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thesafecafe · 18 hours ago

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𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧

pairing: dilf knight! san x princess! reader

genre: medieval fantasy au, angst, romance, smut

summary: at long last, san comes home from a never-ending war, and he wants nothing more than to be held by you.

w.c: 3.5k

warnings: mentions of war and bloodshed, scars, san cries, soft dom! san, sub! reader, kissing, cunnilingus, fingering, tiny mention of spit, overstim, unprotected sex (they make love ☝🏼), crying during sex, creampie, this is very romantic and soft okiii uwu

a/n: hihiii i’m back :3 ik it’s been a few months but i have something special for you!! it’s a lot different from my usual feral fics hehe this has more of a shakespearean vibe~ ykk i really wanted to write something from my heart this time… as someone who struggles deeply with self hatred and regret, it was therapeutic to write about true love and acceptance 🥹 and it’s safe to say that i’m in love with knight san TT i hope you enjoy lovelies xx

song recs: who are you? - svrcina, middle of the night - elley duhe

With steps unburdened by thought, San traces each rugged crease and weathered line of the garden walls with fingers roughened by toil. He knows every edge and crack, for time and sorrow has made them kin. The walls are clad in mossy green and wispy vines— frail to the naked eye, yet firm in his hold— clasped tight, like lovers never meant to part, waxing strong with each passing year. Through countless winters and wars most cruel, through endless fields of blood and battle cries, he returns here once more, to this hidden sanctuary, seeking to cast off the shadows that haunt his soul. None knew of this place, but one, the fair princess, whose heart beat in quiet harmony with his. The tired knight can hear her soft hums over the sound of howling winds as he passes the willow’s weeping veil; their gentle boughs caress San’s weary frame, their billowy leaves brushing over his scarred jaw like the softest kiss of welcome.

The moon, in scattered fragments strewn between trembling leaves, grace your visage, his dearest princess, with argent glow, decorating your tender smile, turned heavenward in peace. A sudden gust of wind breathes through your braided tresses; you lift a hand, though it’s in vain. The knight, with quiet care, tucks your unruly hair behind your ear, as if to still the wind itself, in your favor.

“My dearest knight,” you breathe, the words trembling as they leave your lips, and it is all the knight can do to remain standing. He has heard men cry out for their mothers, for lovers, for quiet salvation as they lay dying beneath his blade. But nothing has ever struck San so deep as the sound of your voice calling him back to life. “I have spent countless nights dreaming of your return.”

You stand before San like a dream half-remembered…familiar, beloved, and yet distant as the stars he once gazed upon in youth. Time has not changed you, not truly. The years may have brushed your face with a touch more sorrow, lined your eyes with shadows, but you are still his beloved princess. Still the light San carried into every battle, every hell.

He lifts a hand—gloved, bloodstained, shaking—and lays it gently against your cheek. San half expects you to recoil. Instead, your hands rise to meet his, warm and trembling, pressing against the cold metal as if to coax the man from his armor.

How many nights did he dream of this? How many times did he curse the gods for keeping him from you? And now that San stands before you, he feels more phantom than flesh.

Your touch anchors San. Your eyes, glistening with tears you try so hard to hold back, search the shadows behind his visor. The knight knows what you see: a ghost wearing the skin of the man she once knew. He is no longer that man. The war took him, piece by piece, and left behind this hollow shell.

You speak again, a whisper torn from the heart. “Do my eyes deceive me? Are you truly here, or have you returned only to haunt me?”

San wants to answer. To take you in his arms and swear he’s come back for good. But how can he? How can he promise life, when death clings to him like a second skin?

The knight lowers his hand slowly, not for lack of love, but for fear that he will break you with what he’s become.

“I am here,” San says at last, though the words feel like a lie. His voice is hoarse, foreign even to his own ears. “But I’m not sure if I am the man you remember…or merely what remains.”

You step closer then, your forehead resting against the cold steel of his helmet, as if to say: Even if you are broken, I choose you still.

And for one stolen breath, San lets himself believe it is enough. That this moment might bind together all the shattered time.

But in the silence between you, San feels the weight of all he cannot undo.

The orchard had bloomed late that year, and you danced beneath the branches like the wind itself—barefoot, laughing, skirts trailing through the tall grass. San remembers the sun catching in your hair, the way you looked back at him over your shoulder and said, “Promise me you’ll come back, even if the world forgets your name.”

San had smiled then. Young. Whole. Unscarred. “Even if I am but ash and dust, I’ll find my way to you.”

