone with formal speech from the north.
(Definitely not a southerner with a horrid accent and fake-polite demeanor to hide the deeply sexist perspectives towards the gentler sex.)
So here you are now, scientific thoughts now replaced with the desire to be filled up.
It makes sense when Naoya positions you on your hands and knees.
He’s called you and your family animals many times, and he certainly likes to fuck you like you are.
He’s also told you time and again that he enjoys it since “yer put in yer place”, which means your ass up in the air and face buried into the goose-feather pillows. Your knees would slide over the softest silk, manicured fingernails picking threads. Teeth in the blanket, tugging before letting go to ease the ache in your spine when he pulled your hair back.
He fucks you like you were an animal; he fucks you like he’s one.
Except now, there’s no silk blankets smooth against your knees.
It’s rough linen and canvas, your palms practically chafing against the fabric when he lands a rough slap onto your ass cheek. Yelping, you grit your teeth, throwing a glare at him over your shoulders.
You hate how easily he manhandles you into whatever position he likes, one calloused hand pressing between your shoulder blades. He grins as your chest is pressed flush against his bedroll, kicking your knees apart until the joints in your hip sockets ache.
You remember when you had first seen his cock. It definitely wasn’t on your marriage bed, hours before the sacred ceremony before the altar.
He had shown you, in the public gardens, of all places. It had been behind one of the topiaries when he had fished out his dick, already half-hard.
The prince merely laughed when you had told him his future captors would enjoy plucking his piercing out from his penis.
As unfortunate as it is for your own pride, he has never lost a battle or a situation where he would have lost.
The crown prince is strong, fearsome.
True, he would never pass as Toji’s shadow, but he was feral and terrifying in his own right.
True, he would never be an emperor like your brother.
He is simply a prince now, and a king if he manages to outlive his own father. But with all your poisons and abilities, you would ensure yourself the queen’s circlets.
Fast, quick at a blade and hand-to-hand combat to the point where his opponent would feel frozen. Naoya, in turn, would see his adversary in the same light while he kept his speed, and quickly dispose and decapitate.
No one could catch him.
“Y’know how often I dreamed of this?” He breathes out.
Grunting, you clench at the sound of your pussy lips parting when he spreads your ass cheeks. A low whistle is heard from him, and as you look over your shoulder, you see him gazing almost lovingly at your pink cunt.
Your cheeks heat up as he thumbs the soft skin of your ass before using both thumbs to spread your cunt just a little bit.
“Coated my hand in sword oil and fucked my fist pretending it was yer pussy,” he says, hissing in a breath through clenched teeth.
You can already picture it, his linen shirt’s hem caught between his teeth as he jacked himself off in the privacy of his tent. The hewn muscles in his chest tensing and tensing as he brought himself over the edge.
“Missed yer pussy so bad,” he confesses, earning a laugh when you whine as he pushes two of his fingers into you.
There’s no rhyme or build up to it, no caressing of your petal-soft folds with his calloused skin.
Just two of his thick digits pushing into you, the muscles in your thighs trembling as he sinks down to the knuckles closest to his palm. Your toes curl when he does the same with his fingers, the tips pressing against that spongy spot that has saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth.
“So wet, and not from the bathwater,” he muses, voice all singsongy as he fucks you with his fingers. “So noisy too.”
You know all the secrets that should have died with him.
Blackmailed information out of him in an attempt to serve your older brother, only for you to end up with your husband’s cock down your throat. He had given you a fair warning the first and last time, with manic eyes and bared teeth like a mountain lion.
The prince swore that he would slit your throat if you betrayed him.
Treason to the throne, he stated. He would make your death seem like an accident. Or he could make your brother suffer, let him know what happens to treasonous little whore princesses when your feet dangle inches from the ground.
You had simply laughed when he fucked you after, his cock twitching inside your cunt and his tongue down your throat.
All his threats were and are empty; you found that out a few hours into your marriage.
