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The sword of dawn pierces the air and shatters over bloodstained earth. Mikasa flicks off the slick red coating her sword, silver metal singing as steel slides into lacquered wooden sheathe. Veins of crimson dribbles down, one drop after another; the blood of the slain etches a beautiful, cruel river in cracked, parched soil. Let the dead nourish the living, Mikasa thinks, eyes closed in a hopeless prayer.
Through the oppressive quiet, humming through the air that laid as still as the corpses piled at her feet, the sunlight breathes an aria of reprieve.
The war is over, it sings.
.
.
.
And it is.
For her queen, for Historia Reiss, Mikasa makes it so.
.
.
.
A traitor, her enemies curse. Eyes of condemnation, betrayal, fear. But she has never even stepped foot in Hiruzuan territory. Their crest stains her wrist, charcoal ink engraves itself in her skin, but it is not hers. Crossed swords and a rising sun—an unwanted inheritance. She bears their features in her face, their language in her name, but she does not know them. So how can she be a traitor to a land she does not know?
A foreigner, her allies whisper. Eyes of suspicion, distrust, fear. But she has lived, breathed in Paradis all her life. She has bled for for Paradis, killed for Paradis, would die for Paradis. Her shadow has danced through its lush meadows, her tongue has tasted its sweet mountain waters, her memory has grown roots into its dark, rich soil. So how can she be a foreigner to the only land she knows?
A duty to a nation she inherited but does not love, a duty to another nation that does not want her. So Mikasa does not know herself—cannot, when half of Hizuru and half of Paradis flows through her arteries, warring and tearing herself in half.
And then there is Historia.
.
.
.
By the time the army return to Mitras, the news has spread far and wide, engulfing the nation in a wildfire of fervour. Silently trailing behind Commander Erwin, Mikasa returns home, accompanied by the head of the Hizuruan general.
They parade it through the cheering streets. A merciless, unnecessary cruelty, but it brings hope to the downtrodden people of the small Paradis nation. Sends a grave enough warning for Hizuru. Keep away, it says. Savage cheers echo through all the districts, from the poorest farmer to the richest nobleman, and for a moment, Mikasa sees the battlefield once more, before the sunlight chases the delusion away.
Too many lives have been lost for compassion. Too many for mercy.
Tired the soldiers’ bodies may be after relentless marching, but their spirits remain high. Eren wears triumph on his face, Armin less so but still smiling, while Mikasa herself feels…nothing. Nothing but weariness.
Levi must have sensed her restlessness; he looks her at her with a gaze far too knowing. “Stop moving around so much, idiot,” he says, familiar scowl worn over his face. “You’ll make your wounds worse.” Voice half-worried, half-biting. On the edge of scolding like a mother hen, as the rest of the soldiers like to joke, though they would never say to to the captain’s face. With a grunt, Levi’s gaze sweeps over the roaring crowd. “Smells like blood and piss here. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Erwin and four-eyes’ nagging. ‘You’ll enjoy it,’ my ass,” he muttered. Adds on quietly, “Never wanted to be a war hero.”
“I know,” she says softly. Mikasa understands his bitter sentiment—feels a little less lost at his words. Glory is not what she had sought when she left the capital to join the campaign. It had been duty. An oath to protect.
“Gonna leave, then?” Levi says.
Mikasa hesitates. She’s a soldier, but she had been trained as more than one of the barrack. Eren and Armin serve the nation; Mikasa serves its ruler. A queen’s guard—only now she’s queenless. The thought is worrying; Historia’s sudden rise had not been a peaceful one, and assassinations, while uncommon, were not unheard of. “May I?” she says.
He rolls his eyes at her request. “Not like I can stop you.” It’s true; Mikasa is under only no one’s jurisdiction except Historia. She’s only here on the queen’s command, as a special entity. A wild card. And it had paid off—no one expected Mikasa’s blade in the night. Levi adds, “Even if I could, you wouldn’t listen, would you?”
