#Valorous Cape

[fr-familiar-bracket]

[soy-bean-factory]

just warming up on the range

[blast-door]

Family Room - Enclosed

[petit-etoile]

everything i see, everything i feel (you are my universe)

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 8746 content warnings: astarion is not a vampire nor ascended & tav is not the dark urge but i use pet names from his ascended route because i think they fit & some of the dark urge connections are necessary, brief mention of tav being raised as a child soldier by gortash, tav is gender neutral, nearly 8k of pure smut other tags: alternate universe - royalty, character study, porn with plot, dom/sub undertones, mi.ssionary style, do.ggy style, riding, cr.eampie, marriage proposal, sort of archiveofourown: here. note: depending on reception & if i have time, there may be a part two or a prequel. i ended coming up with lore for this verse so i like it a lot. summary: ‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’

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You can already tell what kind of evening it will be just from the way Astarion looks at you from beneath his eyelashes, so coy and pretty and unabashed in the way he glances over you. Whatever happened tpday at court has pleased him. He practically purrs when he steps past you to enter the sanctuary of his expansive bedroom.

‘You’ll come,’ he murmurs, ‘won’t you, darling?’

You’ll play his game because he likes it. You keep your lips pressed together in a firm line despite the way his hand slides gracefully across your waist, warming the chainmail that you wear dutifully every day so that you can keep the crown prince safe. He pouts when you pretend to not notice the playful mood he’s in. And when you change your mind after only a few minutes, Astarion will wear the same mischievous frown and think he has claimed victory over you once more.

You recite your vows to yourself to keep your mind from wandering, but it’s difficult. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. It’s…admittedly hard to remember the rest. You’re distracted by the most impure thoughts. Memories of nights before. The taste of him on your tongue, the feel of him between your thighs, the sight of him as he grinds above you, the gleam of his skin as dawn begins to creep over the horizon. You squeeze your thighs together and try to wait out at least five minutes before you cave.

You peek down the hallway. There are no other guards skulking around at night. You’re not technically supposed to leave your post, but if the prince commands it… Well, it’s an excuse. You rush inside before you can feel the call of your valor and close the door after you with a soft click. Astarion sits with his legs crossed at the edge of his bed. He grins. It’s almost as predictable as you are, but you would never admit it.

‘You called, my prince?’ you ask carefully, trying to keep your tone even.

‘I did,’ he says with a delicate shrug. ‘I thought I could use entertainment, and you were there…’

You smile beneath your helm. You were always there. Astarion tries to hide it a little too much, but there’s no one else he would seek out to keep him entertained when his mood is like this. He tries to play into the expectations everyone has of him. That he’s ambitious, unpredictable, easy to rile up. The truth of the matter is that Astarion longs for you in a way that he will never admit except into the curls of your hair when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. You care for him  —  love him  —  and there’s nothing you adore more than the way he laughs around you as though you were born for him and him alone.

‘I take it the court wasn’t too uneventful,’ you say.

He grimaces. ‘I saw Lord Gortash, unfortunately. I believe the sight of him has ruined my week.’

‘So cruel,’ you hum. You touch the buckles of your cape and release it from your bodice.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Astarion asks defensively, playfully.

You touch the latch of your armor. ‘He’s head of the city guard.’

‘I ought to fire him,’ the prince says darkly. ‘Hire a new one.’

‘Who would protect the city instead?’

‘You,’ Astarion says without pause.

‘Alas, I am duty bound to serve the prince,’ you disagree. You pull the weight of your chest piece off your shoulders and drop it to the floor. ‘How can I serve the city when my mind is filled with nothing but you?’

Astarion smiles, a true smile. ‘Oh, you honor me. You truly mean every word.’

‘Without question,’ you promise.

You think about kneeling before him and looking up at him, but your chest piece is still in the way. You pull and untangle and twist until it all slides to the floor, leaving you in a simpler top. His honor, a single white rose, is pinned to the front of your shirt. You can still remember the day he gave it to you, the day you knelt in the throne room and he pressed his sword to your shoulder to claim you.

‘You are mine,’ Astarion says slowly.

‘I am yours,’ you repeat fondly.

‘Until the end of time?’

‘Until the end.’

‘And,’ Astarion begins playfully, ‘if I asked you to please me?’

‘I would be duty bound,’ you reply.

‘Then may I ask you to please me?’ he murmurs, eyes dangerous.

Astarion practically preens under your careful attention, his eyes unwavering as he watches you. You take your time. You remove the rest of your armor slowly, savoring the hungry way he watches. Even in court when you are his shadow, Astarion barely hides it. The hunger. The longing. The darkest of desires. He would claim you in public if it wouldn’t be a scandal.

You lower yourself before him, groveling on your hands and knees. You place your head in his lap and sigh when he threads his fingers through your hair. These are the moments you live for. When he is no longer a prince and you are no longer a knight. You are you, and Astarion is Astarion.

You don’t have to wonder where his mind is. Not during times like these. He’s anxious to feel you, but you take your time in this. You slip his fancy boots from his feet then take your time undoing his belts and buttons, sliding everything down his lean legs with careful intent. His cock greets you, already half hard and growing still.

It still makes you nervous, deep down inside. Astarion is a prince and the pinnacle of perfection. He could have any duke or duchess he wanted, yet it’s you he takes care of when the standing watch for hours on end from dusk til dawn has caused your bones to grow weary. The least you could do is love him like this. You lean forward and kiss the side of his cock, and Astarion’s fingers tighten in your hair.

‘Please, your highness,’ you whisper.

You are perched at his feet still awaiting commands. Like a good little pup. You shiver.

‘Go on,’ Astarion encourages.

You barely stick the tip of your tongue out and watch as his cock throbs in anticipation. This is dangerous. Obscene, even. You’ve seen him hundreds of times yet it still excites you. Carefully, you take him into your mouth and admire his debauched moan.

You have half a mind to tease him, but when you glance upwards at him, he’s as pretty as an aasimar. Or something worse, but you don’t give yourself much time to think about it. You know his desires. What he enjoys. What he tolerates for you. You know Astarion likes your little hums as you glide your mouth over his cock. He likes being pampered more than anything.

Astarion’s hand is tender as he moves your bangs out of your eyes. It’s the eye contact he wants. He likes to see and always acts like it’s the first time. He holds the edge of your jaw while you rub the tip of his cock against the inside of your cheek, eyebrows scrunching. It’s divine for you as well.

Astarion lives for the pomp and circumstance, absolutely devours court rumors with a delight you barely understand  —  but he would let his kingdom fall into the Underdark if it meant he could spend every hour of every day fucking you.

It’s the same for you.

It always has been ever since your coronation.

You were not like the other knights who were born into houses of servitude, second born sons and daughters who were the spares of their family names. You were given to Astarion by Lord Gortash as a way to buy favor from the crown. You were once his favorite, well-trained dog.

But unlike Lord Gortash, you are coveted by the crown in a way no other knight has been before. Astarion kisses you every morning and finishes against your spine every evening. But he is your salvation, your savior, and you are on your knees to show what that means to you.

Astarion stirs beneath your ruminations, his thighs tensing beneath your elbows, his hips doing those unconscious lusty jerks that you like so much. His head falls back as he gets lost in the feel of your tongue and mouth and he moans so sweetly that it almost distracts you from your ministrations. You take his cock as far back into your mouth as you can manage, closing your eyes to squeeze out any embarrassing tears that might threaten to fall. Like the prettiest bird, he sings for you.

‘Wait,’ he moans. ‘Not yet, I want  —  ’

You pull away from him as commanded, licking your lips clean of spit. His hands dance frantically against your shoulders as he pulls you up against him, cock hard against both of your bellies. He kisses you hotly, one hand fisting in your hair and the other tugging uselessly at your shirt.

‘You are needy today, my prince,’ you whisper against a barrage of kisses.

‘You were too perfect,’ he whines. ‘Always perfect for me.’

You laugh against his cheek. ‘You did say to please you.’

‘And now I’m saying to get on the fucking bed,’ Astarion fusses. ‘Oh, and clothes off. I want to see you.’

‘Yes, your  —  ’ you begin.

‘You,’ Astarion accuses with an affectionate pinch to your side, ‘are being quite the obstinate charge tonight. I want to taste you and be tasted in return, but be familiar with me, my love. Come back to me. Share my bed.’

