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The Spoils Of War

Glorymourn is the champion lady knight of a kingdom that has battled the King of All Monsters for years. A kingdom that has just lost the war. As payment for a peace treaty, the King of All Monsters demands her hand in marriage, and Glorymourn immediately formulates a plan to assassinate him on their wedding night, while he is distracted by consummating the marriage. This plan is rapidly complicated by the fact that Glorymourn is also very distracted by consummating the marriage.

Content notes: M/F pairing, mentions of gore, violence, and death, mildly dubious consent, coerced marriage, attempted/planned murder, eroticized violence, size difference, femdom, monsterfucking.

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Glorymourn is married in full plate armor, blood-spattered and wild-eyed. Her blade is broken, her kingdom broken. Half of her comrades are dead, and the rest kneel in the crowd, silent. The temple is crowded with them, with monsters and terrified men, reeking of sweat and fear. She'd barely had time to scrub her face with a damp rag before the ceremony started, and her hair is matted to her head from being kept in her helmet all day. The temple's not on fire anymore, at least. The niches of ancestral statues are soot-smudged, but undamaged, and the priest, pale-faced and trembling, stands underneath the largest niche, with the wedded gods.The Spoils Of War фото

Her groom arrives last, with a presence that shakes the earth. His footfalls make the temple shudder, grow quieter as he gets closer. When his massive, horned head comes through the doorway, it barely fits. He shrinks as he approaches the altar and his bride, letting him fit his shoulders through, his body, his clawed forearms. He is inside the temple, and he is now only twice the size of a man.   He rises from his prowling, six-legged gait, the great mass of him hauling itself into a shape with only two legs and two arms, broad shoulders, a torso like a barrel.   The air around him shifts, indistinctly, and cloaks him from view for a moment, and when he arrives at the altar, across from Glorymourn, he is more or less a man, clad in black wedding-clothes, seven feet tall. His skin is cracked red hide like a boar's, and the crown of horns on his head jut like broken ribs. His goat-eyes gleam yellow and terribly triumphant.

The dry click as the priest swallows seems deafening.

"We are here today," he starts, unevenly. "To unite these two individuals in matrimony under the eyes of the gods. What will you present, as symbols of your union? My lord, my lady?"

The King of Monsters reaches inside his wedding-tunic, pulling out something Glorymourn recognizes with the lurch of her stomach before her mind can fully comprehend it. Her fist closes around the hilt of her broken sword as the King silently offers her its twin, still stained with his own tarry ichor. She stares down at the steel, blackened and polished. It's been months since she had lost the blade inside the Monster King's heart. He took the blade she had nearly slain him with, and remade it in her image for a wedding-gift. Why?

Glorymourn says nothing. She does not thank him. She draws the hilt of the broken blade, and gives it to him. It's worth nothing to her now, and it is worth nothing to him except as an insult.

The King of All Monsters accepts it, gravely, trading her the intact sword. She lets it lie across her gauntlets' open palms, and watches, narrow-eyed, as the King tucks the hilt of the broken sword into the inside pocket of his coat with the careful hands of a lover with a token. Glorymourn looks up - far up - into the face of her groom, and sees that his mouth has split into something resembling a smile. His teeth are terrible to look at, sharp and jagged like a wild dog's.

"The gifts are given and received," the priest says. His hands are shaking as he raises the fine red cord. "Will you be bound into union, my lady, my lord?"

Glorymourn shifts the blade, awkwardly, so that she can put her bare right hand into the seething-hot hand of her groom and let the priest bind them with the silken cord.

"You are bound. You are one. You are wed," the priest says. The monsters erupt into gleeful cacaphony, raucous and laughing, and Glorymourn looks up at her husband and waits to die. She's close enough to the Monster King to smell him, a thick animal musk, and he smiles at her, and doesn't kill her.

That is his second mistake. The first was giving her a weapon. Glorymourn's numb panic starts to morph into something like a plan.

The world seems both very distant and vividly sharp. The procession of bride and groom down the parted aisle of monster-threatened brothers in arms. The princess, white-faced and her hem still soaked in her father's blood, swearing allegiance to the Monster King and his bride, trying to catch Glorymourn's eye as Glorymourn's vision refuses to focus on her. Time stills, skips, reels, and Glorymourn lets all of the numb horrors and indignities pass over her as she starts to assemble a strategy. She sheathes the sword at her hip and does not touch it, but the weight of it focuses her like a lodestone over iron filings. Aligns her in a singular, purposeful direction. Her heart pounds.