Mikasa shakes her head ruefully. “No.”
“Exactly,” Levi says, disgusted to see his point made clear, though the smallest of fondness peeks through, if one knew the right way to listen to his caustic words. “So get out of here, you gloomy brat. I’ll tell your friends the news.”
“Thank you, Captain Levi,” she says. It’s ironic that their relations began so rocky—Mikasa had been more than unhappy at his harsh treatment of Eren, though Eren’s own impulsiveness and stubborn attitude hadn’t helped Levi’s strict and painful teachings—but now, it seems Levi is the only one who understands Mikasa.
“You owe me one.” Levi rubs his temples, as if preparing for an oncoming headache. Mikasa looks down, feeling a bit guilty knowing what he’s going to face. Eren and Armin have always become a bit too overprotective since her kidnapping, even after she’s found her way back to them as Historia’s guard. Levi continues, “I’ll have to deal with their whining in your stead. Especially Jaeger’s. How the kid can be so obnoxiously loud at times, I’ll never understand. Reminds me of shitty four-eyes. No wonder they get along so well.”
“I won’t forget,” Mikasa says, letting out a small smile.
“Better not,” he says. Pauses a little, the background shouting almost overpowering his next words. “…Hey, brat?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to take care of yourself, all right?” he says under his breath, a rush of exhale, as if afraid to be heard.
“I won’t.”
“Right,” he grunts, looking a bit skeptical. But he doesn’t push.
So, with Levi’s help, while the army is busy showing off its spoils of war—tainted by the copper scent of the unliving that makes her sick to her stomach—Mikasa slips away. They won’t notice her. They never care enough to notice. And if they do, when she glides through the marbled floors of the palace, it is always with silent nods of acknowledgement.
The palace is not just a part of Paradis. It is also Historia’s domain, and none dare to disrespect Mikasa here. There is no shifty eyes, no biting remarks. She asks the maids scurrying around, and they all give her the same answer: the queen has taken to her chambers.
The route itself is a familiar one, muscle memory tugging her from wide-open palace gates to shut bedchamber door. Mikasa stands outside the wooden barrier between her and her liege; takes a too-sharp breath in anxious anticipation and almost winces at the sharp pain stabbing her ribs. But she has a duty to accomplish, and she will not be stopped until it’s fulfilled.
A sharp rap of her knuckles against stained wood echos in the hallway. One second, two second, and then, thankfully, a soft voice. “Come in,” Mikasa hears.
The door creaks open with a yawn, and Mikasa steps through the threshold, yearning in her lungs. She pushes the door close behind her, quiet and slow, and moves with calculated steps. One. Two. Three. Stops right behind a vanity, her reflection staring back at her in the large mirror. Historia is there too. “I have returned, Your Majesty.”
“So you have,” murmurs Historia, setting down the brush in her hand on the vanity.
Queen Historia. Golden hair glitters in the sunlight filtering through the windows of the balcony as sapphire blue eyes sweep over Mikasa’s figure. Mikasa almost reflexively closes her eyes. She’s so bright it hurts. Besides her radiance, Mikasa feels a shadowy spectre.
“You came early,” Historia says. “I had been preparing for the welcoming ceremony this night, expecting your presence then.”
“I was worried about you,” Mikasa says.
“Oh.” Historia smiles. “I won’t pretend I’m not happy to see you. You have been dearly missed.”
Mikasa does not know how to answer such a blunt admission. Her cheeks heat, and she prays it does not show on her face. “Where’s Kenny?” she asks, shifting the conversation. Steps closer to Historia, picks up the brush and begins to comb through her hair. Fine, golden strands slip between dark wooden teeth. A steady routine, to calm Mikasa’s nerves, and Historia leans into her touch, allowing it. Mikasa continues, voice a bit scornful, “He should be outside the door.”
Kenny Ackerman, retired guard of the late King Uri.
