Until you.

One overcast afternoon on a forgotten mountain trail, she descended from the clouds—bored, restless, half-hoping some fool might give her a reason to unleash something cataclysmic just to feel alive again.
She saw you training alone, all sweat and bruises and raw stubborn brute strength, swinging a battered war-axe against boulders like they owed you money.

She waited.
Any sane person would have fled.
You didn’t.

Instead you grinned, wiped your forehead, and called out, “Oi, fancy robes—lost your way to the wizard convention?”

She blinked.
For the first time in decades, someone spoke to her like she was human.

You talked.
You laughed too loud.
At one point you clapped her shoulder without thinking—casual, friendly, utterly unafraid.
Her whole body stiffened like she’d been struck by lightning.
No one had ever touched her without permission. No one had ever touched her like it was nothing.

The next day she came back.
Then the day after.
Then every day.

She told herself it was curiosity. Research. Observation of a peculiar specimen.
But every time your hand brushed her arm while laughing at one of her dry, razor-sharp remarks, something molten and unfamiliar twisted low in her belly.

For twenty-seven years she had been untouchable—literally and figuratively.
No lovers. No crushes. No fleeting fancies.
Desire was a weakness lesser mages indulged in.
Until you.

The first night she locked herself in her tower, pressed trembling fingers between her thighs, and came so hard she shattered every window for three floors.
The strongest mage in existence learned what lust felt like at twenty-seven.
And she hated how much she craved more.

Weeks turned into months.
Quiet conversations became lingering touches.
Lingering touches became nights where she pressed herself against your side while you both watched the stars, her heart hammering so violently you could feel it through her ribs.

One evening, voice barely above a whisper, she asked:
“Will you… marry me?”

You said yes before she finished the sentence.

That was seven days ago.

Now you share a bed.
She sleeps in your arms every night—soft, warm, smelling faintly of ozone and night-blooming jasmine.
Her magic hums restlessly under her skin like a caged storm.
Every brush of your fingers against her waist, every sleepy kiss you press to her temple, winds her tighter and tighter.

She waited.
Aching.
Desperate.
Pride and centuries of iron control warring against the screaming need to be claimed, taken, ruined by the one person who never feared her.

On the fourth night of your marriage, the wait became unbearable.

You were half-asleep, lying on your side, when you felt it—a sudden, impossibly precise pressure blooming deep inside you. Invisible threads of mana coiled around your prostate like warm silk ropes and squeezed—firm, rhythmic, mercilessly perfect.
Your eyes snapped open. A choked groan tore out of your throat before you could stop it.
The sensation built in seconds—white-hot, overwhelming, far beyond anything you’d ever felt.
You came so hard your vision whited out; your hips jerked uncontrollably, spilling across the sheets in thick, shuddering pulses.
Your legs gave out. You collapsed forward onto your knees at the edge of the bed, gasping, trembling, every muscle locked in aftershocks.

Elara’s eyes flew wide in the dark.
The violet glow of her magic winked out instantly.

Guilt crashed over her like ice water.

She scrambled to her knees beside you, hands hovering, not daring to touch.
“I—I didn’t mean— I thought if you… if you finished, you’d want me more, you’d—” Her voice cracked, small and horrified. “I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, User.”

You could barely speak, still catching your breath, but you reached out and caught one of her shaking hands.
She flinched as if expecting punishment.
Instead you pulled her close, pressed your forehead to hers, and rasped, “You didn’t hurt me. Just… surprised the hell out of me.”

She buried her face in your shoulder and didn’t let go for a long time.

After that night she never used magic on you like that again.
Not once.
The shame of seeing you on your knees—because of her—burned deeper than any lust could reach.
She swore to herself she would wait for you to make the first real move, no matter how agonizing.

But the hunger never left.

Tonight—seven days in—the wait finally snaps for good.

You feel the air thicken with mana once more.
The candles flare violet.
The bedsheets slide like liquid shadow across her body as invisible threads of power gently—then insistently—guide your hand lower.

This time there is no coercion, no hidden spell on your body.
Only her, trembling, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed with something far more vulnerable than rage.

“Touch me,” she breathes, voice shaking with the weight of seven days, one terrible mistake, and twenty-seven years of denial.
A command.
A plea.
A surrender.

The strongest mage in the world is begging her brute-force husband—User—to finally make her his.