She feels the Monster King's hard gaze from the corner of her eye, examining and thoughtful. He knows her too well, she thinks, with cold clarity. He is too familiar with her war preparations, and so she will have to do something unexpected. Distract him, catch him off guard. He'd married her, had he not? And it had not been merely vengeance. This means something to him, and that means she has... something. Power, or leverage. Perhaps just knowledge. He is not the only one who has learned his enemy well.

"My wife," the Monster King murmurs. His voice curls, laughing, the way it does when she has done something  interesting. "What are you thinking?"

She considers this. "Husband," she says, and watches his face as she says it. Sees the flash of nightmare-fang, the gleam of his eyes. The way the slit pupils dilate wrong, like no goats' eyes do. He likes that. He wants that. She chooses her words carefully. "Take me home."

The eyes flash again, glowing, and for a moment the vastness of him threatens to spill out from the shape he has compressed himself into. She would not think of his person-form as small - over a foot taller than her and twice as broad - but for a moment, it seems far, far too small to contain him. The King of All Monsters says, very softly, "Is this the game that we are playing?"

Glorymourn doesn't respond, just reaches up and places a hand on his chest. Her hands are broad and scarred, but look small on the expanse of his chest. His breath stills. "It's our wedding night. Take me home."

The King of All Monsters groans, low in his throat. "As you wish."

He turns around, catches a monster by the arm, says something low to them in the ugly monster-tongue that Glorymourn knows perhaps twenty words of, and none of them in the sentence he says. The monster laughs, acquiesces, and the King releases them to go bounding purposefully off into the crowd.

The King takes a shuddering breath, and his hand, still bound to hers, flexes its claws. He pulls her close to him, pressed against his chest Glorymourn braces herself against the automatic pulse of revulsion, but to her surprise, it doesn't come. He's just warm, his smell a clean and animal smell, and his skin is rough but not unpleasant. Good. It will make this easier.

There is a tearing sound, the pull of darkness, a twisting sensation. Glorymourn keeps her eyes shut until it all settles, and when the Monster King releases her, they are somewhere new and strange. A dim room, with high, vaulted ceilings made of dark stone. There are small golden lights studding the walls, and furs strewn across the floor. Shining, gaudy trinkets hang on the walls.

Glorymourn steps out of the Monster King's arms, and he lets her go. She looks up into his eyes as she fumbles with the knotted ribbon around their wrists, and his eyes track her hands as she unties it, follow the motion of her hand as the ribbon drops, and she begins to undo her armor.

"Do you have anywhere where I can bathe?" she asks, buying time, giving herself a chance to think. "I didn't get a chance before the wedding."

It takes him a moment to respond. "I will show you."

He shows her into another room, one with a lightly steaming pool of water. Warm water, and so much of it. She gives her silent thanks to her good fortune in this. It makes it easier to take her armor off, even under his hungry eyes. Easier to shed her gambeson and her trousers, her undershirt, the layers covering her growing ever more revealing. Come now, she tells herself. You've been naked in front of more comrades than you can remember. But this is a war she is waging, and she wants her armor.

Glorymourn takes a deep breath, turns her back to the Monster King, and takes off her smallclothes as well, freeing her breasts and baring herself completely. The Monster King rumbles, low in his throat, and she steps deliberately into the water. Does not turn to look at him. Instead, she focuses on cleaning herself, taking her time about it. The hair on the back of her neck prickles and stands on end, feeling him look at her like it's a physical touch, and when she reaches down and cleans between her legs, he makes another rough little sound.

Glorymourn had thought it would be harder than this, hadn't known he wanted her this badly. If having her is the price he has placed on his life, then so be it.

"Will you not bathe, my husband?" she asks him, and finally turns to look at him. Her heartbeat spikes, her body snapping to attention with the sudden drumming of adrenaline. The King of All Monsters is no longer shaped like a man. He is not as vast as when he goes to war, but he has gotten larger, has dropped to all fours, yellow-eyed and sharp of tooth. He looks like he wants to snap her up in his jaws, wants to eat her in two bites and lick his chops after.