I’ve left that job behind. I won’t fight for this shitty country, no matter how much you pay me, Kenny Ackerman had said, cackling as Mikasa and Levi asked for his help in the operation. But when she invoked Uri’s name, remembering Historia’s advice, his demeanour stiffened. Fine. I won’t win your war for you, but I’ll protect the girl—if only because she’s Uri’s.
If Kenny would not take part in the frontlines, then Mikasa must. But if she must march to war, then someone must guard the queen, and the only person whose abilities—whose loyalty—she trusted were that of an Ackerman’s. But Kenny’s not here.
“I dismissed him once I heard the war was over,” Historia says dismissively.
Mikasa frowns. “You should not have done that,” she informs her, trying not to scold. “What if something had happened before I came back?”
“Then I’m glad you came back in time,” her queen says cheekily.
“Your Majesty!” Mikasa says firmly.
“I’m only kidding, Mikasa.” Historia smiles, but Mikasa’s frown does not disappear. “He wouldn’t listen to me—you know that. He was outside the door last I checked, but left when he noticed you. Told me, ‘ Your knight in shining armour is back, little queen. I’m done here,’” Historia quotes. “Quite a funny man, that Kenny Ackerman.”
Mikasa hadn’t even seen nor felt his presence before he disappeared. The man was skilled. Dangerously so, she muses, deft hands absentmindedly waving through soft hair that shimmered like spun gold.
Historia pauses. “So…how are you feeling?”
“Fine, Your Majesty,” Mikasa answers automatically, blinking blankly—but her hands fumble, almost jerking Historia’s hair as she’s tucking loose strands into a bun. For a second, she had seen bloody fingers against golden hair, but another blink, and the image is gone. She suppresses a shudder.
In the mirror, her queen’s gaze burn as she observes Mikasa’s reflection. Historia presses, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Then will you tell me happened to you?”
A diversionary tactic, executed to perfection. While the Hizuruans were distracted with watching for front line attacks, Mikasa had slipped into their camp from behind, where she knew the war meeting had been. No one had expected the queen’s lapdog to be out of the capital, and coupled with the deliberately loud neighing of horses in the dark night, all of the night watch’s attention had been on preparing for defense against Levi’s elite cavalry squad.
It was a mistake. And for it, she had slit their throats, flesh as soft as ripe peaches beneath Paradisian steel. An Ackerman was worth a hundred men, and Mikasa had been living proof that night. With their chain of command disrupted, their soldiers were thrown into disarray, and the Paradisian troops had smashed through the Hizuru lines, easy and clean. The invading Hizuru army may have been bigger in number, but Paradisians fought savage and dirty—they fought for their lives. Rivers of warm blood had ran their course that day, begun and ended as crimson burst from bodies after bodies, before the dawn came to settle over cold, stiff corpses. But she won’t speak this story to her queen.
“The commander’s strategy went exactly according to plan,” she says lightly, hoping it would appease her queen. Hoping that would be the end of it.
Historia isn’t looking in the mirror anymore. “Mikasa…” she says, standing up, fingers hesitantly reaching out.
Mikasa backs away. Squeezes her eyes shut. Swallows the urge to flee. “I’m fine, Your Majesty—”
“Enough. Don’t say that.”
Mikasa stiffens at her harsh tone. Drops to the ground and kneels so fast that it rips the air out of her lungs. A reflex. Muscles tense, ready to spring into action, and the stitches of her wound stretch, pain blooming in her abdomen, but Mikasa does not wince. But she does take a ragged breath. “I apologize, Your Majesty.”
Historia softens her tone. “Please. In here, you need not be my sword. Nor my shield. You know I have never asked for such a thing. Do not force that burden on yourself.”
I welcome the burden, she wants to tell her. For you, I will. Mikasa hangs her head, stares into the floor. She never was too good with words; she didn’t have Eren’s passion for rousing speeches nor Armin’s quick-wit for clever conversations. And right now now, she so desperately wishes she knew the right sentences to say.
