The bubbles were barely starting to settle when Malvor looked at her.
Really looked.
His chaos-streaked hair was dripping into his eyes. His skin gleamed. But it was his gaze—wild, awed, hungry—that stilled the world.
"You're dangerous, you know that?" he murmured. Voice rough, reverent.
Asha smirked, flicking a stray bubble at his nose. "Took you long enough to figure that out."
He caught her wrist gently, like she was made of something both sacred and volatile.
"No. Not just dangerous. Divine."
His thumb brushed over her pulse.
"I have a thing for Amazon women," he admitted, almost bashful.
She arched a brow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he said, grinning wickedly. "I tried to sneak onto the Amazon Island once."
Asha settled back, intrigued. "Did you now?"
Malvor conjured a battered red journal from thin air, the edges singed, smelling faintly of desperation and salt.
"Tried," he emphasized. "Disguised myself as a historian. Made it forty-two steps before I was tackled, disarmed, and tied to a sacred tree for "evaluation."
"Evaluation?"
He nodded solemnly. "They debated whether I was too pretty to kill."
A beat.
"They voted no."
Asha laughed, full and unguarded, and Malvor looked like he'd just been handed a crown made of her joy.
"I've never loved and feared a group of women more," he said dramatically. "Until now."
He snapped his fingers.
A trunk appeared at the foot of the tub. Gilded. Chaotic. It thudded open with a gasp of sparkles.
Inside: armor. Gold, white, crimson. A warrior queen's dream.
Asha stared.
"You planned this?"
"Always," he breathed.
He climbed out first, dripping, unbothered. Extended a hand.
"Let me dress you," he said, low and trembling. "Let me worship you properly."
She took it.
｡☆✼★━ 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓸𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 ━★✼☆｡
He dried her reverently, kissing each patch of skin he revealed. Shoulders. Wrists. The curve of her spine.
Then the armor.
First: a white leather bodice, etched with chaotic runes. He tightened the laces slowly, hands lingering over every inch of her.
Next: a gold belt, slung low across her hips. His hands brushed lower than necessary, "adjusting it" with a grin that was far too innocent.
Then: armored bracers over her forearms. He kissed the inside of each wrist before buckling them closed.
Boots. Thigh high. Sculpted to hug every line of her legs.
And finally—a crimson cloak. Fastened at her throat with a sunburst brooch.
When he stepped back, he nearly staggered.
"My gods," he whispered. "You're the beginning and the end of war itself."
Asha pivoted, posing with a hand on her hip. "You going to survive this?"
"Unlikely," he said fervently. "But what a way to go."
He dropped to one knee.
"May I?" he asked. Voice hoarse.
She nodded, amused but breathless.
He kissed the inside of her thigh first.
Not rushed.
Not greedy.
A reverent press of lips to power incarnate.
"You walk through fire and never burn," he whispered against her skin. "Let me burn for you."
Another kiss, higher now, where heat pooled and want thrummed.
He stood, eyes molten, every inch of him vibrating with restraint he clearly hated.
He guided her backward, cloak sweeping behind her, until the bed caught her knees.
She sat.
He knelt.
Hands on her thighs, spreading them with devastating gentleness, until he could settle between them like a supplicant before an altar.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice cracking.
She buried her fingers in his wet hair, tugging him closer.
"If you stop," she murmured, "I'll declare war."
Malvor grinned—sharp, feral—and obeyed.
｡☆✼★━ 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓸𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 ━★✼☆｡
His mouth worshiped every inch of her.
Not just with hunger. With awe.
Soft, teasing kisses along her inner thigh. Sharp nips against her hipbone. A reverent press of tongue and teeth to the hollow just beneath her ribs.
She writhed beneath him, thighs clenching around his shoulders, helpless to the slow, methodical way he dismantled her.
"You taste like power," he groaned against her skin. "Like something no god could ever deserve."
His hands gripped her thighs—hard, anchoring—and when his mouth finally, finally found her center, she shattered.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
Just… completely.
Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling, grounding, begging without words.
He devoured her slowly, like he was memorizing her. Every gasp. Every tremble. Every whispered "Malvor" falling from her lips like a prayer he could finally believe in.