You are in the middle of doing as he requests, sitting with one leg on either side of his thighs when he slides his hands to your waist and forces you to roll to the side. He pushes you further into the many adorning pillows of his bed and starts devouring you, his mouth dancing from your neck to your collarbones while he tears your shirt apart with his hands, though he does slow down enough to place the white rose on the bedside table. He pushes his palms flat against your chest and leaves bite marks and bruises across your chest and down your belly, chasing after you as you try to squirm away. Astarion finally takes interest in leaving his mark on your throat.

You set to work pushing your leggings and small clothes down your thigh, but Astarion, in all his impatience, gets in the way of that too. He presses his thigh between your legs on purpose, rolling his cock against your hip while his thigh applies almost perfect pressure to the most sensitive parts of you.

You moan and turn your face away, but Astarion chases the sound. He nuzzles your noses together until you look at him, bleary and dazed, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. He rolls his hips again with intent. He catches the sound of your moan on the tip of your tongue and returns it, his own ragged breath warm against your cheek.

‘There you are, my love,’ he whispers deliciously. ‘I’ve missed you. My treasure, my pet…’

‘Yours,’ you moan.

‘Mine,’ Astarion agrees. ‘All mine.’

He drags his fingernails across the swell of your hip, and you can’t help but chase the curve of his wrist. Your cheeks burn, but you’re tempted to beg him. To ask if he’ll please you with his hands. You want to feel his fingers pressed up inside you, to feel them curl and twist. You want it more than anything else you’ve ever wanted to. Astarion watches the way you twist and turn with a small smile on his face. He pets your hip and slides his fingers between your thighs. You can feel the cool of his jeweled rings against your heated flesh.

Astarion is grateful for your reckless display. He acquiesces to your silent begging, brushing his fingers between your folds and pressing the tip of his middle finger against you. He watches with delight as you grind against the pressure. His cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears are ruddy, and though he’s pretending to be controlled right now, you can hear how shaky his breath has become.

And then, like a god answering a prayer, he presses a finger inside of you so painstakingly slow it’s almost maddening. You mewl, watching his expressions in fascination, because his own mouth falls open as he cranes his next to watch. He adds another. He twists and twirls his fingers as deeply as he can reach it. His eyes flutter with desperation. He’s so beautiful that you can hardly stand it. You want more, so much more, and you press your wrist against your mouth to keep from begging.

‘Don’t hide from me,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I want to hear everything. Please, sing for me.’

‘More,’ you whisper thickly. ‘More, I need more, I want more.’

He kisses your jaw sloppily. ‘I’ll give you everything.’

‘It’s not enough!’

‘You’ll take it,’ Astarion tells you. ‘You’ll take what I give.’

‘Astarion,’ you weep. ‘I want you. I want  —  ’

This time, he might as well have ripped the rest of your clothes with his haste. You aren’t sure what he does with them, you just know that you’re naked and in his bed, surrounded by all his pillows with your thighs slick from how wet you are.

Your eyes watch your star’s every movement. He rids himself of his finery as well, shrugging out of his layers until there’s nothing left. The moonlight hits his skin prettily, almost as dainty as the way his eyes catch in the candlelight. He chases you, chases your mouth, presses his cock against you and ruts for a moment. You can’t help but be dizzy with lust yourself. You leave your own marks across his collarbones and chest, mindful of his neck and what skin would peek above his elegant collars. You wonder how he’ll take you. Astarion has always been the creative type. Sometimes you’ll ride him, and sometimes he’ll ride you until you see stars. Despite his urgency, he seems tender tonight.

Astarion wants to make you feel good. He wants to find your heat and bask in the warmth. You can tell in the way he watches your face ever so fondly. He’s always been so good at masking how much he prefers you to anyone he’s spoken to before. You’ve stood and listened as the perfect guard during meetings with dignitaries from neighboring cities, and Astarion always spoke to them with practiced politeness bearing a practiced albeit bored undertone. Yet with you, he seems to hang onto your every word. He takes it in until there was nothing left to share. He cares when you are supposed to be nothing more than a knight at his door.

‘I have a gift for you tonight,’ Astarion says suddenly. He blushes. It’s adorable how much it’s unlike him.

‘What is it?’ you ask.

‘Patience,’ he complains, but he doesn’t mean it.

Astarion reaches for something just beyond your sight, and when he sits back up, you feel as though someone has released a cage of birds in the pit of your stomach. He holds out a small silver band for your inspection. ‘A warding ring,’ he explains. ‘I had my Master of the Arcane enchant it for you  —  for us.’

‘Kiss me,’ you whisper. ‘Please.’

‘Put it on first,’ he insists. ‘For me.’

Something must show on your face, because he’s quick to show you his own hand. There is a matching silver band there, and it causes your heart to swell so much you think your heart will give out. Astarion, with great care, slides the band onto your finger and then looks at you, hopeful.

‘Whatever you feel, I shall feel,’ he says like a promise. ‘You and I, together.’

You guide his mouth to yours before you can do something silly like cry. When you touch his chest, intent on finding his heartbeat, you can feel it so frantic against your palm.

What is a better story than a prince and his knight? A savior and his sword? The bards will sing forever about the prince and his favored knight, their matching rings, their sacred vows. You ache with longing. You surge with love. It is all Astarion’s fault.

You push your hands through his thick curls and guide him to lie on top of you. You can feel the ring humming with magic. Though you are sure this isn’t its intended use, you can’t help but feel nervous.

You take him into your arms. He collapses into you and your only thought is that it’s a little poetic. You have caught a star as it fell from the sky. Now, it rests in your hands again and again and again until, slowly, you cannot exist without one another. His mouth finds yours, and your hands with the matching rings reach out for one another as though choreographed. Astarion presses you against his sheets and you willingly let him devour you once more. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Astarion kisses down your chest again. He kisses your tummy and all the muscle you’ve earned from being a knight. He kisses every scar from every battle you’ve ever endured all the way down to your hips, to that warm core that lies between them. You moan unapologetically, head rushing until you’re almost positive you’re going to faint. Astarion presses a kiss between your legs, growls as though he was a man starved before finding you, and takes you into his mouth.

It’s a little romantic how you’ve grown together. You were each other’s firsts  —  Astarion taught you how to kiss, and you taught him how to fondle someone else’s body without feeling shy about it. You had first used your mouth on him, but he had taken all of the knowledge you had given and weaponized it against you the next moment that he could. He’s determined to please, desperate for compliments, hopeless in all his endeavors to please you almost as much as you’ve pleased him. But unlike you, Astarion is selfish and he reaches for fruit to pluck that anyone else would have discarded as soon as something better came along. He chose you.

He licks and bites and nuzzles and feasts upon the very fruit of you, groaning at how you taste. It’s his favorite taste in the world, and he would brag about it if it didn’t make your cheeks flush. He laps at your folds hungrily and squeezes the thickness your thighs until they’ve bruised.

‘Little star,’ you whine, pressing your hands to your eyes. ‘Please, please.’

His tongue is like torture. Astarion never does anything without fully committing, and from your time together, you know he’s memorized every little thing he can do to drive you absolutely wild. He’s pulled your legs over his shoulders, his fingers moving on after bruising them to dig into your hip bones, and he hums so prettily for you.

Even you aren’t sure what you’re begging for. You want Astarion to stop teasing you so insistently. You want to feel his heartbeat, you want to taste his lips. There’s a part of you so empty and full of longing that if you wait any longer, if you withhold anymore, you might lose yourself. The only thing serving to ground you to this world is depravity, twisting carnal lust, and the depths of your love. You shiver under his touch and moan even as you try to hush it.

‘  —  star!’ you cry sharply.

You try to twist out of his grasp, crying at how determined he is, but Astarion simply drags you back down to where he is as if it’s nothing to him. He doesn’t stop torturing with your tongue until you’ve choked out a sob and chased your release, chest heaving from the effort. He doesn’t let you go for long either, climbing up your body so that he can press encouraging kisses to your jaw, pushing your damp curls back from your temple.

Astarion pushes his nose against your ear and breathes in, almost so desperate to have memorized your very scent. It’s always been his little habit. As if just by knowing your smell, he is able to do whatever he needs to accomplish in this world.

‘You,’ he murmurs between kisses, ‘are always so magnificent for me.’