Mikasa would do anything to please Historia—anything—but to be so vulnerable…
She’s not sure she knows how. Not anymore. Not since she had been twelve, in that cage, as all of her humanity had been stripped away by the crowd. Since the, she’s built herself back up, brick by brick, raised a barricade against… Against what? “Your Majesty,” Mikasa says, her own hollow voice echoing in her ears.
“Historia. My name is Historia,” her queen says quietly, an undercurrent of pleading. Reaches out her arm once more and splays the back of her fingers on Mikasa’s face, as gentle as the dawn’s light.
Mikasa jolts, feeling as if a lightning bolt has struck itself through her heart. Feeling as if she’s been stung by sunlight. Feels as if she will weep. Historia. A name given freely, but Mikasa is not worthy of it. Pores over it, syllables whispered in the darkness, but never had the courage to utter it into existence.
“Look at me, Mikasa.”
She raises her head.
It is a mistake.
Historia smiles, sad and knowing, and against the blinding grace of her understanding, Mikasa can’t breathe.
“My name,” Historia repeats, “is Historia. It’s been eight years. Eight long years, but never once have you said it. Will you say it now?”
Mikasa bites her lips and shakes her head, dizzy with an overwhelming panic. “Your Majesty,” she croaks, vision hazy, gold and blue blurring together. “I…”
Words are coming out of her moving mouth, but she can’t hear them. The pain in her ribs pulse. Something must be wrong, because Historia is calling out, “Mikasa—!”
And then the world goes dark.
.
.
.
When Mikasa comes to, groaning, she’s lying on a bed, sinking into the soft mattress.
“You’re awake!” Historia peers over her face, eyes inches away. Mikasa can feel her breath on her skin and does not dare to move. She resists the urge to blush, though the heat in her cheeks tells her she hasn’t succeeded. “You being awake will make it easier,” Historia says absentmindedly.
Mikasa pushes herself up, wincing. “Easier?”
“You haven’t realized?” Historia asks, astonished. “You’re bleeding, Mikasa!”
“Oh,” Mikasa says dumbly. Touches where the pain is radiating and sees red on her fingerpads. With a growing horror, she realizes she’s on Historia’s bed. Immediately, she tries to propel herself off, stuttered apologies on her tongue, but Historia won’t have any of it.
“You’re worried about the sheets, at a time like this?” she says, exasperated.
“But—”
“Just stop moving,” Historia demands. “You’re going to make it worse.” Mikasa stills, and Historia nods, satisfied.
“Take off your tunic. I need to see how bad it is. We’ll call a doctor if needed.”
Dumbly, Mikasa obeys, already peeling up the bloodstained cloth, unravelling bandages to reveal an oozing, puckered wound, parts of the sutures almost coming undone. The air breathes over the moist wound, bringing blessed cool against hot skin. She feels naked under Historia’s appraising gaze.
Historia sighs. “Luckily, the stitches haven’t ripped. The wound just needs to be dressed again.” She grabs the bottle of alcohol off the vanity and pours the clear liquid over white gauze.
“I’ll do it myself,” Mikasa starts, but stops when Historia aims a stare at her, proud and regal.
“Let me do this for you. You have given me so much; it is only right.”
You’ve given me far more. She saved Mikasa from that hell, the cage and jeering and bidding, numbers crawling higher and higher—a price on a human life. A debt that cannot be repaid. But if dressing her wound is what her queen wants, Mikasa cannot refuse her.
“This is going to hurt,” Historia warns, and then begins lightly dabbing away at the blood.
Mikasa doesn’t hiss at the sting of alcohol. Merely stares, wide-eyed at golden hair, a little bit of frazzle from flyaway strands. The arteries in her abdomen throbs, lines and lines of pain stitched in sore muscles. And when all the blood has been soaked up in white linen cloth, Historia’s delicate fingers pause over the unmarred skin of her waist, an almost-touch as light as the breath of a warm, summer breeze.
Mikasa holds her breath. A thousand wishes running in her mind, but none that she can put words to. Just a hollow, deep longing in her ribs—a gaping wound. She fears that Historia would touch her. Fears that she would not.
