"i'm hard-pressed to believe you don't get that a lot," she quips back. does he ever say anything that isn't vile, horny, crass, or some twisted mix of all three? the thought of several nights ago, his lips hard and rough on her own in a display of animalistic dominance, still makes her skin crawl.

if he tries anything like that again, she'll do more than twist his jewels, and not in a way he'd appreciate it.

they fall silent. there is the calm before the storm, the swaying of dried grass, but as soon as he moves with intent, the match is struck. wildfire billows around them and freya dives headfirst into it.

she watches for the feint this time around. he's ruined her with it several times before. and though every part of her screams to dodge out of his way, she forces herself to wait. steels her nerves and poises with an archer's patience.

his stance changes and she nimbly leaps over his sweeping leg. she sinks into that instinct, acquisces control, and lashes out at his face with her hand.

KING WAYLAND

☉

her victory is won. she'd wanted to see him bleed. the rest, her survival, is just a bonus. she snaps back to attention, putting what space she can manage between the two of them, but he gives her little time to watch for his next move. 

they're still at arm's length. his shoulders square. he's upon her faster than he has any right to be, reaching for her in a way that spells disaster. a chokehold? a grapple? whatever it is, it's a cage, and she knows she's not strong enough to break out of it. 

so she scrambles backward, hating every second of it, knowing she's staving off the inevitable here. anger and frustration are a warmth alongside the exertion on her face.

KING WAYLAND

☉

he is drawing her in, making himself a plump and inviting meal for angry jaws to snap. for bones to crunch and blood to slake. the ravenous hunger inside of her, the incessant need for heat, makes her falter.

there is a cloying sensation in her throat. her nose. her eyes. a desire for action, gaze flickering to the door. king cannot provide her the meal she needs.

he will bleed her. he will hurt her. he will coax frim her the toxins inside her, unravel the madness that has become her mind. she cannot allow that to happen.

so as he encircles her, she goes rigid, and then she snarls, straining with what she can to get him off of her. legs shake. head jerks back. teeth flash, sinking into whatever she can reach, even if it's gnashing air.

her throat burns.

KING WAYLAND

☉

cut it out. but she can't. there's a bigger voice, spilling from cracks, coalescing in an angry storm of pink vitriol. her hands are claws and her breath is fire and she is less than she is, a violence contained in the flesh of a mortal. 

one hand on her throat. her shaking is brought to a halt. all of her muscles strain against him. teeth chatter. 

his voice slithers under the cloud of pink, touching something human. something real. a shadow of herself, cowering under the madness. 

tsk. 

a shiver goes down her side. 

there's nothing she can do so long as his legs have her pinned. her scrabbling is getting her nowhere. brute strength won't pull her out of this. 

is he as flexible as she is?

she turns her wrist, grasps his foot, and pulls up hard, leg swinging, hoping it might surprise him enough where she can roll out of his grip. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

she does not best him. and so her end will come, with a cracking of her neck in a town no one will think to look for her. as her lashes flutter, acquiescing, both parts of her revolt at the idea. static on her skin, every nerve quivering at the anticipation of her own demise. 

and then he shoves her away. 

her jaw tightens and she sits up. pale eyes crack open wearily. her brows are drawn in confusion, but the relief is plain on her face. it takes her a second to catch up to his words. 

he's helping me. 

there is no caution to her. not yet. she's still all mucked up inside. the pink infection squirms around, stringing together a false narrative in an attempt to command her away. away from this person. away from this man. 

he's dangerous, it whispers. 

that's why i'm here, she thinks. 

and then she's pouncing. he's too sturdy to be bowled over, but her legs wrap around him, arm encircling his throat. she forgets his other palm had been placed on her forehead; hers, she stretches over his abdomen, twinges, and says, in his ear, "go on. show me."

KING WAYLAND

☉

animalistic in nature, his growl is reminiscent of her own. she wonders flippantly if they are similar at all, but the thought evaporates when he calls her a mankey and threatens her with that sharl bite of his.

i don't have to like him, she reminds herself. i just need to learn.

and now that he's actually teaching her something useful, she's in a much better mood. there is some resistance from her, as he shifts her limbs and maneuvers her against him, but his vagrant remarks are absent. he shares wisdom she feels she hasn't earned and bites his words off with a rough laugh.

he will end you. he will kill you. he will finish you.

his laughter had signified the end of her need to stay strapped to his back like the aforementioned mankey. but she grips tighter, teeth grinding, waging a war she doesn't understand in her head.

until finally she releases him and rolls away, licking her lips.

"another one," she says. "please."

KING WAYLAND

☉

he gathers himself and she watches. his hands brush dust and dirt off of bare skin. her own clothes - the ones he'd given to her - are touched with their own part of the scuffle. she doesn't care to dust herself off. 

that pounding is still in her head. a barrier thrumming. tangible, for the first time, and her mind's fingers are poking and prodding at it. probing for a weakness. finding lacerations of guilt and warning in return. 

"i could care less about impressing you," she manages. her voice doesn't sound her own. 

he goes on the defensive and she hunkers low. two steps close the distance and she forces her gaze to stay trained on his own while she tries to sweep his legs. 

KING WAYLAND

☉