And you believed him. Fool that he was—San believed himself.

“I never stopped waiting,” you say, cutting through the fog of San’s fractured memory. Your voice isn’t a whisper anymore—it’s solid. Real. “Not for a day.”

He stands there silently as the wind stirs the brittle leaves at your feet. His gaze won’t meet yours. Not yet.

“You’re thinner,” you murmur, half to yourself. “Your shoulders… your gait. The war has—” You hesitate, then draw a breath and meet his eyes. “You’ve changed.”

“I died,” San says softly. “Not all at once. Bit by bit. Every time I buried a brother. Every time I killed a boy too young to hold a blade. Every time I looked at my hands and didn’t know if the blood was mine.”

You don’t flinch. You step closer.

“Then let me know the man who came back.”

He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t want to see what’s left.”

“I do,” you say. “I need to.”

Your hands lift carefully, almost trembling, and touch the edges of his helmet.

“Let me see you.”

He doesn’t move at first. You can feel the weight of that silence between you—the metal, the grief, the years. The helmet has been more than armor. It’s been his mask, his hiding place. His guilt.

But you are still there. Still reaching.

So San lifts it. The metal groans as he pulls it off. When it hits the ground, the clang echoes like thunder through the still garden.

You inhale sharply. A deep scar traces his cheek, curving up beneath the medical patch that shields one eye—a pale reminder of where death nearly kissed him. Just above his temple, a stark white patch cuts through the black of his hair, striking in its contrast. Slowly, your hand lifts, and with the barest hesitation, you peel back the patch. His eye beneath is cloudy, milky white, unfocused—blind. His lashes tremble, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes flutter shut, and he turns slightly, as if afraid to find pity in yours.

But what he feels in your hands isn’t pity.

It’s reverence. Grief. Love, burning hot after all this time.

“I failed you,” he says, barely audible. “I promised to return whole. I didn’t.”

You cradle his face in your palms. “You returned. That’s all I ever needed.”

And in that moment, San crumbles. The tears fall fast and silent, cutting through the dirt and ash that clings to him like a second skin. His armor suddenly feels unbearable.

He unclasps the pauldrons. Lets them fall. The chestplate next. His hands tremble as he strips it away, until only the padded tunic remains. You help with the rest, your fingers tender, precise. As if unburdening a wounded creature too long in pain.

And when he’s finally bare—no longer knight, no longer ghost, just San—you step into his arms.

He buries his face against your hair, breath shaking.

“You’re the only battle I ever hoped to lose.”

You don’t flinch when he weeps.

You only hold him tighter, like you could gather the shattered parts of him with your hands, not to repair what was lost, but to cherish what remains.

The moon is high now, pale and solemn. The garden is quiet, as if the world itself is listening.

“I thought I’d never touch you again,” you whisper, lips brushing his temple. “And now you’re here, and I don’t know where to begin.”

San tilts his head, pressing his brow to yours.

“Then don’t begin. Just… be.”

There’s no rush. No need for frenzy. Only reverence, the kind that turns every touch into prayer. Your fingers work the laces of his tunic, slow and careful. His breath catches when the fabric slips away, revealing skin both familiar and newly sacred.

You let your robe fall from your shoulders in return, exposing yourself with quiet grace.

His gaze trails over you like a man seeing color after years in the dark. He traces your collarbone with the backs of his fingers—tender, aching. You tremble, not from cold, but from the unbearable gentleness of it. You both sink together into the flattened grass, crushed petals blooming around you in scent and silence. San holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and you draw him down like a missing part of yourself.

Then he kisses you.

Not like someone reclaiming what was lost, but as someone rediscovering it, revering it. His lips find yours with patience, with hunger restrained only by awe. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone, as if he’s relearning the shape of you. You taste earth and memory in his mouth, smoke and sorrow and something still sweet.

Your fingers thread into his dark hair, tugging lightly. He groans softly into the kiss, like the sound’s been buried inside him for years.

He pulls back, just far enough to look at you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I remembered, but…God. Memory did you no justice.”

You blush, but you don’t look away. Your hands rise to touch him in return: his stubbled jaw, the furrow between his brows, the new lines at the corners of his eyes. Time has carved him into something sharper. Something deeper.

Your fingertips trail slowly down the scar along his cheek.

“You’re older,” you whisper, your voice full of reverence.

“I know,” he says with a dry little laugh, embarrassed.