After an eternity of stillness, time begins flowing once again; Historia is the first to move, as she begins to wrap a clean cloth around Mikasa’s torso. “Thank you,” Mikasa murmurs. “You didn’t have to.”
“But I wanted to,” Historia says. And as she finishes tying up the bandage, she says suddenly, “I had a friend once, when I was young. Her name was Ymir. You’ll never guess how we met.”
Mikasa blinks. “Oh?”
“In the kitchen, stealing food.” Historia smiles wryly. “A little princess and a little thief, but we were the same eight-year-olds stealing to survive in this empty, lifeless palace. Life wasn’t always so easy before I was queen.”
Mikasa knows the story: a forgotten illegitimate princess rising to power after an unfortunate accident killed the rest of her family. A boating accident, said the official proclamation, but everyone knew it must have been an assassination—not that anyone had protested the situation. King Roderick Reiss had been as cowardly as King Uri had been great. Two brothers; one gone too soon, one gone not soon enough, it was said.
But the lack of heirs had been an issue. Of Roderick’s five legitimate children, none survived the waters. Only the ten-year-old Historia remained. She had been left behind. So Historia had bloodlessly inherited the crown—
And with it came poisonous plots and assassinations.
Historia continues, “Do you know what Ymir said, when she happened upon me in the darkness of the kitchen?” She chuckles. “‘I pity you,’ she told me. A poor orphan girl, pitying a princess. ‘Because you’re not living for yourself,’ she said.”
“I don’t understand.”
Historia’s half-lidded eyes burn into Mikasa. “Neither did I, until my father died. Until Freida died, and the last thing she had told me, before leaving for that trip, had been to ‘live well, under any circumstances.’ I always thought she had something to do with the accident.”
Mikasa blinks. “Lady Freida?”
Historia shrugs. “Whatever it was, I knew it to be her choice. I could not fault her for it, but it made me realize the truth of Ymir’s words. All my life, decisions were made for me. Even Freida, with her good intentions, had not been different. Ymir had saw and predicted what I could not.”
She rests her hand onto Mikasa’s clenched fist. Delicate, slow, she unfurls it to reveal vulnerable open palm. Mikasa does not protest. Lets Historia stroke the callouses, built over years and years of sword-wielding.
“Ymir left soon after my coronation to chase her own fate. She said I should come with her. That I should live for myself. I refused. The people’s will were too heavy for a ten-year-old child to be strong enough to discard.”
“Do you regret it? Not following Ymir?” Her voice is tremulous to her ears.
Historia hums. “No,” she says. “Because afterwards, I met you. Do you remember it?”
Mikasa remembers it. Remembers it all too well. A black market, where a price can be put on anything, from assassination marks to people. Even a small girl, ripped from her family for her “exotic” Hizuruan features—had spat the words out when they killed her mother. Then they took her, a small girl, despondent and cold.
They hadn’t known she was an Ackerman. Her father had wanted nothing to do with the clan. Their obsession with keeping the bloodline pure meant her mother was met with nothing but scorn. Her father had the last laugh though; their clan dwindled with each year, with half-born children that never survived long. And then the final nail in the coffin: a disease. It rippled through the clan compound, and none were left save Kenny and Levi, who had scorned and left the clan long ago.
But at that time, Mikasa knew nothing about the Ackermans. All she knew was that her father and mother laid in their homes in a puddle of blood, cold and unmoving. So she laid there, blindfolded and shackled, waiting for no one but the dead. And then, when the numbers rose higher and higher, her heart colder and colder, Historia’s voice echoed. A child’s voice still. No. That’s enough. I will not have this under my rule.
The auction house had fallen silent. Mikasa’s heart had thrummed so quick, her whole body shook.
And then all hell had broken loose.