While anything said to others held weight, he knew he could not and would not fulfill any ill will meant towards you. He never meant it anyways, he would tell you after when you would threaten with more treason or even flinging yourself out the window.
Naoya never could, and it wasn’t just because your brother would destroy their whole kingdom. He would annex them, absorb them directly into his empire and no one would ever bat an eyelash about how Satoru had avenged the death of his wronged little sister.
The crown prince could never kill you, because he never would .
He would scream and throw goblets of wine at the wall all he wanted, but at the end of the day, it would be your fingers in his hair and his tongue down your throat.
It didn’t matter what you found out.
Didn’t matter that he was a bastard child. Didn’t matter that he had a soft spot for his distant relative, the kingslayer, because his distant relative was his actual half brother.
(It made complete sense, you thought, when you saw the portraits that hung on the cold walls of their castle homes.
The Zenin men are predisposed to infidelity, and most Zenin men were ugly.
Your husband and the kingslayer are both fair, easy on the eyes.)
In the beginning, he could not even get an actual word in when he would threaten you.
Not when you would have to hold him in the middle of the night, the pitiful man crying himself awake from his nightmares. He would have them often, usually stemming somewhere about how he had been good, that father shouldn’t be touching him like that.
Embarrassment was too strong as you asked him what that was, and he had told you with a hiss that he would kill you if you revealed that to anyone.
It wasn’t your place to do so anyway. And at this point, you had felt such ironic pity towards the man who acted like God’s gift to womankind, that you could not. You couldn’t bring yourself to telling on a big boy wading waist-deep in the world of men.
You felt for him.
And as he knew he could bring himself to trust you apart from the times he would bend you over, he knew he was falling for you. He had hated you at first; his emotions unable to deal with the fact that the cared for you. It was past understanding for the masculine part of him. At least whatever little masculine existed.
He hated you.
He hated you because he is not like you, and could not live life like you.
No soft skirts, thick lashes against one’s cheekbones.
And in accepting assimilation and resignation to his life. He drowned himself in you, because as his wife, you were part of him. After all, God had formed woman from man’s rib, and thus life came.
The handsome, proud prince Naoya doted on you, because he trusts you and gifts you with sparkly, feminine things he wish he received in return.
And in doing so, he would be prepared to make the world fall to its knees. The prince would prepare the world in his hands, crushing blood and guts to prepare it for you. He would offer it at your feet, just a gift.
Just a little taste of his unyielding love for his perfect, spitting, vicious doll.
At least he was not so far gone in his virile idiocy that he would use your child against you.
(And that’s how you knew he would never get far in his threats, because that’s all they were. Just words, fingers around your throat, his tongue licking itself bloody over your canines.
You can almost swear he loves the taste of his own blood, a reminder in faux humility that he is mortal.)
“Relax,” Naoya purrs, and you do everything but.
It is exactly what he wants.
It is quite difficult when you feel the metal piercing, warmed by his own flesh, bump against you.
His rough, calloused palm rubs over your lower back, encouraging you to arch your spine further.
“That’s it,” he tells you, voice low as he pushes forward.
It is not that much. At least not yet, when he wedges the cockhead into you.
Your toes curl, head threatening to hang beneath your shoulders. His hand rubs up and down your back as he pushes further, his cock spreading the velvet insides to make way. You hear the disgustingly wet click of your body when he pulls out, only to squelch as he pushes in again.
This time, he manages to get further inside, just a little near halfway, and you feel like you could combust.
“Fuck. Yer cunt’s fuckin’ boilin’ ,” he laughs, voice hoarse as though he is trying to hold back from groaning. “Missed yer sweet lil’ pussy.”
And you missed this, missed how he is currently pushing further and further into you. He bullies you open inch after blazing hot inch of his throbbing cock.
By the time he’s fully seated in you, piercing nested against your sweet spot, you are shaking.
