the circumstances of what he was doing here mattered little; another night filled with pointless socialization and mind-numbing alcohol. the company he keeps was easy on the eyes but spoke with all the glamour of a cardboard box. king found himself staring idly into his glass more than anything else.

that was until the dragon descended.

he turns, ready to give off a half-hearted joke or jab, but he bites off the words before they could come out. here she was, queen of dragons, disheveled and panicked. freya didn't look like pouting regal queen he was used too. this was... something else. he moves along to her pull, confused and annoyed, but primarily the former.

"ye, okay, calm down. the fuck is goin' on?"

freya morningstar

she's waiting for that jab, actually, for any semblance of normalcy to quash her growing fear that, despite king's youth, she'd missed months, maybe years during her exile. he's looking at her with confusion, yes, but there isn't the harrowing gaze of finding someone who's been missing long enough to raise alarms. 

she holds onto this simple fact, tries to focus on it, to shunt away the memories of those last few moments, the agony of that loneliness in the seconds after. 

"not here," she murmurs urgently. the woman he'd been sitting with eyes her crossly, fingers dappling the rim of her martini glass.

the scale is still tethered to a cord around her neck. it's hidden under her shirt for now, but it's warm against her skin.

she goes for a door, any door, and ends up dragging him into, of all places, the bathroom. 

"i'm," she starts, fingers snicking the lock. she barely notices where they are. certainly doesn't notice the smell. her hands are on her temples and then they're reaching for his wrists, for some sort of anchor to keep her here.

"i need someone," she says. someone that will stay. someone that can stay. someone to tell all this crazy shit to. who won't manipulate her or use her or give her exactly what she wants. someone who just is - unapologetically so. 

she steps closer, eyes still wild, hair snarled, with dirt on her nails and blood still dried on her throat.

KING WAYLAND

☉

the smell of the bathroom was enough to force up his nose in disgust, turning to face freya with an incredulous look. he stops, piercing blue hues taking in her state much more closely this time. they fall to her hands as she grasps his wrist and his brow furrows deeper.

"what the hell is goin' on, princess? did someone beat yer ass or something?" unapologetically blunt, as always. king takes a moment to searche for the truth in her frantic gaze. whatever she hid behind it, whatever demons lie dormant, he would help her.

as he promised he would.

freya morningstar

his nose wrinkles. blue eyes search hers, but for a split second she sees green, and her heart gives a painful squeeze. it catches up to her tenfold now. she's no longer on the run, no longer hiding/scavenging/fighting for her life. but each blink gives her horrors - of bodies washed up on a crimson shore, her likeness twisted in pain, dying at her feet. 

"yes," she says, voice a whisper. "gods and monsters and -" she swallows, runs her tongue over her teeth. 

she's not here to divulge. she's not here to make it reality. that will come later. and now?

she tilts her head. fingers around his wrist, pinning them behind him. she splays her fingers over his, against that wall, and presses her weight against him. the kiss is messy. hurried. wild. ravenous. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

king glances down at her touch, delicate now but usually filled with strength and rage. something had happened, that much was obvious, but what? arceus only knew.

"wha-" his words are cut off, and for a single moment his eyes widen. then she's crashing into him, platinum spun hair caked and matted with debris and dried blood. her lips were soft, even if her approach wasn't. what little strength she had held his wrists in place, but that was not enough. it was never enough.

breaking free of her grip, he pulls away, hands reaching to cup a porcelain chin. her gaze was wild and hungry, while his only reflected confusion, and... resignation.

he was a stand-in.

a double for someone, or something, that had broken her heart. an outlet for her rage, her grief, and even her joy. maybe in some corner of her heart she would've chosen this under normal circumstances — chosen him.

but...

"are you sure?"

he shook the thought from his mind, cerulean orbs never leaving her own. the last time someone made this mistake it cost them both nearly everything. he needed to know...

"are you sure you want to do this?"

freya morningstar

even now, with surprise on her side, she's still not strong enough to hold him down. he breaks their momentum before they can crash and burn. hurt flits over her face, but that twists into something else when he raises her chin. here, she cannot pretend. she cannot close her eyes and imagine his smell, his taste, his sage green eyes looking down at her. because he's gone and it's over and

that's not the real reason she's here.

in touch with her whole self, no longer hidden behind a veil of pink or a cold wall of stone, of which its bricks were placed by her own hand. alex may have lent her the hammer, but she'd stricken the blow. she is no longer an aimless force of chaos, wildfire licking at everyone who dared get close.

she is heat. not of fury. of passion. and here he stands, this man who refused to turn her back on him, who refused to appease her at her worst. he who shaped her vessel into her namesake, who led her back to her title, who made her whole.

there are a million and one reasons why she should stop. why they should stop. because neither of them are ready for this. because she's broken and untamed and exhausted and riddled with the trauma of harsh survival, stuck in a loop of fight or flight.

but right now she needs this.

her arms come up to lay across his shoulders - the only warning she gives him. she jumps, legs coming up to straddle his waist, fingers tense against his neck. here is a man who will knock her down, who'll make her bleed, but never will he let her fall.