You reach for his hip, the back of your knuckles sweeping against his sharp bone. ‘I want to do the same for you,’ you say shakily. ‘Let me have you, please. It’s all I want.’

He moans, soft and quiet, and settles between your legs. He kisses you again with that same hunger. The same, almost desperate kind of lust. He presses you so far into his sheets that you’re not sure you’ll ever be released from them again. And you think you would be fine with that. There’s nothing more that you want than to stay here with him. His hands joined with yours, your hips pressed to his, forever until the world has ended.

You slide your hands across the broad sweep of his shoulders and feel as his muscles shift. He is so gentle with you even when he doesn’t have to be. He’s cautious, meticulous, almost ridiculously polite because it’s you. His love is like an apology for everything you’ve been through, and when he cradles the back of your head, you lean into his touch.

‘You are mine,’ he says tenderly. His thumb sweeps across your cheek.

‘Take me,’ you say hungrily. ‘I am your prize.’

‘You were created by the gods for me,’ Astarion tells you sincerely. He sits onto his knees and pulls your hands flush against his stomach. ‘Look at how well you fit against me.’

You were never one to be shy before, but his praise causes you to turn your cheek aside and look away. He pushes his hands up your thighs, searching, admiring. He says pretty words, but he’ll never understand if you were to repeat the things he’s said back to him. Underneath that prestigious bravado and practiced façade, Astarion still understands little of his own divinity and worth. You’re thankful for him as much as he is for you, and you allow him this. He finds his worth at your core and marvels in it, allowing you to see him as Astarion. Like a mortal making a deal with a cambion, he reaches for you.

‘Do you want me inside of you?’ he asks in a graveled voice.

‘More than anything else,’ you reply, choking on how thick your want is. You think about how it feels every time he’s claimed you and shudder. ‘Please.’

‘I am going to get lost in you for hours,’ Astarion promises. He smiles, dangerous and dark. ‘When you return to your post, you’ll feel me still. You’ll be sorer than you’ve ever been.’

You are so aroused it’s painful. You ache and twist, spreading your legs so that he might take you then and there without so much as a second thought. You need the closeness. His grounding touch. His cock, as much as it would embarrass you to say aloud, has been on your mind ever since he invited you inside his room. He strokes your hip.

‘You’re shaking,’ he says fondly.

He leans forward and kisses you. He connects with you like that, nose brushing yours affectionately, before he stares at the little shivers you’re now aware you’re doing. He sees everything, knows everything. It delights him.

And then he slides his cock into you. Slowly, agonizingly, inch by inch. He squeezes your hip in encouragement, but you’re too full and he’s too thick for you to manage any coherent thought. He’s determined to reach the deepest parts of your core.

Astarion speaks through gritted teeth. ‘You are perfect.’

‘No,’ you say. ‘You are.’

‘I like to watch,’ he says honestly. ‘I like to see how you take me. You’re so tight here, did you know?’

‘More  —  ’

‘Use your words for me.’

You swallow. ‘I want you  —  to fuck me.’

‘You’ve been a good pup,’ Astarion says with a small laugh. ‘I’ll make love to you until dawn calls.’

For the faintest few heartbeats, this is the only way you want to exist. He is pressed inside of you, and you are surrounded by nothing but him and his scent and his bed and his pretty words, longing so intently to memorialize this moment. Astarion is haloed by the silver moonlight. He shines prettier than the crown he wears at court.

He shines brighter than the stars.

You’re aware of how fragile your breathing sounds. You forcefully drag air down into your lungs and hold his gaze, so warm and soft when he looks at you. You don’t know why it’s so different this time with him, but you reach out until he entwines your fingers together and you lose yourself in a way you haven’t before. You don’t realize you’re crying until he coos at you and calls you beautiful.

Astarion only moves once he’s assured you’re not in any pain. He’s conscious of the way you tense, but you shake your head and try to dry your tears.

If you’re being honest, you aren’t really sure why you’re so emotional tonight.  You’re ignoring what the rings promise on purpose. A meaning that you are too nervous to confront. You know it’s how much you wish this was your fate. It all comes to a boil when he leans forward and kisses the tip of your ear. Astarion wraps his arms around you and moans softly in your ear, the heat of his cheek flush against your temple.

‘I love you,’ he whispers.

‘I can feel you,’ you whisper back, voice uneven. ‘All the way inside.’

‘Our souls are touching tonight,’ Astarion promises you. ;This is what I want to give you.’

Once he’s assured that you’re fine, Astarion begins moving inside you. You still feel overly full. It’s almost difficult to breathe, that you’re so aware of how deep his cock is inside of you  —  as if it’s the first time you’ve experienced him before. He murmurs encouragement into your hair and ruts further and further, but when you press your fingers against his biceps, you can feel how he’s shaking too.

‘Let me be yours,’ you say softly, eyes fluttering closed. ‘Let me be with you, Astarion, please.’

‘You are my pretty consort,’ Astarion says fiercely. ‘You belong to me, and I to you.’

His consort, his knight. The one he comes home to, that he ignores all the other lovely people at court for. The idea of it makes your blood warm, makes you feel a little wild and different. You rock your hips back against Astarion’s. Feeling him lose what little of his control pushes you over the edge. You start mumbling nonsensically, thank you, thank you, my prince, my star, thank you, I feel it, Astarion and he growls low in the bottom of his throat. His hips stutter against yours and you know with a little wiggle, you could make him spend then and there.

It’s only when Astarion pushes into you as far as he can go, the tip of his cock pressed as deep into your core as you can handle it, that you remember what a devout worshiper you are. You’re fully aware of how your spine protests the way your back arches up off the bed. You feel Astarion’s mouth hot and desperate against the side of your throat, his hands slowly sliding down your skin to grip your hips, the tips of his fingers digging in harshly to the curve of your ass.

When you dare meet his gaze, you’re mesmerized. 

Astarion has always been the most beautiful person you’ve ever set eyes on. The height of his cheekbones, the way they flush when you moan his name. His uneven smile, the way his teeth point when he laughs. His intense eyes that take in even your faintest moves. He is sharp and calculated, cunning and keen on dramatics  —  but underneath, you can see the gentler side. The warmth in his gaze. The way he laughs ugly with you instead of with practiced finesse. You fit rather well together. Perfectly, like a puzzle. Intoxicatingly. He catches you staring and his breath catches in his throat.

You must be quite the sight as well. Astarion always lavished you with the utmost attention, often buying you things you’d never need as a knight. Rings, gowns, circlets and other finery to wear with him on your occasional strolls through Baldur’s Gate when you were off-duty and carefree.

You feel nearly feral at this moment. It takes all your self-control to not rake your nails down his spine or bite his shoulder because you’re too full and he’s too much and you’re almost certain you’re going to explode, but you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him tighter to you until there’s almost nothing else he can do that grind uselessly, desperate sounds coming from both of your mouths as you try to hold on just a little longer.

Without thinking, without caution, you whisper, ‘Inside  —  Tonight, I want you to  —  ’

‘Gods,’ he chokes out. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

‘Please,’ you beg. ‘I’ve been good. I’ve been  —  ’

Astarion burrows his face against your collarbone, whining unceremoniously. That’s when you can feel it, his cum, hot and warm, so wonderful and dizzying that you also forget to be dignified. Your fingers stutter against his skin, and if it was painful to experience, the only proof is the way Astarion hisses at the burn and coils dangerously beneath your touch.

‘That’s it,’ he soothes proudly. ‘You’ve done well, my sweet.’

You murmur, ‘So much.’

‘Don’t tease me,’ Astarion says. He pouts his bottom lip. ‘You’re quite beautiful, you know.’

‘Not as beautiful as you,’ you say.

‘Well,’ Astarion allows with a small laugh, ‘I am rather perfect, I agree.’

He groans when he pulls away from you, brow furrowed in concentration. He trembles with exertion, and whatever other plans he might have had are forgotten, for Astarion drops down into his sheets beside you in all his naked and exhausted glory and presses close to you, an arm thrown over your waist.

A pang of guilt hits you at the sight of his closed door. Your armor is thrown carelessly across this floor, and while you wish you could enjoy this moment of bliss with him, you must continue to do your actual duty of guarding the prince. You move, delicate, to stand up. Astarion wraps his other arm around you.

‘Where are you going?’ he demands tiredly. ‘The sun is not yet up. Come back.’

‘My post  —  ’

‘Fuck your post,’ he snorts. ‘Your only duty is to lie in my bed and look pretty.’