“We had tracked an assassin-for-hire to that particular black market, and I had insisted on coming; Erwin must have had a field day, trying to keep me safe. But it was something I had to do; I had been so lost as a child, wearing a crown I did not know how to wield. I wanted to see for myself, the man who wanted me dead,” Historia says. “And on that day, when I first saw you, shackled and bound…it was like looking into a mirror. We were the same. Right then and there, I made a promise: you would not suffer the same fate as me. You would be free.”
“You saved me, Your Majesty,” Mikasa says softly. “It is I who should be promising you.” And Mikasa did. My sword, my life, all of it is yours until death, she’d pledged.
“I owe you so much more than just bandaging your wounds.” Historia slides her hand up Mikasa’s arm, from palm to wrist to shoulder. Goosebumps rise beneath the path of her touch. Mikasa stills. “Your hands…they have killed for me, haven’t they? Even when I promised you shall be able to make your own choice, I have bound you to me. I have forced you to wield your sword against your own blood.”
“Of my own volition,” Mikasa says fiercely. Bloodstained her hands may be, but there is no regret. “You have not forced me into anything. My place is beside you. My blade is yours.” My life is yours.
“Nevertheless, I am sorry,” Historia says. “You should have been a normal girl, living a normal life. But you’re out here, fighting my battles. Forgive me.”
“I had nothing left when you first found me,” Mikasa says firmly. “You gave me a purpose in life, Your Majesty.” Half-Hizuru, half-Paradis, yet Mikasa belonged nowhere. But Historia had brought Mikasa into her household and gifted her bloody retribution.
She will never forget. The panicked screams in the auction house as the military brigade made themselves known. The blue of Historia’s eyes underneath the dim light of the stage. The fiery glow of Historia’s hair in the fire when they set the auction house ablaze, the two of them watching it all burn to ash. Historia had given Mikasa more than she could possibly know.
“Eight years you have served me, and you have never asked for anything. Is there nothing you desire?” Historia asks.
You. The truth is stuck on her tongue. Historia looks at her expectantly, eyes glinting, but Mikasa shakes her head. “No,” she lies.
“That’s too bad,” Historia says, and her arm slips off Mikasa’s shoulders, brushing briefly against Mikasa’s neck. “I would have given you anything you asked for. Anything,” she emphasizes, the remnants of her touch as delicate as a butterfly dance on Mikasa’s collarbone.
Mikasa swallows. Licks her dry lips. Opens her mouth and then closes it. Mikasa has dreamt about it before: a field of golden wheat, under a bright blue sky, Historia’s colours blurring into the horizon, and Mikasa in her hand. But that is not here nor now. “We will need to redo your hair,” Mikasa croaks. “It has come loose.”
“Leave it. The ceremony is quite a while off.” Historia does not offer Mikasa any mercy. “I’ll ask again. Is there anything you want from me?”
A battle of wills between their eyes, stormy grey clouds against sunlit blue skies. A war in Mikasa’s heart, and Historia is the victor of all. The bricks of Mikasa’s walls lay scattered in the battlefield between them.
So this is how Mikasa falls: an autumn leaf, stuttering before its surrender to the merciless winter wind. A trembling stalk of grass to gentle wildfire. Mikasa to Historia.
“…You,” she says hoarsely, the earth crumbling beneath her. “Just you.” Always you. She looks down, afraid to meet her queen’s eyes—afraid to say more than she should. There’s a familiar sense of shame rising in her throat. The secret she’s hidden into the deepest recess of her mind now lies between them, exposed. Her heart aches. A fragile thing, ready to shatter with just a word from Historia’s lips.
But it does not shatter, because Historia lifts her chin with a firm hand. “Then you will have me,” she says. Leans in, slow and steady—and Mikasa, eyes wide, is there to meet her. The kiss is tender but unsure; it is the both of them, learning love together. Mikasa closes her eyes. Gasps into Historia’s mouth. Lets Historia tangle her hand in Mikasa’s hair. Lets Historia push her trembling body into the sheets.