"I will," says the King, and prowls toward her. Glorymourn keeps her breath even, looks him in his terrible face. He does not touch her. He does not come within five feet of her, just slips into the water with a sigh, the surface rippling as it is displaced by his bulk. Blood drifts off him in muddy clouds, and he scrapes over his hide with his claws, dislodging more of it.

Glorymourn steps out of the way of one rust-colored swirl in the water, up the stairs that lead out of the pool. Water falls off her in sheets, and she rises until she is only thigh-deep in water. The Monster King has paused in his bathing, scenting the air. His eyes are half-lidded.

"Oh, my wife," he says, very low. It echoes in the bathing-chamber. "I want to taste you."

It takes her a moment to comprehend his meaning, her mind going to teeth embedded in her abdomen, then to him licking the blood off her hands, then to a kiss. Then she sees him looking at her, the dark patch of hair between her legs, and she understands. She looks carefully at his teeth. She would prefer his cock, honestly, though he's large enough she will likely strain to take him. She does not want his fangs near that artery in her thigh, does not want to give him the chance to kill her so easily.

"I don't think-"

"Hold your blade to my throat," says the Monster King, interrupting. His voice is not loud, but it is so intense that it stops her in her tracks, makes her breath catch.

"What?"

"I will have my weapons where you are vulnerable, so you shall have yours."

Glorymourn hesitates, weighing the risks. It will make things easier, if she has her blade to hand, if he is letting her rest it against the soft hollow of his throat. She will not be able to kill him while he has his mouth on her unless she wants to die horribly in the moment between her blade sinking in and his death - he will have too much time to bite down and tear - but it will let her have her blade for later. And he is the one to suggest it. Interesting.

"Yes," she decides. "Under that condition, then yes."

Monster King groans low in his throat, slipping up to her through the water. It ripples around his bulk, and his eyes gleam red. She steps back out of the pool, evading his grasp, and goes to retrieve her wedding gift. She presses her thumb lightly against the edge, feels that it is sharpened. Yes. This will do nicely. It's a hand-and-a-half sword, short enough to maneuver easily but long enough to give her some reach, the same comfortable fit of blade she has always carried. Again, that strange twinge of familiarity. The sword feels like an extension of her hand, and when she turns to look at the Monster King, for a moment she is back on the battlefield, her sword embedded three feet deep in his body as he drives himself down onto it, as his burning blood splatters her armor and his jaws part in bubbling laughter.

She blinks it away. She is not armored now. She is cold, naked to the skin, dripping water onto the stone floor, and the Monster King is crawling from the pool, eyes intent on her, growling and ravenous. He's terrifying. He's - fascinating. He desires her so desperately that it's intoxicating, despite everything between them.

"My wife," pleads the King of all Monsters. Pleads, like she is holding a jug of water in the desert. He is looking at her broad hips, stretch-marked and muscle-bound. Her thighs, hairy and thick around as a man's head. He looks at her, standing in a pose she uses most often on the battlefield, armed and ready for him, and his thoughts are of desire.

Well then. If he will betray himself to his death, then so be it. "You can have me in the bedchamber," she tells him. "I'm cold."

She turns on her heel and returns to the warmer room, lined with furs. His claws clatter on the stone as he follows her, his breath hard and heavy enough to stir the air. Glorymourn stands in the middle of the room with her back to him, buying herself a moment to figure out what to do next It's not that she's never fucked anyone before, but she's not accustomed to seduction. Her experience with sex is seeking out comrades before battle, stripping off just enough to let them get at her cunt so they can rut together like animals, relieve a little stress.

The Monster King approaches her, and she lets him, every sense screaming his location at her. She can feel his warmth, the heat of his breath, and prepares for him to press her down into the furs. Her shoulders tense, though she tries not to allow them to.

And then he lowers himself to the fur-covered floor, and she's so surprised she turns around to look at him, watches him roll himself over onto his back. He's large, half again her length and breadth, and his arms are something between a man's arms and the forelegs of a boar. His lips part, panting roughly, his eyes lidded, and he beckons her. Cautiously, she kneels beside him. The skin on her thigh prickles as he nuzzles into it, and her grip tightens on her sword.