You open your mouth to protest, but Astarion fusses. It’s hard to deny him even though you know only what the Captain of his Kingsguard has instilled in you. The moonlight is a gorgeous embellishment on his skin, and the ridges of his body are enticing enough that you forget your vows for the time being. Your heart squeezes at the tenderness. Astarion welcomes you back into his arms without further complaint. It’s your turn to tuck your head against his shoulder, basking in the warmth of his body as he cradles you close.

‘This is where you belong,’ Astarion tells you plainly. ‘You and I belong in bed having forgotten our other duties forevermore. The kingdom may fall to rot and ruin for all I care. As long as I have you, I care not.’ He touches your hip.  ‘I know what you must be thinking. That it isn’t that easy. But it is that easy. I’m the prince and I want it to be so. I see our fate in my dreams.’

You allow yourself to daydream and doze for the moment. He’s murmuring sweet things into your hair, and your eyes are so heavy you know when you close them, it’ll be hard for you to wake up if you give in. The ache in your muscles is comforting. It’s a reminder of all the ways Astarion has ever had you, and you can’t help but wonder if this really is where your life was always meant to head.

You do fall asleep. Despite your best efforts to stay awake, you fall into a peaceful slumber with Astarion’s hand petting your spine. When you next awake, Astarion is no longer at your side. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring out of the window watching as dawn begins to peek through.

He hasn’t left you entirely alone. He’s draped his many fancy satin blankets over you and somehow managed to coax your head onto a pillow without waking you. You’re almost inspired to fall back asleep at the sight, but the view of Astarion basking in an orange glimmer keeps you from entering the depths of your mind once more.

‘No,’ Astarion says. He’s smiling. ‘Don’t move. I like the way you look.’

‘And how do I look, your highness?’

‘Sated.’

‘Come back to me, my love,’ you say. You try to hold one of your hands out, but you’re still so very tired from before. You press your cheek further into the pillow. ‘’m cold.’

‘I was thinking,’ he says.

‘Enough thinking,’ you whine. ‘I miss you beside me.’

‘Promise me something first.’

‘What shall I promise?’

‘That when I am king, you will help me create my new world,’ Astarion says, peering affectionately at you from over his shoulder. ‘A world where you are both my shield and my consort. A world where no one else like us has to get hurt.’

You start to sit up at that, blood suddenly rushing to your head as you try to think of what he means. Were you not already his Shield, extending your Sword to his greatest foes? Were you not already his Consort in all but proper name? You furrow your eyebrows, too sleepy and overwhelmed, but Astarion is quick to come to your side, to press kisses into your hair and against your ear and at the tears on your cheeks.

‘When I am king, there will be no need for us to hide like this,’ Astarion promises, petting his hand comfortingly down your spine. He shushes you. ‘I will sit on the throne and you will sit beside me.’ When he’s certain you’re done crying, he adds, ‘Or in my lap, if you prefer.’

Somehow, there’s only one thing you can manage to say. ‘I love you.’

‘And I love you,’ Astarion says. ‘That’s why I will do this for us.’

‘Will it go well?’

He hums. ‘Of course it will go well. I will be king. I will make it go well.’

You say again, ‘I love you.’

‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’

‘I promise,’ you say, ‘to help you.’

‘Then say no more, my love,’ he whispers. He kisses the side of your throat again and slowly pulls his silk sheets away from your skin. The cold morning air leaves a trail of gooseflesh down your spine, and he tastes every knot of it with his mouth and tongue. He gives you commands, ‘Let me have you again. You’re so beautiful in the morning light. I need you now more than ever. Gods, the things you do to me.’

You rock your hips back to meet his. It’s an alluring situation straight from your wildest, most longing of dreams  —  a world where you might sit alongside Astarion as he rules, no longer a simple guard dog to follow commands, but something else. Something sweeter.

It was like marriage but better. The thought of you and Astarion rising to godhood through his own determined means rather than falling into the same song the bards often liked to play on unrequited love. You allow him to trace his fingers down your stomach to that place between your legs, your warm core where you’re certain he’s found his divinity. Astarion presses his cock against your lower back and gives into his own avarice. He bites your shoulder almost a touch too rough and leaves a bruise in the shape of his teeth, reveling in your shocked cry.

You want him.

You want to be by his side, to kneel at his feet. You want to watch him dress in the mornings and fall into his arms every evening. You want to place his crown atop his brow. You arch your hips against his waist, and ponder about the creation of the empyrean heavens above. You will guide him to become celestial.

It’s with a near untamed fervor that Astarion tears through his sheets to get to you. He slides his knee beneath yours and pushes it forward, his breath warm and hiccuped against the blade of your shoulder. He doesn’t hurt you and he never would, but he slides his cock inside, the tenderness of earlier forgotten.

‘Be loud,’ he encourages you, groaning, his hand still scrambling against the arc of your belly. He sounds debauched. ‘Let them all hear. Let them know.’

He fucks into you like he wants you both to grow together. One body and one soul. You’re glad for it. It only intensifies the burn from the evening and pushes you to a place you’ve never been before. You’re almost certain you see sparks in your vision, but you do as asked. You don’t swallow down your moans. They’re taut, sharp, staccato ah-ah-ahs that match the sun’s rise.

It’s almost sweet how hard Astarion fucks into you. His princely demeanor is gone now, the control he tries to exhibit. He moans freely as well and kisses without meaning. Your shoulder, the back of your head, the nape of your neck, and he’s babbling things that don’t make sense. But you’re no better. Your cheeks are so warm you’re feverish, hands clenched in his sheets, and the pleasure borders on welcomed pain when he sits up behind you, knee still forcing you to be pliant, as he drags his cock in and out of you from behind. Astarion is watching again, one hand on your lower back, the other on your ass. When you try to hide your face in mild embarrassment, he scolds you.

‘Let me see you,’ Astarion rasps. ‘Let me see, I want to see everything  —  ’

So you let him, shifting and arching as much as your back will let you. Your muscles feel strained. Your mind is hardly there. But the prince has asked, and it would be rude of you to not heed his call. It’s not as though it matters. You’re easily distracted by the way he presses himself in and out of you, intoxicated by the gravitational pull he’s created between you. You can’t help but lean into his every touch, to mewl, to whine the exact way he likes.

You wonder what Lord Gortash would think of his loyal dog if he saw it now. You were taught the blade and the bow, how to use a lance and a shield, and you were never meant to be anything more than a warrior given to the ground so that he could get on the good side of the king. There isn’t much of your life you can remember before you were brought to the steps of the throne room and thrown down before the prince and his father. All you remember is looking up and seeing an angel smiling down at you.

So you arch your back and push up into your elbows, looking over your shoulder to catch Astarion’s eyes. He’s constantly looking between your face to make sure you’re alright and looking down at your hips where your bodies meet. He has the audacity to blush. It makes him look sweet and less severe.

‘More  —  ’

The fairest thought you have is that you’re not sure you can take more. There’s something ferocious building in the pit of your stomach, a volatile hunger unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Your almost delirious with how much greed is inside you, how you long to do this all day if you could. Sitting pretty on your hands and knees and belly while Astarion ravishes you  —  forgetting your duties and the kingdom  —  but it’s somehow worse than before when you’re aware that he would do the same. Gone is any sense of decency, replaced by something carnal, something infernal.

Just when you think he might be done with you, Astarion pulls out and drags your body along. He lays handsomely in the center of his pillows, a deep blue and rich satin and silk display, and pulls you into his lap. His bottom lip is ruined from where he’s bitten it in an attempt to maintain control.

He arranges for you as he likes. He tilts his head to the side as if looking upon a painting. Finally, he coaxes you upwards and whispers kind encouragements as you guide and slide his cock back inside of you. You aren’t sure how far it can go, but then it goes deeper and deeper and deeper until you’re sick.

‘Oh,’ you cry sweetly. ‘It’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t  —  ’

‘You can,’ Astarion promises, rubbing his thumb across your hip. ‘You can do anything. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we were created for this.’

You sit atop him, your ass flush against his hips, and try desperately to not squirm in his lap. The wiggling makes it worse, you think. You feel swollen around him. He feels thickest inside of you. And you can’t help but lean forward as he rubbs his hands up and down your spine, kissing your temple and cheek and jaw. You can kiss him better this way. You can taste the sweetness of his mouth, taste his words.