A long, low groan escapes him, and you shiver at the noise, and his rough palm smoothing gently over one of your ass cheeks.
Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head when he grinds his hips forward. It rubs a tantalizing nudge of his fat cockhead lightly over your cervix. A keening sound escaping you when he continues the lewd act, your pussy loud and wet around him.
“Ngh, you feel that?” He pants quietly, angling his hips to grind up against the pucker of your deepest wall.
Your toes curl, abdomen tensing, but he has your waist in his grasp. His large, rough hands hold you in place as he rubs the pearls of his precum against the tight ring that leads to your womb.
“That’s what my seed is going to enter,” he tells you, as if giving you this morsel of information was a mental treat for his wife.
(It’s as if you haven’t had access to the sectioned-off area in the royal library. He loves treating you in many ways that make you feel inferior. He knows you aren’t; you’ve proved that to him many times in actions that has the both of you clawing at each other’s clothes and skin. )
You know what he plans on doing.
“I will breed you,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly from you.
He only manages halfway out before he stutters back in hard, earning a yelp from you. Naoya laughs, tutting quietly at himself.
“Can barely stand not being constantly–” He pauses with a growl, hips snapping in sharp. “--in ya– fuck–!”
You squeal as his pace picks up fast, barely giving you enough time to adjust at the size of his girth inside you. He pounds into you fast, his heavy balls swinging forward to smack against your clit.
“Oh–!” You sob out, tearing at the linens beneath you as he tears into your cunt.
It’s brutal; he fucks you like he hasn’t seen you in forever.
For the both of you, it clearly feels like that.
Naoya could fuck you once a day, and it would still not feel like it’s enough.
When the both of you had first gotten married, the whispers of his obsession towards his wife was prevalent. People stated that it was just the honeymoon era, and that he was simply interested in letting you know who owned you.
It wasn’t that you weren’t aware. At the time, you fully understood that your life was now his, and that every part of your body – especially your reproductive organs – were his to control and own and use.
But the honeymoon phase had passed and yet he still craved you, wanted you like a bad habit to keep the edge off.
“Ffffuuck, that’s it,” he groans, hips stuttering for a moment. “Ya wanna make sure yer a fuckin’ queen? Stake yer fuckin’ claim on the throne, huh?”
Your scream is muffled into his small bedroll’s cushion as you’re flattened down, prone.
His fingers are in your wet hair, tight grip against your scalp as he pistons into you. Naoya’s slim hips slam against your jiggling ass as his cock pushes in and out of your squelching hole.
“Shhh, shhh, don’t wanna let the whole battalion know their future queen’s a little whore,” he whispers, driving his cock into you deeper, harder.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he mounts you like an animal.
There is nothing else for you to do but take it and sob into his not-so-standard-issue sheets. Drool and tears pool beneath your cheek as you try and calm your breathing, his grip on your waist bruising and tight.
“Y-Your highness–” You choke out, voice barely above a whisper as he leans down.
His weight is almost comforting to you as he grinds against you, ass molded up against the deep v-cut of his hips and the hard muscles of his abdomen. His groans are more of a purr deep in his chest, vibrating against your back.
“Yes?” He asks, voice just shy of being hoarse. His breath is warm against your hair and ear, and you tug weakly at his sheets like a cat kneading fabric.
The dull ache in your core and cervix grounds you, roots and anchors you to this moment. The crown prince is here, alive. Your husband is here, inside you. Both of you are safe.
You breathe out shakily.
“Want it,” you slur out, sounding absolutely fuckdrunk.
“Want what?” He grunts, rolling his hips in movements that has you drooling in pleasure and pain. “My father to stop fuckin’ staring at you? That I’ll getcha pregnant again and he leaves you alone?”
You sting in empathy. His quiet hatred for his father is something that you had picked up on quick. You aren’t stupid, either; you’re aware of the king’s many mistresses and how Naoya wasn’t the only one enamored by you.