KING WAYLAND

☉

her answer comes through in the way she crosses her arms over the nape of his neck. it's soft for a single moment, before the claws of the dragon sink in, drawing a metaphorical blood. then, her legs are wrapped around her waist and words wouldn't suffice anymore.

he kisses her, hands finding grip just beneath her thighs, fingers tightening around flesh as he doesn't hold back. it'd like they'd been dancing around this for weeks; two dragons looping around one another in flight like a tight braid.

with a step he turns them around, forcing her to be the one pinned against the wall, as he takes his fill. king indulges on his own frustrations and lamentations, on the painful void that's taken permanent residence in his chest.

would he regret this? maybe. would she? without a doubt.

but none of that mattered right now. only this feeling that, when fully manifested, would lave them both new scars.

and not all of them were visible.

freya morningstar

and fall she doesn't. he lifts her, hands under her legs, fingertips dimpling her thighs. her hair falls around her as she tilts her head, teeth clacking as he meets her in her fervor. the tile is cool against the back of her thin shirt, hard against her spine. 

her lips part and she drinks him in. she tastes the whiskey on his tongue, marvels at the intimacy of the senses. in her madness, taste and touch and sound had expounded so much so that it hurt, that it was cold and painful to the touch. but this is liquid ecstasy and she finds her hands grasping at his hair, pulling at his neck, forcing the space between them away.

she draws back a long time after only to swipe her hair from her face, to drink in a gasping breath. her legs tighten, upper back pressing firm to the wall so she can graze the bottom hem of her own shirt. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

his own breathe comes quick, and heavy, eyes frantic and wild with the hunger of lust. his hair and neck sting, traces of her touch lingering. he ignores it, pushing it to the back of his mind. all he could feel now was the skin between his fingers and the almost painful beating of his heart in his chest.

as her shirt lifts he can only stare, drinking in her pale, battered and bruised skin. she was beautiful and always had been. but here in the dim light of a dirty bathroom, freya looked almost ethereal. and now he wanted nothing more than to make his own marks on the canvas of her flesh.

with renewed effort he dives back in, lips and teeth seeking the soft skin of her exposed neck and collarbone. the bruises he would give her now would have new intent.

the animal she'd seen before couldn't compare to the one he would be tonight.

freya morningstar

they breathe in tandem, synchronous in their shared marvel of the other. he looks upon her as though to worship her and she bites her lip. you're not emma, she thinks somewhere far away. emma, the only person she thought would ever see her as intimately as this. emma, the only person up until recently she thought still owned her heart. 

here, though. here she is drowning. not in alexander and not in emma and not in her own misery. she's drowning in passion. his passion. his lust and his desire and his ravenous hunger for her. 

all their dancing had just been precursor. all their empty nothings hadn't been nothing at all. 

she's impatient. she wants rapture. she wants confession. she wants sin. 

arms arc over his shoulders, fingers curling against his back, tugging on his shirt. someone bangs on the door. muffled complaints resound from the other side. she huffs in frustration and tugs the back of his shirt up to his neck. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

the muffled complaints are nothing to his own. to the voice that screams in the back of his head about how this is a bad idea; to the one at the front that begs for release, the caged animal. he ignores them both.

her fingers move with reckless abandon, tugging at the cloth. king ducks into it, allowing the bundle of clothing to be torn off from the back. his own body is a pale imitation of art; like the types of paintings you'd see in an exercise about anger. his pale skin is flushed red from the alcohol of earlier, but no where near as much as you'd expect. blood after all was working its way elsewhere.

"last chance," he says, eyes falling to take her in again, then rising to meet her gaze. he moves his mouth closer to hers, feeling her breath on his lips.

"last chance."

then comes the crash before the fall.

freya morningstar

she has borne her own fair share of scars. puckered scars from the bullets that had ripped through her during her frenzy within sootopolis' tree. and her body had not responded in kind to being dashed upon the cliff-facing rocks of sootopolis. though surgery has mended the lasting effects, a cord-like ripple stretches down her knee. will he notice this, when he's stripped her bare? all these memories of war imprinted on her. will she care? 

her gaze drops from his face to his chest, hands following suit. he's just as battered, just as bruised, and his skin is warm under her touch. his pulse under her fingertips, reminding her that he's human.

in this pause, she has collected herself, but there is no regret to be had in her clarity. she welcomes the hazy cloud that follows this lust and when his lips near hers, she knots her fingers in his hair and slips her tongue in his mouth.

lover, whore, princess - she doesn't care how he treats her. just that he has her and she has him and that for a brief time, they can forget about all the rest of it. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

and so he takes all she has to give and more. when they're done they both bear new scars. but, something unspoken between them, something that'd been brewing for weeks now, had finally come alive.

he stands off to the side and buckles his pants, grunting from the effort. finally, he turns to her, taking her in with a raised eyebrow.

"did ye want ta talk now?"

freya morningstar