‘I love you,’ you say over and over.

‘I know,’ he murmurs, kissing your tears.

And you do cry in this position, overwhelmed and stuttering. Astarion guides your hips back and forth across his so that he’s not necessarily drilling inside of you, but watching how you dance across his cock. He always watches so intently as if he’s afraid to miss anything you do. He guides you intently, humming, tensing beneath your thighs as you try to balance yourself with your hands on his belly.

Astarion moans at the sight. He sounds positively wrecked. You decide that you want to hear him sing for you again, so you raise your hips this time and slide them back down. You squeeze your eyes shut in concentration, treating it more like trying to hit a tricky shot with an arrow rather than taking and un-taking every inch of his cock. You’re trembling so much that you seek out his hands, guiding them away from your hips so he can tuck them under your thighs for help.

‘Ah,’ Astarion says hoarsely. ‘Fuck.’

And that’s how he helps you, his hands helping carry your weight so that you can bounce on his cock and enjoy every minute of it. The physical strain is worth it. You know Astarion likes to watch, possessive of the way you look and ride, and his eyes shine with a certain kind of deviance that you’ve grown to love.

It’s a long way from where you started as a poor soul standing on the steps, but you lean forward and kiss your raison d'être on his open mouth, savoring the way his bruised lip tastes in your mouth, enjoying just how much he enjoys you. The sunlight warms your skin and basks Astarion in a golden glow, so impossibly handsome that they should write songs about the way he looks after a night of lovemaking. He groans, trapping your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard enough you’re almost certain he’s drawn blood.

You don’t mind it. You welcome the rougher things, enjoy them as much as he does. You lean back, hands now behind you on his thighs, and try to not feel too self-conscious about how open you’re being with your body. You’re encouraged to do it. His reactions are what drive you to be better. Because Astarion’s eyes widen slightly to take in the sight of your legs spread apart as you sit on his cock, your skin shining with a delicate veil of sweat. He comes with a rough moan.

Gods, you could listen to the sound of him all day.

You fall forward onto Astarion’s chest. Your limbs feel like nothing after a night of increasingly more difficult sex, but it’s worth it for the way he spoils you after. Astarion kisses you nice and slow, lips and tongue and teeth, as if an apology for the roughness you willingly endured. He cradles you close to his body. He always seeks your warmth, always tries to press as close as he can.

It’s your turn to preen under his careful ministrations. Astarion pushes your sweaty hair back from your face and runs the tips of his fingers across your cheekbones and forehead, following the delicate lines of your bone structure. He lightly pinches your cheeks as if to savor the heat of your blush, but it doesn’t hurt when he does it. He kisses them better. He helps you slide back down into his sheets and takes note of the mess, smoothing his fingers against the bruises and love bites he’s left as gifts against your skin.

Astarion takes gentle care as he lifts your hand. He admires the ring on it and watches as he slides his fingers into yours so that his ring can crowd the empty spaces of your fingers. He kisses the back of your hand like a proper prince and then unceremoniously collapses down by your side, boneless and lazy.

‘You’ve made a mess,’ you accuse him sleepily.

‘I made you happy,’ Astarion corrects.

You reach out and touch his throat. ‘You’ve ruined your sheets.’

‘These sheets are perfect, my love,’ he murmurs. ‘Just like you.’

Later in the morning, after you’ve rested again despite your attempts to stay awake, you’re coaxed back into existence by Astarion’s lips dancing softly against the nape of your deck. You’re almost certain he’s going to ask for more  —  a thought that startles you  —  but instead he lifts you from the depths of his blankets and carries you to a bathing tub in the corner of his quarters. He lowers you into freshly warmed water, and you try to not let how much you long for him show.

‘The maids  —  ’

‘They’ve seen you,’ he says with a shrug. ‘But they did not care. You should have heard the way they swooned over us.’

He lavishes you again with rose petals and fancy perfumes and soaps. He guides a cloth over your skin and even massages a rather determined knot in your hip. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. You’d let him pamper you for the next month if you could.

‘I will have you like this often,’ Astarion warns. ‘Tonight. Every night. You have no idea what you’ve done to me. It’s like you’ve enchanted me.’

He’s climbed in with you at this point, tucked behind you so that he can style your hair in a plait. He likes the way it’s gotten long. You can tell how hard he’s thinking by how silent he is. His fingers trickle water down your spine and occasionally trace the shape of a petal against your skin. You shiver and allow him these idle distractions, basking in his touches and singing while he allows himself to wander in his lost thoughts. You fall asleep again briefly, lulled into a dream by the warmth and the relaxing scents of the many perfumes and Astarion humming softly in your ear.

Astarion washes your chest again to avoid having to leave the bath. He’s in one of his contemplative moods, eyes somewhere a thousand miles away, lips twisted in curiosity. You would’ve stayed forever as well, but the water is slowly getting colder and you’re beginning to shiver. You look over your shoulder at him. You watch as his eyelashes flutter and close as if he too is moments away from falling asleep, but then you see it. A sign of melancholic hope.

‘You and I belong together,’ you tell him.

‘We are the greatest match together the world has ever seen,’ Astarion agrees. ‘There is no one else.’

‘It is an honor,’ you say. You catch a petal in your palm and show him.

He pulls your fingers up to his mouth with his own hand guiding you. He kisses your palm and the petal, and then each of your fingertips one by one.

‘I’m doing this for you, you know,’ he murmurs.

‘You are doing this for us,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘We are a family.’

‘We are more than a family,’ he insists. ‘We are more than lovers. Our souls belong together.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you say.

Whatever world Astarion is imagining, you’re beginning to see it too. A world where being a king means more than throwing extravagant parties and hosting masquerades and balls and ignoring those in need. Astarion cares because you care, and that makes your heart squeeze dangerously. You are with Astarion when he usurps his father’s court. He had called them weak-willed men in front of his own council, his lip curled in distaste. They had allowed a shadow ruler to take his father’s place for years, had controlled the crown like a puppeteer would his prized puppet. And now, Astarion has pulled together enough favor to overthrow those who had betrayed him, who had betrayed you, and who had betrayed Baldur’s Gate most of all.

‘I believe you are sitting in my chair,’ Astarion calmly tells Ketheric Thorm.

The removal of the pretenders is fairly certain. Ketheric’s own daughter Isobel aids in his arrest. The installation of Astarion’s council is relatively easy with such esteemed replacements. Wyll Ravengard takes his father’s place as Lord Commander of the Flaming Fist. Karlach takes Enver Gortash’s place as leader of the city guard, betrayed as you were, and her eyes burn with heat when she pulls him from his tower. Gale and Shadowheart had been planning the entire thing for years behind the scenes, favoring Astarion against the old court. All you do is stand beside Astarion with your hand on the hilt of your blade though no one dared raise their arms against him.

Astarion’s coronation takes place later that week, and even with all the planning, he does not allow you to stray from his side. You are with him when meeting with the emissaries Lady Lae’zel and Lord Halsin and Lady Jaheira. You are with him during his fittings. You are with Astarion the night before when he fucks you so hard you see stars.

You are there the day of his coronation. He is dressed in brilliant reds and off-whites and wears a crown with rubies. You stand alongside him in the armor he commissioned for you styled after Dame Aylin’s and hold the sword gifted to you from the crown.

It is a wedding as well.

A wedding of peace and resilience. A wedding of love and understanding.You drop down before him to one knee and swear anew your vows, though now they taste sweeter on your tongue.  I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm, the Consort of the Chosen. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. When you rise, Astarion kisses you.

[moodymisty]

𝕴 𝖉𝖔𝖓’𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐, 𝖆𝖘 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖘 𝖎𝖙’𝖘 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖒𝖊

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Part 1, part 2, Part 3

Author’s note: Time for the dicking, enjoy.

Summary: Cato Sicarius continues to fume over Primarch Guilliman's diplomat, unable to hide his disdain; But neither you or himself are wise to how he truly feels.

Relationships: Cato Sicarius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Degradation, Sexism/misogyny, Choking, Size difference, Toxic relationship, inadequate foreplay and aftercare, Dubious consent, Sicarius is a virgin because like... he's a space marine but also he's not going to admit that to you lmao, Please remember this is not me like slandering Sicarius or something this is just my kink

tWord count: 5240

Cato Sicarius makes his way down the main thoroughfare of the Macragge’s Honour, helmet tucked in the crook of his left arm. His cape flows behind him just barely dusting over the ground, the shine of his sword catching every glint of light. He walks with purpose, head held high.