"You have your blade," he murmurs. "Please."

It takes her a moment to grasp the logistics of what he is asking her, and then a moment more to figure out what to do about it. She takes a deep breath - is she really going to do this? - and straddles his face, looking down along the length of his body. Her grip shifts on her sword, holding it upraised with the point resting, lightly, on the hollow of his throat. She could kill him by simply bearing her weight down, and it would be a slow and choking death.

Glorymourn thinks about that, trying to avoid the excruciating consciousness of his breath fanning across her folds. Of how exposed she is, legs parted by the necessity of straddling him. How he's looking at her, face inches from her cunt. The muscles in her stomach are clenched so hard they burn, anticipating that first touch. Her head feels light, dizzy. She had been prepared to do this. She is not a coward. But this moment, where he looks at her, gives her every inch of the ferocious terror and defiance of facing the Monster King in war.

The Monster King's tongue drags over her, slow and rough, from her clit up between her folds and over her hole. His mouth is so hot her whole body flushes with warmth, and there's a spark of... something. The Monster King groans into her, and Glorymourn takes a careful breath, trying not to let it stutter. He does it again, faster this time, and the drag of it sends that spark through her again. This time he pauses to lap obscenely at her hole, and the feeling of it startles a gasp out of her. His tongue is something else, powerful and flexible and long.

She's getting aroused from this. Glorymourn's face burns with shame as the Monster King licks at her. She can tell the moment the Monster King tastes her traitorous wetness because he rumbles so low it buzzes in her thighs and licks into her, fast and shallow, savoring her slick on his tongue. Her clit aches, desiring touch despite herself. She breathes deep, humiliated. None will know but the King of Monsters, and he will be dead before he can reveal her secrets. And it is better for her if he thinks she enjoys it, that she is giving herself to him out of desire. There is nothing for her to feel ashamed of, but every stroke of his tongue makes her feel weak. Like he has some power over her.

The Monster King can clearly feel her clit swollen under his tongue with arousal, because he circles it with his tongue, rumbling again with that low triumph. She presses a little weight down on the sword, reminding him and herself that he is the one who is vulnerable, that she could slay him at any moment she chooses. He sighs like it's a caress instead of a threat. One big, clawed hand comes up to wrap around her thigh, press her harder back into his mouth. His tongue moves quicker over her clit, rougher, and it feels so good that it's insulting, pressure and friction right where she needs it. She makes a noise despite herself, airy and weak, and then growls, impotently furious.

Her grip on her sword hilt is so tight her shoulders ache with the strain. The Monster King laughs against her and then stops. Stops moving, stops licking her. Puts his tongue back into his mouth and is still. Is he finished with her, then? Just like that? After what he's done to her? She drags the tip of her blade up his throat, resting the point under his chin, so that he tips his head back. The motion puts friction on her clit where shes aching, painfully aroused.

"I'll make you come for me," the Monster King murmurs, and his lips brush against her folds. "Our secret, my wife. I won't breathe a word to another soul."

Glorymourn digs the blade in a little, sees a pinprick of blood well up under it. Her chest is heaving. "You will have no secret to keep."

He laughs, and groans, and then his mouth sets to work again with a vengeance. His tongue worms its way inside her, deep and thick, and the feeling of slick muscle stretching her makes her hiss and snap her hips down, biting the inside of her cheek. She rolls her hips in hard, erratic thrusts against his face, helpless to stop herself, grinding her clit into his chin and smearing wetness everywhere. His tongue flicks and curls inside her, slipping in and out, playing with the sensitive opening of her cunt,   and it's maddening. A jagged sound tears out of her throat, and she has to take a hand off her sword hilt to brace it against his chest, holding herself upright.

He laughs again, oozing self-satisfaction, and keeps licking into her. Glorymourn grinds her clit hard against him in tight little circles that stretch and pull at the tongue inside her, squeezes her eyes shut and clamps her thighs hard around the Monster King's head. The heavy sound of his breathing chokes off in a grunt, the movement of his tongue coming harder and quicker - he can suffocate for all she cares, she's so close. Glorymourn's body tenses, a bowstring drawn with the arrow quivering, and then releases. She comes, snarling.