The separation of their lips is drawn out, unwilling, the both of them out of breath but desperate for more. “You have me,” Historia whispers. Her hair has come undone, a glorious waterfall of molten gold over white gown. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Yes,” Mikasa chokes out, desire heavy on her tongue as she resists the urge to pull the queen back down for another kiss. “Yes, Your Majesty. Whatever you wish.”
Historia frowns. “That is not…” But then her face smooths over, a devious gleam in her eyes. “Will you let me try something?”
“Anything,” whispers Mikasa, aching for more.
Historia dips her head down, blonde hair fanning Mikasa’s face as she kisses Mikasa again, once on the corner of her eyes, once on the corner of her mouth, and when Mikasa arches into her, she kisses Mikasa right on her lips, blunt teeth scraping against soft flesh.
When Mikasa’s hands land on Historia’s waist, she pushes them away. “No,” she breathes, warm air puffing onto Mikasa’s skin. “Lie down. Do not move. Let me take care of you.”
“How—?” Mikasa says, confused, but does lays her hand on the bed as Historia says.
“You’ll see,” Historia interrupts. “But first, we’ll have to take your clothes off.” They manage somehow, Mikasa helping along Historia’s quick fingers, and everything is shucked off without difficulty, though they take care not to aggravate Mikasa’s wound.
Mikasa blushes when her undergarments come off, rosy nipples hardening in the cool air, and fights the urge to flee when Historia looks with interest at the slickness coating her folds. “Already?” Historia says.
Mikasa squirms under her gaze, and swallows before nodding hesitantly.
“Good,” Historia says, eyes half-lidded.
“Are you—” Mikasa hesitates, but decides to ask anyway. “Are you going to…take your dress off?”
Historia shakes her head. “Trust me, Mikasa,” she says.
“Okay,” Mikasa says quietly, stamping down her disappointment.
“Don’t worry,” Historia whispers, before landing a kiss against her neck. “It’s a reward for being honest with me. For being mine.”
The air simmers. Mine, her queen said, and Mikasa gives another wordless nod, throat dry, feeling so very vulnerable underneath Historia’s appraising gaze.
Cold fingers brush up against a hard nipple, and Mikasa shivers. Historia kisses it, tongue flicking out to coat the peak with saliva, before twirling it between her fingers.
“Harder,” Mikasa begs involuntarily, arching up against her smaller body. “Please!”
Historia clicks her tongue, smooths warm palms over her hips. Mikasa’s muscles jump under her touch. “That won’t do. Can you keep still, Mikasa?”
“I—” She’s about to protest, but at Historia’s smile, Mikasa chokes out, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Historia gives a satisfied hum, and returns to her breasts, kneading into soft skin, harder, just like Mikasa had wanted. Gives a harsh bite at times when Mikasa can’t stop moving, and grins into her skin at her whines.
“You’re doing so well,” Historia croons, and then she moves down to the junction between Mikasa’s thighs. Traces a meandering finger over the slickness, coating her digit, all the while Mikasa bites her lips to hold back her sobs. “Don’t hold back,” she says. Demands. “I want to hear you.”
Something is sizzling in Mikasa’s veins, and it burns even hotter at Historia’s words. Desire, desire, desire. “Please,” Mikasa says, eyes blurry. “I want you to…”
“To what?” Historia says, fingers still moving in that cruel, light pattern, circling around her clit. A touch not quite there.
“Please—touch me,” Mikasa begs.
“You’ll have to show me where,” Historia murmurs, and Mikasa gasps her frantic agreement. She lets Mikasa grab her fingers to finally rub her clit, the muscles in Mikasa’s thighs twitching involuntarily at the contact. “You’re pretty here,” she says, an intense look in her blue eyes as she gazes at Mikasa’s cunt. Mikasa is even more embarrassed that she thought possible, but somehow, the heat in Historia’s eyes adds to the pleasure. The thought that her queen found her pleasing is something Mikasa has wished, for a long, long time.