Cato Sicarius is ever the epitome of Ultramarine valor.

His dutiful walk is interrupted by something catching his eye however, as he looks out towards a myriad of docked ships. One is being refueled- an action that in and of itself is not wholly unusual - and he sees Ultramarines preparing to board it.

Second Company, Ultramarines. He recognizes their regalia, and some of the men armoured and prepared to be loaded in. Titus is among them; A face and set of armor he instantly recognizes despite his preference not to.

But... What are Second Company Ultramarines doing preparing to board a landing ship without his leadership, or at least knowhow?

With a newfound haste, he approaches the landing ship and catches the attention of the first marine that passes by.

“Yes, Captain Sicarius?” Sicarius gestures to the ship with his right hand, still holding his helm with the other.

“What is happening that’s deployed some of Second Company that I am somehow not aware of?”

The marine looks at him with a very odd expression, that Sicarius can't seem to place. He looks back towards his fellows for a moment, of whom give Captain Sicarius the proper respect when they realize they've caught his eye. The young marine he had questioned speaks up and regains his attention, Sicarius turning to look back at him.

“Lord Guilliman has us as retinue for the lady diplomat. She’s in charge of negotiating planetside with the local population.”

You.

Of course it’s you. Sicarius laments that it’s never anyone else. Since the day Guilliman requested your assistance to the day he kept you aboard this ship, he’s found your existence at best annoying, and at worst absolutely infuriating.

He is worth more than escorting around baseline diplomats, as are his men; But why don’t they seem to mind?

Titus doesn’t mind; but Titus is a scavenger seeking anyone who will blindly trust him after his incident, in Sicarius’ eyes. To think the man had once served as captain.

Sicarius turns away from the marine with nary a farewell and begins to make his way to Lord Guillman’s study with haste, his ceramite boots freshly cleaned thunder on the ground and rattle the metal tiles.

When Sicarius arrives at the doors to Guilliman’s chambers the guard in front lets him pass without issue, given his rank. Sicarius wouldn’t be here if he didn’t consider the matter important.

Though when he enters and announces himself to his primarch, Guilliman looks up from flimies and parchments with an expression Sicarius can only describe has bland.

“Have I misheard that some of Second Company are leaving without a captain?” Guilliman steadies his soul and looks at him with a dour expression.

“No, you haven’t. I have Lieutenant Titus currently serving as their leader. I made the decision not an hour ago.” So Titus was not only involved, he was leading the front. Unlike your previous escorts, where he had merely served under Sicarius.

“You have a lieutenant serving in my stead? Do I have no voice in this?” Guilliman leans upright, abandoning his materials and any hope of continuing to go through them.

“I have a lieutenant serving in your stead because you have an attitude that has become uncharacteristic of this legion.” He gestures plainly to his table, and unconscious action to emphasize his words.

“Were you not one the most gifted fighters this legion has seen, I would consider your attitude problem beginning to exceed your worth,” Guilliman continues. “The woman is staying. She serves a purpose for me to trust with less important tasks and if you cannot handle that, then I will assign another to lead her retinue in your stead.”

Sicarius boils in his armor at his primarch's words, like he's been spit in the face. His face grows hot with anger, though he holds his tongue.

Does Guilliman really put so much value on you? You're nothing but a weak little inconvenience that must be escorted around to avoid being killed by even the simplest of things, how can a primarch possibly trust you so much? Enough to waste so many resources, like Astartes that should be in the field of battle, just to keep you alive?

You must've done a great job at convincing him of your own importance, slotting yourself right close to his side. Have you seduced him the same way you seduced his men, with the delicate fabrics of your dresses that tight wrap around your waist and soft hands that contrast with scarred ceramite plates? Do you have your eyes set on larger goals?

No. How dare he think such a thing of his primarch; To think he would be so weak as to fall of the wiles of such a woman.

Sicarius clears his throat, and then regains the composure he had so nearly lost.

"Very well."

Sicarius leaves his Primarch's study when Guilliman nods at him, a cue that he understands the conversation is concluded. The dark red fabric of his cape billows behind him as he walks, the bottom frayed from years of dependable use.

He is sure you've departed by now to the surface of the planet they now orbit. He can see the top half of the planet through the windows as he looks out, past the space debris. He stops for a moment, as serfs, servitors and servoskulls pass him by.

He wonders what you're doing down there, before he swiftly pushes it from his mind.

The rest of Second Company that are not currently on active duty are now currently in their daily training, and Sicarius makes himself busy by attending in person; Standing like a shadow watching and inserting himself or his voice where needed.

He hopes his presence even occasionally prevents any of the men from slacking, as even the most minor error can cause irreparable damage to his men, their battle brothers, and perhaps even worse. Minor slip ups are not something Ultramarines will tolerate, not even once.

After a few hours, Sicarius decides to take his leave once many of the men currently training put down their arms to eat their meal of the day. Sicarius purposely takes a different path than them, to avoid bunches of young, talkative marines. Neophytes are even worse, though thankfully he hasn't had to deal with them today.

While walking, he hears a voice that stands out through the sounds of ceramite boots on the ground, and the hum of machinery.

"I don't mean to be disrespectful to any of you all, but I would pay anything to see that."

It’s you. He recognizes your tone of voice.

Sicarius slows his walk slightly, eyes glancing to the left at the branching hall that will soon connect with the one he walks down. That's where the voices must be coming from, as an astartes laughs.

"We all still give the new ones a hard time about it. Not all of us had the most smooth transition into wearing our armor."

Another marine laughs, as they continue to walk.

"We fall over for Macragge!"

Sicarius reaches the apex where the two halls collide, and sees you with the same squad of marines that he had seen you leave with. Titus included. You're all smiling; Though the smiles fade from the astartes faces completely and turn to expected stoicism upon getting noticed by their captain. You loose your smile as well, and nod politely at him.

"Captain Sicarius."

You all say, greeting him. He glances at them, a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He only casts you a brief glance, before he forces himself to look away.

"You all returned quite quickly."

You nod, and Sicarius doesn't know why he's upset over your change in disposition. The marine behind you speaks for you, his ashy blonde hair sticking to his forehead from the pressure of his helmet.

"It went well, Captain. We are on our way to report to Lord Primarch Guilliman."

Sicarius hums.

"Very well. Get on with it then."

Sicarius continues walking by, gripping the pommel of his chainsword tight as you all disappear from view, in the direction of the bridge. As he continues to walk, he figure you’ve all made it there by now, if not already left.

He wonders how the conversation went.

Did Primarch Guilliman praise you all? Compliment you for you diplomatic talents? The Primarch has a surprising amount of trust in you, for a baseline human. He has had no shortage of good things to say about your dedication and work ethic, how well you’ve helped him in this new Imperium- As Lord Guilliman uniquely calls it.

Is he the only one that feels this way? Why does no one just understand? Why is he alone in this?

The lights in the halls are dimming slightly; The marines are all beginning to sleep. Sicarius decides to quit wandering with no goal and get his armour removed, before returning to his quarters and getting some rest. Perhaps that will make him a bit less irritated at every little thing that manages to get under his skin.

It hasn't worked in the past, but he isn't apposed to giving it another chance. At least he wasn't the one who had to escort you, though he knows that it would've been significantly easier to assassinate Primarch Guilliman's prized diplomat without him there.

He should’ve been there. He should’ve been at your side, not Titus, he thinks as he has his armored removed piece by piece. The serfs and tech priests treat every piece with respect, as they should. Once they carefully hand him his robe, he slings it over his shoulders putting it on before stepping down the two steps away from the armouring machinery and leaving. The walk is short, and it isn’t long before the captain can slouch his shoulders once safely behind the privacy of his own door.

Sicarius’ quarters as one would expect are befitting of his rank; A singular habitation suite occupied by him alone. The bed is more than large enough for a man of his stature, and he sits on it in only his linen robes before taking them off and throwing his legs fully onto the bed.

He has five hours before he needs to wake. Tomorrow shouldn't be a day filled with too many unknowns and busywork. He hopes. But no matter how much he thinks it, sleep just won’t come. At least not full sleep; He could do as he does in the field and let only parts of his brain rest, but that isn’t what he wants. Normally he can fall asleep within moments after he closes his eyes as he's trained himself to do, but now he finds himself staring at the ceiling, flexing his fingers.