 

When her body finally relaxes again, she slumps forward, panting, letting her thighs relax. The Monster King drags in a huge, rough breath as she lifts off him slightly, his tongue sliding out of her, and the breath comes out as a loud, low groan. Glorymourn looks down to see that her sword has slipped in the blindness of coming, is resting just to the side of the King's throat. A hot trickle of his blood drips onto her calf. When she lifts her hips off of his face, he reaches up, heavy-lidded and panting, and runs his fingers across the wound, playing with the cut edge. He holds his bloody fingers up in front of his eyes, and chuckles.

"Oh, my wife," he croons at her. "What a beast you are." He drags the bloody hand down the inside of her thigh, leaves a hot, red-black smear.

Glorymourn looks down at him between her parted thighs and considers killing him then and there. He's watching her right back, face wet and shining with her slick. She hesitates, her body pulsing through aftershocks. There's a vicious pleasure in contemplating his slaughter, though the pleasure of her husband's terrible tongue... complicates things. No. She will wait a little longer. He must be thoroughly distracted, and that means making him as desperate as he made her.

She stares down along the length of the Monster King's body, and frowns. She should have seen his cock by now. There's a bulge down at the join of his odd-jointed, bestial thighs, under the swell of his wide, hide-bound belly, but other than that, he has nothing. Interesting. Glorymourn crawls forward over the Monster King's body, lying almost fully on top of him, and strokes that bulge, experimentally. The King of All Monsters makes a guttural sound, and she feels something shift under his skin, twitch and go taut.

"Show me," she demands.

The King of All Monsters' voice is rough. "Your wish is my command." The skin splits under her hands, and out slides the King's cock, with a wet, obscene sound.

It's not particularly long, proportionately speaking, but when Glorymourn takes it in her hand, her fingers do not meet around the girth of it. There's strange, thick bumps on the shaft, and the head is wide, a blunt, pronounced mushroom-shape. It is larger than Glorymourn had expected, somehow, though she'd expected it to be large. She strokes it contemplatively, measuring it against the capacity of her cunt. She should probably just stroke him off rather than letting him fuck her like she had planned. Maybe use her mouth.

The King is watching her, propping himself up on his elbow. His taloned hand wraps around hers on his cock, strokes lazily. "Too much for you?" he asks, and his voice is too near laughter for her comfort.

"Of course not," Glorymourn snaps before she can think better of it, and lifts up onto her knees, reaching down to thrust fingers inside of herself, testing. She's soaking wet, looser than she'd been afraid she would be, worked open by his tongue. She can fit three fingers into herself without trouble, can work in her little finger if she tries, though the angle is awkward. She can probably get his cock inside her, even if her body protests, and if she is tight around him, then, well. She'd wanted him distracted.

Glorymourn lines herself up on top of him, rubbing the head of the Monster King's cock against her entrance, slicking it up. There's an unexpected stab of desire at the feeling of it, blunt and wide and huge, at the near-impossibility of what she wants her body to do. She wants it inside her, wants to feel it stretch her open so wide she nearly breaks but does not. She wants to see the Monster King's face when the head pops in and she's vice-tight around him, almost too small to be comfortable, and that wanting is strong enough that she raises up on her knees again, twists around on his lap to face him. Straddling his broad torso forces her thighs so wide it's a strain, spreads her open obscenely.

When she sees his expression, she stills, her hand on his cock. He is not smiling, does not have that unconcerned war-laughter on his face. He looks like he wants to take her to pieces and devour her, raw and struggling. Like he is barely restraining himself from pouncing on her and mounting her like an animal with his teeth in her throat. His throat is bleeding where she cut him, and the pupils of his goats-eyes are blown wide and black. His lips are peeled back, showing off just the points of his canines.

Glorymourn lowers herself down onto his cock, slowly, lets the head press against her entrance, starts trying to press it in, and the Monster King growls with a noise like he's in pain. His teeth are fully bared now, but Glorymourn can't pay attention for longer than a glance, looking down at the place where his cock pushes against her. She can't get it into her, the head too wide and blunt. She spreads herself open with her fingers, trying to get just the tip of his cock inside. She can take the whole thick shaft of it if she can only get the head in, if she can make it work. She bears down hard, relentless, as her entrance resists. Then there's a shift, and the head of his cock catches inside her with a stretch like nothing she's ever felt before. She cries out, small and breathless, finds it turning into a moan as something gives way, and the fat head of his cock pops inside.