“I like it,” you breathe. “I like all of it.”

His breath catches.

Your touch drifts lower, down the column of his neck, over the curve of his shoulder and the broad, solid plane of his chest. There are more scars—some small, some cruel. You kiss one, then another. His hands twitch where they rest on your waist.

“I thought I’d be too ruined for you,” he confesses. “Too much blood. Too much history.”

“You’re not ruined,” you say, kissing just above his heart. “You’re still mine.”

Something in him breaks again, this time quieter, deeper. He leans down, brushing his lips along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. Each kiss is soft, reverent, as though he’s making an offering.

He shifts lower, slow and steady, kissing a trail down your body. Your breath quickens as his lips part over your ribs, your navel, your hip. One hand steadies your thigh while the other glides up, spreading your legs with deliberate care.

“I want to worship you,” he murmurs, voice husky with devotion. “Let me.”

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

The night air brushes your bare skin. The crushed grass is cool beneath you, grounding. San kneels between your thighs, his eyes dark and locked on yours. He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then lower—your inner thigh, the crease of your hip—until you’re trembling with anticipation. You feel his breath against your folds before his mouth even touches you, and the anticipation has your whole body straining. Then finally—finally—his lips part over your center, and he groans like he’s starved.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So soft… so wet for me.”

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, tasting every bit of you. His tongue is wide, warm, patient. He doesn’t rush—he explores. He lets your slick coat his mouth as he moves with steady, devoted attention.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently. He moans at the pressure, diving back in with more intent. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking softly, then harder. You gasp, hips twitching, thighs trying to close around his head, but he doesn’t let you. His arms slide under your thighs, holding you open, locked in place with that quiet strength only he has.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, licking slowly around your entrance, teasing, then dragging the flat of his tongue back to your clit again.

“San—oh—San, please,” you gasp, thighs trembling.

He groans into you. “You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He keeps working you, using the point of his tongue now—tight, deliberate strokes over your clit, circling and flicking just right. He pulls back only to spit on your pussy, letting it drip messily down before he spreads it with his tongue again, slower, deeper. Your back arches, the friction making you keen.

He slides a finger inside you—just one at first, thick and slow—and curls it, searching. When he finds that perfect spot, you cry out. He smiles against your skin, tongue relentless as he fucks you with his finger, then adds a second.

Your walls clamp down greedily. He doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man with nowhere else to be, like the world ended somewhere behind him and this—you—is all that’s left. He moves with rhythm and care, matching the curl of his fingers with the swirl of his tongue. You’re soaked, dripping down his wrist, and he’s taking you all in, devouring every drop, moaning shamelessly into you.

You lose track of your breath, of time, of anything outside the feel of his mouth and the fire curling tighter and tighter in your core.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. “I want to feel it. I want to taste everything you’ve been holding back.”

That’s all it takes.

Your body snaps tight. Your thighs quiver. You cry out his name as you come, hot and shuddering around his fingers, his mouth locked to your pussy, drinking you down like he can’t get enough. He moans with you, holding you through every wave.

Your orgasm hasn’t even fully faded when San dives back in, lips wrapping around your clit again, slower this time, but just as deliberate. Your thighs jerk, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. He moans low into your skin, savoring the way your body trembles, how sensitive you’ve become.

“San, wait,” you gasp, hips twitching under the heat of his mouth. “I—too much—”

But your hands never leave his head. Even as your voice trembles, your fingers curl tighter into his hair.

He groans, the sound sending vibration through your core. He flattens his tongue and licks you again, long and smooth, letting his nose nudge against your clit as he presses his mouth deeper. One arm remains tucked under your thigh, keeping you open, but the other moves—up, slow—until his hand finds yours.

Your fingers fumble, searching. And then he takes them.

He interlaces your fingers with his, palm to palm, grounding you. Holding you there while he keeps his mouth on you, his tongue working gentle circles over your already throbbing clit.

“Breathe,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled but steady. “You can take it. Let me love you like this.”

Your chest rises and falls with frantic rhythm. But the moment your fingers lace through his, something inside you steadies. The pressure of his grip anchors you, even as your body shakes.

His fingers squeeze yours once.

Then he sucks.

Hard.

You cry out, hips lifting from the grass as your second orgasm rips through you. He doesn't pull back; he keeps going, devouring you through it, licking and suckling, letting you ride his mouth while you break all over again. Your cries turn to gasps, then whimpers, every nerve ending lit and burning.