The king is a sick, lecherous old drunk.
“Or is it that ya wanna just follow whatever that alcoholic old fool wants?” He snarls, hips punctuating a thrust that has you keening. “Fuck.”
It is odd and strange that Naoya would think about his father like this, when he’s balls-deep inside your cunt. But men are strange, and he fucks you like a whore, so there is very little for you to complain about otherwise.
Panting against the linen fabric, your mind goes haywire, toes and fingers curling up. He’s fucking you so hard, you have to clench your jaw to keep your teeth from rattling in your skull.
It isn’t fucking hard to use your cunt; you know he’s barely focused on even trying to cum. He’s brutalizing your poor little pussy as a statement, to get you all loose in the head.
It’s patronizing, dehumanizing.
You love to hate it; you hate to love it.
“No–”
“No?” He repeats, tone mocking. “S’what is then? What did ya come if not fer that?”
God, you hate him.
“I–”
He thrusts slower, deeper, and you keen.
“Speak when yer husband tells ya,” he breathes, and you respond with squeezing hard around his cock.
“H-He did not tell me anything.”
He pauses.
“What?”
You swallow down your pride and the lump of saliva in your throat.
“Your father is unaware of my being here,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper. “He– he does not know I am here.”
Naoya is silent; you can almost hear the cogs turning in his pretty head.
“I…” It is a bitter medicine with no sugar to chase it. “I missed you– I thought of you every night.”
It was not even in a way that has your heart racing, fingers shoved deep in your pussy to simulate his thick ones. It was in a way that had your heart aching, fear in your stomach as you held his son to your bosom.
It was in a way that a lover would, waiting at the window for when he would return.
It is not even about your own claim to a kingdom and power. It is not even about your own safety.
It is about your husband’s, your lover’s, your child’s father.
It is prayers spent in the chapel as you prayed before God to bring the prince back safely to you.
Fuck, you love him.
“I missed you,” you whisper. “I missed you. I was so scared when you stopped responding to my letters.”
Silence passes and the fear steeps further into you, dyeing your blood in the shade of fear and regret.
And then you are gasping, his cock no longer in you. You are dizzy with the sudden change, and you are on your back, staring up at golden feline eyes and the softest pink on his pale face.
“Say it again,” he breathes, boring holes into your own eyes as his hands rest once more on your already-bruised waist.
He squeezes tight and you whimper, struggling in his hold.
“Please,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. It’s a plea, a prayer.
It’s the same word that you wept on the cold flagstones of the chapel.
“I missed you,” you tell him. “Naoya.”
And then his lips are on yours.
It’s wet, salty. It’s hungry, greedy, selfish, and utterly animal.
You cry into his mouth when he pushes back into you. Strings of saliva attach your lips together when he pulls away, the threads shimmery in the faint candle light.
Naoya regards you with half-lidded eyes, soft panting escaping both of you as he fucks you deliberately. It’s fast and unhinged, even with the way that he’s cradling the back of your head.
“Can’t fuckin’ believe ya,” he half-laughs, as though he really is in disbelief. “God, princess… Yer unbelievable.”
Your nails scrape and claw at his shoulders and thick chest, leaving red lines down his flesh. Naoya groans, his fingers catching your wrists and pinning them over your head. When your nails dig into your palms to draw blood from the crescented skin, his fingers push against yours to loosen them.
His fingers intertwine with yours, squeezing as you respond back likewise.
“Nao–” You cry out, back arching off the bedroll as his hips drive wildly into you.
The sound of skin against skin is loud in his tent. Anyone passing by would be able to hear it, along with the soft whimpers that each deep thrust elicits from you.
Your needy clit throbs, untouched and desperate.
“Fuck,” he tells you. “Ngh.”
He fucks you with a mad ferocity that requires him to slap his hand over your mouth.