His palms are sweating. Sicarius wonders if he's getting ill, as he realizes much of his skin feels warmer than usual.

He takes few slow, deep breaths. The way he would when trying to get partial sleep in the field. But it doesn't work, and he finds himself leaning up to sit.

One of his hands presses against his bare thigh, as he slouches. The muscle and fat of his stomach folds as he runs a hand through his cropped hair.

He wonders what you're doing right now. You sleep for a few hours longer than the marines do, and when he had voiced up about it, Guilliman had told him baseline humans need more sleep than them to function at their peak. You had joked to one of his men once however that you didn't always sleep for all that time, sometimes you would work while in bed.

Sicarius growls and shakes his head.

Why does no matter for how briefly he lets his minder wander, it goes back to you? He can't even clear his mind for a moment before it's back on you, what you're doing, the way you look at the people around you; But not at him.

Why?

What do you see in all of them that you don't see in him? He is Cato Sicarius; The commander of the Victrix Honour Guard, the Grand Duke of Talassar, the Master of the Watch. Yet you cast your whoreish gaze to the likes of Titus, a demoted marine with a permanent stain upon his name.

You treat him with respect, issue the bare minimum conversation needed to communicate, before leaving him. Is he not enough for you? Are you scared of him? Why does the idea of you fearing him illicit a feeling that seems negative?

He knows he shouldn't care. That this is all meaningless, but he can't help but want an answer. Why do you keep your most whoreish and sweet smiles for others? Perhaps you know he is too well disciplined to even bother trying. And so you toy with the others, sitting beside them as they shadow you with massive sets of armor, holding a gauntlet of which you can only grasp two fingers.

Sicarius shifts slightly, and feels the way his lower body is tight; He’s hard, pressing against his inner thigh. He feels disgusted with himself that he's allowed this to happen.

You just keep clouding his mind like some sort of malignancy that he can’t remove.

Damn it all.

Sicarius rises from his bed and lets his feet hit the floor, dressing himself before leaving his personal quarters not two hours after he entered.

He knows where your own quarters are by memory despite having never actually entering, storming by anyone in his path to get there. When he does, it’s easy enough for him to override the door lock and enter himself, closing it behind him.

You are just rising in your bed as the door hisses shut, the fabric of your clothes molding to your skin.

You’ve taken off the underclothing for your chest- Sicarius doesn’t know the name - and he can clearly see the outline of your breasts through your clothes.

“What is t- Captain Sicarius?”

He storms closer and as his face becomes more illuminated by the soft light at your bedside, you see his seething expression distorting his stubble-ridden face. The papers you must’ve been working on are sitting on the small table to your side, having been recently abandoned in favor of sleep.

“You."

He points at you and you can almost see the finger shake from how furious he is. Your lips are parted slightly as your mouth gapes from surprise, wide eyes looking between his hand and him.

"You are little more than an Ultramarine branded harlot.”

Your face is shocked and surprised, Sicarius heeds none of it. He can hear your heart racing in his ears as he approaches more and grasps the front of your clothing, pulling it away from your chest. For a brief moment he feels the soft pillowy nature of your breasts pressing against his knuckles, before the fabric is pulled away.

"Captain Sicarius, I, what do you think you're doing?"

He hears you stutter, the crack in in your voice. Now of all times you become shy? Not when you were pressing your hands to Titus' armor and complimenting him? Like you’re begging him to ravish you? Not when you have one of the young, fresh marines toss out a hand for you to grab so you don’t fall?

“I am sick of you throwing yourself at my men like some faithless degenerate. If you want it so badly, then I will give it to you.”

Sicarius leans forward, putting his knee on the bed while he shoves you back down into it. Your head thumps against the pillow, bouncing as the massive astartes moves to cage you underneath him.

Both of you have always been well aware of the size difference of all the astartes of the Macragge's honour, and Guilliman himself; Other than the serfs, occasional other diplomat or Imperial pskyer, everyone aboard the ship towers over you. It is particularly apparent with Sicarius, who shadows you in the near dark with a body significantly wider and taller than your own. He’d never realized just how small you were; Both of his massive hands could circle your entire waist.

“Throwing myself? What are you t-“

The speed in which Sicarius moves a hand to your jaw is enough to pull the air from your lungs.

“Quiet, whore.”

Your hands latch onto his arm, pulling at solid muscle. It doesn’t budge in the slightest, your palms sliding over scars, hair, and the metal of his interface ports. It feels like barely anything at all, your touch is so feather light and soft.

Pulling his hand away from your jaw he reaches and grabs a handful of the fabric of your nightgown, pulling it upward roughly. You could hear the sound of multiple stitches snapping, fabric now bunched at your stomach.

The air on the ship is always cold, but a shiver runs through you as you feel the hot skin of his hand on your waist.

He’s never actually touched you before. He’s never felt your skin with his own, the most he’s done is grab your shoulder with his gauntlets on to guide you someplace. You’re even more fragile that he would expect, you’re nothing compared to his hardened bones and you feel as if you’ll break apart in his hand. Your back arches up to fit his fingers between you and the bed, breathing heavily. Your attire always left little to his imagination, but it’s still different to actually feel.

“How are you still so soft after all this time,” He grumbles.

You have a less taxing job than many aboard the ship, but Sicarius knows that if you could have your way, you’d lay back and let the marines of your retinue use you. If you aren’t already, the way his men follow you around like dogs instead of acting like the way the Emperor’s Angels should gives doubt. The mere thought makes him jealo- furious; For his men not himself, he thinks as he grabs a fistful of his robes.

The front of most astartes robes are tied or wrapped, and so it doesn't take any sort of intense effort from Sicarius to pull the fabric apart, pressing his bare skin to your own.

It’s so hot; It's like his blood is boiling just below the surface of his skin. But is it because of his anger, how much he seems to hate you for reasons indiscernible, or because of something you can feel pressing against your thigh? His cock is already completely hard, tip wet and leaking precum as it slides up your thigh.

He only needs to do this once; Break this curse you have on him. He needs to be able to be around you like are aren't suffocating him.

With little regard Sicarius slips his hand between your thighs and only briefly notes how soft they are, the pillowy flesh of your inner thighs presses against his hand like a blanket rather than hard muscle.

"Sicarius, are you really not going to explain yoursel-"

Your voice cuts off with a shaky inhale as his fingers slip between your outer folds, soft wet velvety skin covered by his hand. It isn't long after his initial touch that his fingers find your entrance and he pushes one inside.

You feel so much softer than he had imagined. So soft that even he in his anger is unconsciously more gentle than he expected, forcing his finger deep into you down to the hilt until his palm presses against you. Your body wraps around him like velvet fabric, warm and hot. When he moves, your thighs tense and shake, but you're still trapped in the cage made by his body.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," He says, and you quickly combat him with:

"You do when you storm into my room and try to-"

He pushes a second finger inside of you, and your throat shakes with a moan as you feel that aching stretch of being just under your limit. He feels the way you tighten around him, and even in his lack on knowhow, Sicarius can tell that it will be a tight fit for him inside you.

Why do you have to be so damn small? It just furthers his worri- complaints that you're so easily hurt, and need to be so heavily protected from even minor damage.

Even he's hurt you, he can see the bruise starting to blossom on your jaw where he grabbed you a bit too hard, though you don't seem to mind. You're too busy panting, grasping at his arms as his two fingers curl inside your cunt. It's like you're trying to pull him in deeper, you just want more and more because you're his little wh-

Perhaps impatient, Sicarius pulls his two fingers from you and feels the way your thighs tremble, and the way you've covered his fingers and some of his palm in that sweet stickiness. For the briefest, most minute moment, he wonders how it might taste.

His wipes them off on the blankets below him, before grabbing your hips and pulling you closer to him. You can feel the weight of his cock against your inner thigh until he moves to slide it along your folds, slicking himself with the wetness he pulled from you. Suddenly Sicarius shakes his head, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

The room smells, entrenched in this sweet, salty smell that radiates from you in waves. It's intoxicating, the way it screams at him that you want to be fucked, you want to be turned over bent over you little whore you just want him finally you want h-

Sicarius presses the head of his cock against your entrance and pushes slightly, feeling the way he can slowly sink into your tight heat once he pops past the tight ring of your entrance. Though it is still a stretch. Astartes are big, and they match suitably. Your neck is tense, collarbone prominent as your muscles flex.