Your hand squeezes his so tight it aches. He squeezes back harder.

Even when your thighs twitch and you try to squirm away, he holds you open, tongue dragging slowly now—teasing, loving, tracing the shape of you until you're whimpering from the pleasure and the pressure and the sheer emotion of being touched like this.

Finally, when your body goes limp, legs falling open and trembling, your breathing ragged, he lifts his mouth from you. His face is slick, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark.

He leans up, hand still holding yours.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You’re mine.”

Then he kisses the back of your hand, slow and grateful, before crawling up your body to press his forehead to yours.

“Tell me you’re alright.”

You nod weakly, smiling through the haze. “You… you ruined me.”

He smiles too, breathless. “Good. I simply couldn't help myself…you taste like salvation.”

You taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you again, and it makes your whole body shiver. Something inside you gives way…not just to pleasure, but to the overwhelming realness of him. The heat of his chest, the scrape of his stubble, the weight of his body between your legs.

San kisses you harder, slower, with purpose. His tongue slides against yours, coaxing, savoring. His hand finds your waist, then your breast, palm wide and warm. He cups it gently at first, brushing his thumb over your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. Then he squeezes, firm and possessive, and you moan into his mouth.

You feel his cock, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your thigh. He grinds into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for years. You reach between your bodies, fingers curling around him, stroking him once—just to feel him twitch, just to watch him gasp.

He leans over you, bracing on one forearm, and nudges your legs open. He doesn’t rush. His cock drags through your folds, catching on your clit and slick entrance. You feel how wet you are, how ready, and when he starts to push in, your breath stutters.

San sinks into you slowly. Inch by aching inch. Stretching you, filling you, making you feel every part of him.

“God,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… You feel perfect.”

Your back arches. Your body opens for him. He bottoms out with a quiet groan, forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven.

You’re already clenching around him, just from the fullness. He doesn’t move right away. He’s just there, inside you, holding your gaze like he can’t believe it’s real.

Then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deep, slow, deliberate. He grinds into you at the end of every stroke, like he wants to feel you take all of him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders. The sounds between you are soft and wet, your breaths getting louder with every movement.

His pace builds. Not fast, but more urgent. The tension in his body tightens with each thrust. He kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips, whispering your name like it’s a confession.

“You’re so tight,” he groans. “So warm. I could stay here forever.”

You whimper, clenching around him. “Then stay. Please, stay.”

His thrusts grow harder. Not rough, but driven. His hips meet yours with quiet force, sending heat blooming through your core. You feel him everywhere—his chest brushing your nipples, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, his hands gripping your hips like he needs to anchor himself.

You’re close, already. The coil winding tighter in your belly, your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. But then San gasps, and his rhythm falters.

You blink up at him. “San?”

He’s trembling.

His forehead rests against yours again. His hands shake where they hold you.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispers. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Hey.” You cup his face. “Look at me.”

He tries. His eyes are wet.

“I thought I lost you,” he chokes. “And now I’m inside you and it feels like…like I’m whole again. And I don’t know if I can hold it.”

His voice cracks. His hips move again, a shaky thrust, like he’s caught between falling apart and holding on.

“Let go,” you whisper. “Let it happen. I’m not leaving.”

That’s what breaks him.

His pace stutters as he buries himself deep again. His breathing shatters into soft sobs, and you kiss the tears from his cheeks as he thrusts into you, desperate and raw. You hold him close, wrapping your arms and legs around him, guiding him with soft touches and whispered promises.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you—”

You cry into his shoulder, overwhelmed. “I love you too.”

And then it crashes over both of you. His hips jerk, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and deep. You tighten around him as your own climax breaks, body arching into his, crying out against his neck. Your nails scrape down his back as you both shake with the force of it.

Afterward, he collapses against you, still inside, still trembling. You stroke his hair, his back, murmuring softly.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He exhales shakily and clings to you like a man who’s finally touched land after years at sea.

When he finally slips out of you, you pull him close again. His face presses to your chest. Your fingers brush over the scars on his shoulders, the new ones you hadn’t seen until now. He doesn’t flinch.

“You came back to me,” you say.

“I don’t know what I am,” he whispers. “But I want to be yours. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ve always had you.”

And this time, when he cries, it’s soft. Clean. A release. Everything suddenly makes sense. The war may have taken many things. But not this.

Not him.

Not you.

Not this love that endured the ruin.

And for the first time in years, San does not feel lost.

He feels held.

He feels home.