It's just so much. There's so much of it, wiping away every thought, narrowing it all down to the stretch of her. She tries instinctively to clench down on the intrusion and can't. There's no room. She is filled up to the widest extent possible. It hurts, stinging in a way that tells her she'll be sore in the morning, but it's worth it for the way the Monster King collapses back onto his back, mouth opening silently, clawing the furs under them to shreds. His hips stutter like he wants to thrust the rest of the way into her at once. His breaths are harsh and short.

The rush of triumph is heady, and she works herself farther down onto his cock, forces the first bulge of it into her as well. It's not quite as wide as the head was, and she's got it inside her now. She just has to bear down, let the slick dripping out of her ease the way. Breathe deep through the stretch of her opening, the release and the fullness of it popping inside of her. It's going to be interesting getting it out of her, she thinks, dizzily. She laughs, strangled, and they both shudder at the shift of her body as she laughs, at the brief pressure.

"Oh, beloved," the Monster King says, and his voice is closer to a growl than to words, mangled and distorted. His eyes blink hard, out of sync, and his body keeps tensing and relaxing. She can feel his cock twitch inside her as he drags in a deep breath. "Is this how it will go?"

Glorymourn tries to parse that and fails, shifting her hips to press him in a little deeper. "What?"

"When you kill me," says the King of All Monsters, and his laugh is half a bark, half a sigh.

Glorymourn freezes. She had forgotten, somehow, just for a moment, her whole self caught up in the challenge of forcing him to fit inside her. She had cast her blade aside and thought of nothing but being filled. Now she looks down at the sword, within arm's reach, sees the King open and vulnerable and agonized with need, buried half inside her, and this would be the time to kill him. If not for the fact that, apparently, he knows.

She opens her mouth to lie to him, but cannot speak.

"Will you take up your blade and impale me on it with my cock still buried inside you?" he rumbles at her, like a flirtation. "Or will you wait until I come inside you, and allow me the gift of knowing you will walk away from my deathbed dripping with my spend?"

"Gods," Glorymourn says, horrified and, horribly, aroused.

"What a way to die. With the taste of you lingering on my tongue, and your body hot around me. What luck I have, my wife. I thought you would have my head off before you ever got undressed."

"You knew, then," she says, and the surreal nature of having this conversation while his cock is stretching her open, filling her up, is almost absurd. "And you married me anyway. You gave me a sword to slaughter you with."

"I won my war." The King of All Monsters shifts, and Glorymourn bucks her hips in instinctive response. She slides a little farther down on his cock, making them both groan. His voice is a little strained when he continues. "I fulfilled my purpose. I knew if I did not kill you, then you would kill me."

"You could have made my life the price of my people's safety, instead of a wedding you knew would end in blood."

"No," the King says. His voice is heavy with something too frightening to fathom. "I could not have."

Glorymourn stares at him, aching, bewildered. He sighs, and his hips press relentlessly up against her, and she gasps as his cock fills her, finally fully inside. She's taken all of it, feels like she's full up to her lungs, like there's no room in her body for anything but him, and she's breathless with the feeling of it, distracted. The Monster King wraps one enormous, clawed hand around her thigh, strokes the inside of her thigh with his thumb. It's a macabre display of tenderness, given the topic of conversation.

"My wife," he says, and his tone invites her to an unbearable intimacy. "To die on the end of your blade is  a glory to be envied by monster or man. To die belonging to you is my greatest longing. The ecstasy of your body? A gift beyond imagining."

She's shaking, her body pulsing around him. "You're insane."

"Cut my heart out," he murmurs, and she drags in a hard breath. "Slit my throat. Reach your small and vicious hands into my chest and break my ribs apart. Eat me alive, piece by piece, and I will die laughing. I could not abandon my purpose, any more than you. But we have reached the end of our war, beloved. Make an end of it."