Historia pulls away suddenly from Mikasa’s grip, but Mikasa’s protests at the loss are cut short when Historia thumbs at her clit with a harsh, violent press. And when she dips a finger into Mikasa’s folds, Mikasa can’t help but jolt up against it. “Be still. Remember?” Historia scolds with a playful arch of her brow.
“How can I—” Mikasa chokes, but her hips settle back on the sheets. Historia stops her cruel teasing after that, finally sliding her finger back into Mikasa’s cunt, thrusts in and out in a steady rhythm as Mikasa’s moans get louder and louder. Then a second finger joins in, while Historia’s other hand is holding Mikasa’s hips down in a tight, almost-bruising hold.
The pleasure is fizzling, building up into a crescendo that matches Mikasa’s cries. But before she reaches the peak, Historia slows her movements, much to Mikasa’s chagrin.
“Your Majesty,” Mikasa begs, a futile grind against Historia’s unmoving hand, but it doesn’t reach the right spot she needs to finish. A frustrated growl almost makes it out before she tampers it down.
“No,” Historia says, dark amusement in her voice. She leans down and nips at Mikasa’s inner thigh, sharp teeth sinking into soft flesh. Whispers into Mikasa’s dripping cunt, hot breath puffing into damp skin, “What’s my name, Mikasa?”
Cruel. Her queen is so cruel. “Historia,” Mikasa whispers, almost sobbing when Historia finally resumes the lazy thrust of her fingers, in and out. Slow and steady. “Historia, Historia,” she babbles endlessly, mind hazy with desire as Historia moves faster and faster. With a quick, dirty thrust of Historia’s finger, as she rubs against clenching walls, Mikasa clenches her eyes shut, sees nothing but gold and blue lightning as she comes with a strangled gasp.
For a moment, silence, as Mikasa recovers her bearing, until the world stops tilting. “You’re beautiful,” Historia says absentmindedly, hands wandering over Mikasa’s skin, gently massaging the light marks she left behind with her teeth.
The desire settles into a pleasant buzz under her skin. “Um, Your Majesty, Historia, do you want me to…” Mikasa trails off, blushing.
Historia smiles when Mikasa says her name. “No. After the ceremony tonight, maybe.”
Oh. She blushes. But then she’s reminded. The welcoming ceremony! Mikasa sits up suddenly, trying to gather her frenzied thoughts. “Your hair, your dress, it’s all a mess,” Mikasa mumbles frantically, trying to calculate how long they have to get ready.
“You worry too much,” Historia says indulgently. “We have time. I checked. Besides, I have spare dresses, and we can go with a simpler hairstyle. Take it easy.” She pushes Mikasa down, and Mikasa sighs, but obeys and relaxes into her embrace, lulled to drowsiness by Historia’s hums.
As Historia is stroking Mikasa’s hair, pale skin against strands of ink, she asks, “How long?”
Mikasa sighs. Closes her eyes and sees the sparks of fire lighting Historia’s head. A crown of fire. A halo. “When you ordered the auction house to be set on fire,” she admits.
“All this time?”
“Yes… And you?”
“When I made you my guard. During the knighting ceremony, you had stared at me with these dark, intense eyes when you swore your oath… And then, it just stole over me.”
“Huh,” Mikasa says in wonder, her chest full of warmth.
“You had been my first decision as queen, did you know?” Historia says, a hint of wistfulness. “The first choice. All I wanted, when I had given your freedom that day, was a friend… A companion.”
“You have me,” Mikasa whispers back, repeating Historia’s words.
Historia smiles and steals a kiss from Mikasa’s shoulder. For a while, they both revel in the peaceful silence. When Mikasa yawns, her eyelids drooping, Historia presses another kiss to her temple. “Sleep, my beloved,” she murmurs. “I’ll wake you up.”
Beloved. That is the word Mikasa tucks in her heart before she falls asleep.
.
.
.
A traitor, some say. A foreigner, others say. And Mikasa, caught in the middle.
It matters not now, because there is Historia.
Mine, her queen says simply, and that is that—the war is over, and Mikasa is finally home.