“Shhh, shhh,” he tells you, hips driving hard against the backs of your thighs. “Don’t be too loud, princess.”
You tremble beneath him as he rearranges your limbs, forcing you to be almost folded in half. A strangled noise is barely audible behind his rough palm when he hikes his weight forward, other hand propping up by the side of your head.
An orgasm comes out of nowhere when he grinds down against you, the curly thatch at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit. You spasm and twitch beneath him, unable to do anything but cum and cum and cum on the pierced cock that’s fucking you wildly.
“Gonna cum,” he grunts, teeth clenched and jaw tense. There’s veins that are visible on his forearms, his neck, his temples.
“Gonna cum in ya,” he tells you, your mind addled with ecstasy and unable to form a coherent thought. “Get ya pregnant–”
He grits his teeth, fucking you harder. His balls swing down hard against your asshole, sticky with your leaking arousal.
Your eyes are filled with tears and you can barely see, only seeing the vague outline of his bright teeth and golden eyes.
“C’mon, milk my cock,” he orders you, and you scream into his palm when his hand reaches down to rub against your clit once more.
Beneath your husband, you thrash weakly, helplessly. There is such a horrible attempt at getting away from the burning pleasure his thumb provides against your swollen bud. It’s so much, and you are drowning with every bit that he is providing you.
“Be a good wife and milk yer husband’s cock,” he commands you.
You cum like that, with him whispering debauched directions against your lips when he removes his hand.
There’s a sharp, tinny noise in your ears as you see white.
Everything is him when you slowly come to.
It’s a rush of pleasure and everything is him – everything is your bastard husband, Zenin Naoya.
It is all him, plunging his cock into your squelching cunt before he cums with a stuttered groan.
It is all him, his seed filling you so deeply and fully that it has nowhere to go but your womb.
He is all you smell, taste, and feel as he kisses you, his large hand rubbing over your abdomen. He knows you’ll be fat with his child in the next few moons, with your monthly rags left untouched as you grow his next son.
“Mmm,” he pants, catching his breath from your lips.
You are water and air to him, and he is drowning and choking on you.
The little kisses shared are salty and slow as your hands slide down his sweaty back.
You wonder if this is all part of the human experience.
It has boiled down to this: the universe experiencing itself as humans in the most perfect and egregious way possible.
And if all things were wrong, the both of you two know that there would be one thing that’s right.
Two horribly mismatched people breathing in each other’s air, tasting each other’s sweat and tears on one’s tongue. Erratic heartbeats slowing down, pupils no longer black and dilated as before.
Just the silence of acceptance and two hands, hearts, seeking each other’s.
You can almost swear yours skips when his fingers interlace with yours.
His sweaty forehead presses against yours as he looks at you.
You two know that neither of you would fall in love again the same.
No other person would compare. Neither of you could ever love the same person twice, and both of you are ever-changing, a tessellating fractal of light from a prismatic glass.
You fall in love with him each time, for every time he changes in his wild, unpredictable ways.
“Insane,” he whispers, looking at you, memorizing every bit of your features, committing it to memory. “Yer insane, princess.”
It’s as though he’s aware of his responsibility and the fact that both of you are here, in the middle of a war, in his battle tent. He holds you a little tighter to his body and breathes in the sweetness that only a woman brings to the stale smell of death and men.
Naoya loves you; you know he does, even if he doesn’t say it.
(Even if he shows it in the sickest ways.)
He presses a kiss to your cheek.
You know he will die fighting. That is the type of men that the Zenin are. You can only pray he dies like his cousin, his brother – on two feet, thinking of his child.
And when that day comes, you will exchange your glittering robes for black veils and prayer beads.
His father will be dead and all his other cousins, male or otherwise.
Naoya may not taste the throne, but the throne will become your lap – the new king, his eldest son.
You will have the world that was promised to you, by both your brother and Naoya.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, large hand rubbing over your belly.
You will be queen if it is the last thing you do.