"Damn you," she spits, incandescent with rage and a mix of confusing emotion, and lifts her hips up and slams them down again, hard and quick. The friction of his cock dragging halfway out of her and then thrusting back in, the stretch and pull of it, makes her whimper like a wounded animal. The Monster King's claws clench viciously against her thigh. They break skin, she thinks, feeling the sharp sting, the trickle of blood. She drags her fingernails down his chest in retaliation, as hard as she can, though her dull nails can't even raise welts on his thick hide. He groans like she's cut him open, though, and she thrusts against him again. "How dare you. I am not a weapon for you to use on yourself."

"My wife," he starts.

She interrupts him with a snarl. "My name is Glorymourn. You married me. Say my name."

"Glorymourn," he says, and it was a mistake to make him. The way his mouth curls around the name like it's a prayer makes her want to bite out his tongue. She thrusts against him instead, riding him hard, trying to shut him up. It's a double-edged sword, his cock punching tiny, gasping moans out of her every time she sinks back down and the bumps and bulges of it jolt past her entrance, even as he growls and rumbles and pants and writhes under her.

"I will destroy you." Her breath heaves in and out of her chest. She can feel sweat trickle down her back with the effort of riding him, her thighs starting to ache with the strain. "I will be the death of you. But only when I choose to. You do not get to decide the day or the hour or the means of your death."

"Glorymourn," he says again, faltering.

"Be silent. Be silent. Don't speak to me. You are a fool, and I will make your life a misery. You cannot escape me that easily."

His face is a terrible thing, cut-open and wondering and awed, like a man seeing his bride in her wedding-gown for the first time. She fucks him harder to make the look go away, but only strengthens it.

Eventually, his eyes shut, and his head tips back, and his mouth splits in a grin so wide and terrible and full of teeth that it looks like a threat. "You will be a marvelous queen."

Glorymourn has no idea how to respond, so she doesn't, just focuses on riding him, on the build of heat in her gut with every drag of friction and pressure inside her. She leans forward to brace herself on her hands, trying to get some pressure off her aching thighs, and the change in position makes her almost crumple, gasping, his cock pressing hard into a sensitive spot inside her. It's hard to keep up the rhythm of things, her thighs sore, her arms shaking, but she refuses to slow, to weaken.

The Monster King's hand moves between her legs, his knuckles rubbing roughly over her clit, and within moments she feels her body start to tighten up, her arousal coiling. She keeps riding him even as she comes, biting her lip so hard she tastes coppery blood.

The contractions of her body around the cock inside her are overwhelming, make it seem somehow even larger inside her, and the Monster King groans, thrusting up into her. His cock pulses inside her, and she sucks in a breath as she feels him come inside her, hot liquid filling her. She shudders with the aftershocks of coming, bent nearly double over him as he growls and purrs terrible endearments at her, until finally he's finished, his cock softening inside her.

Glorymourn pulls herself off of him with an effort, her body seeming reluctant to release his cock. As the head pops free, she can feel his come trickle out of her, filthy and embarrassing. The Monster King's eyes are locked between her thighs, half-hooded and interested, and he reaches out to swipe a proprietary thumb through the trail of his own come.

"Beautiful," he says.

"You disgust me." She stands, stalks back off toward the bathing chamber on wobbly legs. Behind her, she hears the Monster King laugh, sigh, a sound so openly joyful that she can't help but feel a spark of warmth. She tries to smother it, but can't quite manage it, not with the pulse of her own pleasure still running through her, the fading adrenaline. The entire lower half of her body is sore, but it's the kind of sore that feels like a triumph.

When she returns from the bathing chamber, cleaner, calmer, she finds her husband curled up, asleep. He's smiling, a few jagged teeth visible, his tail tucked around his thigh. One eye cracks open when she approaches, and then slides shut again. He shifts, silently opening up a space for her to tuck herself in beside him, and she stands over him, looking down at him for a long moment. She could kill him now, she knows. But she could always kill him in the morning. Or a week, a month, a year from now, when he thinks he has won her. When he least expects it.

Glorymourn lies down beside her husband, the warmth of his body pleasant on her damp skin, and he shifts to wrap an arm around her. She has an image, sudden and unwanted, of a decade from now, two, both of them older and stronger and scarred and content, sleeping like this, and it is... terrifying. Is that what she has promised him? Is that what will happen?

No. Surely she will kill him before then. The thought is comforting. She closes her eyes and goes to sleep.

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