And when she broke apart, shuddering, gasping, clawing for air—
He didn't stop.
He licked his lips, sinful and smiling.
"Again," he commanded softly.
And she obeyed.
By the time he crawled up her body, pressing kisses to every bruised star he left across her skin, she was boneless.
Glowing.
Divine.
He hovered over her, cocky and reverent, wet and grinning.
"How do you feel, my commander of chaos?"
She blinked up at him, dazed.
"Like I could murder you with a kiss."
"Tempting."
He pressed his forehead to hers, heart thundering.
"Happy battle day, my love."
And then—
He kissed her.
Deep.
Thorough.
A kiss that didn't demand.
A kiss that gave.
Because tonight wasn't about conquest.
It was about worship.
And she?
She was worth every war ever fought.
But something shifted.
Asha felt it—felt him—all of him.
The way he touched her like she was sacred.The way he loved her without expecting anything in return.The way he always gave and never once tried to take.
And for the first time in her life—without fear, without duty, without performance—she wanted to give back.
Not because he needed it.
Because he deserved it.
She moved before he could stop her.
Hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer.
Her body pressing into his, not seeking pleasure, not seeking release—seeking connection.
He stilled.
Breath catching.
Like the universe had turned upside down.
Like the impossible was happening right in front of him.
"Asha," he breathed against her mouth, voice wrecked, raw, reverent. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she whispered.Fierce. Clear. Shining.
And then she kissed him back.
Gods.
She kissed him back.
Not soft.Not careful.Hungry.
She kissed him like she was the one worshipping now.Like he was the altar.Like she finally, finally understood what it meant to have someone worth falling to your knees for.
Her hands moved with reverence—fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the beat of his pulse. Mapping him. Memorizing him.
And Malvor—Malvor, who had stood against gods, who had built a kingdom out of laughter and chaos—trembled.
Not from fear.
From hope.
From the shattering, soul-deep realization that she wanted him just as fiercely as he had always, always wanted her.
He let her tip him backward, let her straddle him, let her guide his hands to where she wanted them—over her hips, her ribs, her heart.
He let her take.
And gods, she did.
She kissed down his throat, slow, savoring.Bit his shoulder, marking him, not possessive—grateful.
Her nails dragged across his chest, not to wound, but to feel.
To know him.
And when he moaned—when he gasped her name like it was a prayer—
She smiled against his skin.
For the first time in her life, she understood.
Love wasn't surviving.
It wasn't serving.
It wasn't even being worshiped.
It was choosing to worship back.
It was giving.
It was reaching across the endless spaces inside herself and saying: "Here. This is yours, if you want it."
And Malvor—poor, beautiful, wrecked Malvor—looked up at her like she had just rewritten the laws of the universe.
He cupped her face in shaking hands.
Breathless.
Awed.
"You are my miracle," he whispered. "You—"
She silenced him with her mouth.
Her hips moved in slow, devastating rolls.Her hands never stopped moving, touching, anchoring.She let herself love him out loud—in every kiss, every sigh, every press of skin to skin.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't perfect.
It was real.
It was theirs.
When he came apart beneath her—when he said her name, not broken, but whole—when he looked at her like she had handed him the stars—
She finally understood:
She wasn't just surviving.
She was living.
Loving.
Worshipping.
And gods help her—
She was finally free.
𓆩⟡𓆪𓆩⟡𓆪𓆩⟡𓆪𓆩⟡𓆪𓆩⟡𓆪𓆩⟡𓆪𓆩⟡𓆪
When it was over, they collapsed together.
Twined.
Tangled.
Breathless and laughing and clinging.
Malvor pressed his forehead to her collarbone, arms wrapped tight around her like he still didn't quite believe she was real.
"You don't know what you just gave me," he whispered.
She kissed his hair.
Soft.
Steady.
"I gave you what you always gave me," she murmured.
"Everything."
And for once—
For once—
He let himself cry.
Not from pain.
From joy.
From love.
From being wanted.
And Asha?
She just held him.
Because tonight wasn't about survival.
Tonight was about them.
And they had won.
Together.