"Fuck- that's, that's too big..."

He only manages to force half of his cock into you when you already start complaining about feeling full, it being too much, but he continues to push and go farther beyond until you feel like he's threatening to push into your stomach.

"You'll take it- I'm not leaving till you do."

Eventually his hips press against the back of your thighs when he's fully sheathed inside of you, and he can hear your breath rattle in your lungs and your singular heartbeat against your ribcage like the pistons in an engine. Badum badum badum, he hears as his cock throbs inside of you.

Sicarius pulls himself out barely halfway before flicking his hips back towards you, listening to the way you suddenly keen underneath him. You tighten and leak around him, your pillowy cunt swallowing him whole. He hears the sound of his own skin slapping against your own as he drives himself deeper, and each time you squeal as his massive body forces your thighs apart.

"By the t- Sicarius,"

You can't help the way you tense, your stomach turns and tightens in knots as the head of his cock threatens to knock against your cervix. He can see tears pricking in your eyes; You don't get to whine about him being too much, you wanted this, you begged for it with those pretty dresses and sweet smiles, you wanton harlot. You keep begging, as your hands grip his thick forearms to keep yourself steady as he thrusts into you.

He had imagined once what it would be like to rip those dresses off of you, and the curse of his memory means he'll never forget that pondering. He'd have to wrap you in the fabric of his cape, hiding your body from everyone but him-

"You're too big, I can't-"

You're whining, tears prick your eyes but your cunt is soaked, leaking down his cock, your well thought out words and demure voice turned into helpless ramblings as you lay beneath him thighs spread for your better, your superior; Pulling him in with your greedy cunt.

"You can," He grips your hip tight and pulls you to meet him halfway into his thrust and listens to you let out a broken moan. "And you will."

Your eyes have been fluttering open and closed for much of this, unable to look at him directly in the eyes for long. But even now Sicarius' eyes drift downward, distracted by the shape of your barely parted lips. They're so soft looking, unscarred, and he finds himself pulled in before he even realizes.

Sicarius finally kisses you for the first time, pressing his lips to yours as his hips smack against your thighs. He rests on his forearm to get lower, while his other hand still grips your waist.

You’re frozen at first, before your hands move to knit into his cropped hair and you press back into him. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he bleeds- tasting metal before it instantly coagulates. He’s rough, forceful- his teeth are dangerously close to hitting your own, he catches your bottom lip between his and hears the way you whimper.

“Cato…”

You speak against his lips, the bow of his upper lip brushing across your own. The stubble against his jawline scratches your skin, as your lips grow puffier from his less than gentle treatment of them.

He pulls away from you, your spit on his lips while his forehead rests on yours.

“I, I thought you hated me,”

You say, nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck, just above the scars he has from the surgery for his black carapace. If the light was brighter in your room, you might've been able to see the grayish tint to his skin where you could see it underneath the surface. His voice sounds angry and confused when he responds.

...Does he hate you?

“I… don’t know.” His voice almost tremors, confused within himself.

If not for the circulated air of the Macragge's Honour always being so frigid, you're sure you would feel even hotter than you already did, as Sicarius traps you in a cage beneath him, radiating body heat. His arm rests close to your head, while the other grips your hip to keep him from accidentally pushing you away as he humps into you.

His forehead slides from your own to the side of your head, and you can hear his heavy breathing in your ear as he pushes his cock deeper into you than anything else has previously. The wet noises and skin on skin fill the previously silent room other than the humming of pipes in the ceiling and walls, and the sound of animalistic grunting from an astartes you thought hated you.

He does hate you. He hates you so much for doing this to him, but he's the one who's failing, who fell to the temptation rutting into you like an animal-

Sicarius groans as you somehow get even tighter than you were, feeling the way a shiver runs through your entire body as you cum on him. Your nails leave little marks that will leave in moments, though he knows the smell of your wet cunt will stick on him far longer.

"By the throne, you are too damn tight,"

Sicarius continues through it even as you gasp, nails digging into his skin. He goes faster and faster, your soft skin will surely be bruised tomorrow but you keep begging for more, as he snaps his hips into you and pushes himself as deep as he can possibly go. He lets out a shaking groan, and you feel him finally empty himself inside of you.

It's hot, there's so much; You feel limp underneath him as he keeps cumming inside of you. When he slowly tries to pull out you whimper, the feeling of emptiness and the way the moment the head of his cock slips out of you, the seed he left behind slowly dribbles out of you and onto the bed.

Sicarius, for a man barged into your room and humped into you like an animal in rut, clams up the emotions he showed to much of and looks away.

“You should wash. Titus will be able to smell me on you.”

You look up at him confused, leaning up just slightly before stopping. He can see spit from his kisses on the corners of your mouth, lips swollen and hair messy.

“Why would that matter?”

Sicarius goes to laugh, though he quickly cuts it off when he notices that instead of becoming angry like you normally would, you get withdrawn.

“You don’t think he’ll mind that his cute little diplomat is off with other Astartes?”

The collar of your nightdress is stretched and uneven, and you push down the bottom of it away from your stomach so it covers the mess he left between your legs. Or you at least try to, but you grimace when you attempt to lift your hips enough to push it down. Sicarius leans forward and gently tugs on it for you, snapping more seams but succeeding in covering your sore, cum slicked thighs.

"No, Titus was only being nice since he knew I was having trouble dealing with everything that's happened. Primarch Guilliman has been," You look away for a moment at the papers at your bedside, that are now scattered across the floor.

"He's been giving me so much to ease his burdens and believe me I am honoured to serve him, it's just- it's been overwhelming. Titus had just offered me an ear so I could vent." You look at him confused, brow furrowed and lips parted.

"You didn't think we were... Did you?"

Sicarius looks at you, at the concerned expression on your face. Your body is swollen and sore from his abuse even as gentle as he was, he can smell the salt of sweat on your skin.

With one smooth motion Sicarius shifts himself to get off your bed and stand, wrapping his robes about around him in an acceptable enough fashion for a captain.

"Cato?"

You raise up higher, sitting up and curling your legs to the side. He turns to leave, but that damn demure, worried voice of yours stops him. He doesn't even care that you're using his first name, calling him so casually.

"Can you stay for a minute?" He turns and looks at you with that neutral astartes expression.

"Why?" You blow a breath of air through your lips that makes them shake.

"Dammit Cato just, can you? Please?"

He watches you for a moment, as you wipe the corner of your mouth.

Eventually however he turns fully around and walks closer, standing at your bedside and towering over you. You swallow and he can see the knot in your throat move, before you look up at him and start talking.

[ultimate-character-design]

The 2nd Character Design Tournament

Please remember to vote for characters solely based on their design, rather than which character you are more familiar with or like more!

Space Dread | Val and Isaac

“The red one in this image”

Omen | Valorant

“It's me, spreading Valorant propaganda again :P Omen is just really cool overall, he has some really nice voicelines, his colour scheme stands out, and his tiny hood and cape are cool details. Also, he can teleport.”

[tododeku-or-bust]

Recently there been a controversy with a game called Genshin Imapct with a region called Nathan's that is inspired by Pre Colombian Latin American civilizations, some Afrcian, Hispanic, and Aboriginal Australian cultures. And just recently they revealed their characters.

Mavuika and another character named Ororon.

Mavuika (sun glasses woman) is inspired by Mahuika a Maori fire goddes who is known to have a Moko on her chin

This is Ororon from Genshin

He inspired by Olorun an Orisha from Yoruba Tradition

This is also Olorun from Smite

Some are saying it's because of the censorship in China as stated in this post.

However there are two company's that have dark skin characters in their game and they arent being censored; Riot Games who created League of Legends and Valorant and Lilith Games who have created the AFK games and Dislyte (a game inspired by mythology gods and beings)

You can't scream anymore anti blackness and colorism than this!

The post you linked started off incredibly racist regardless of the context lmao. "Don't scream racism because you can't find a character with a skin colour like yours" then don't pull from YORUBA GODS, FROM NIGERIA! Like this isn't like Greek and Roman mythology, where we all fucking know who those people are thanks to the emphasis of these mythologies in a White Western-ran Classics field and in a white supremacist society that deems them worthy of a white connection. I could walk past 2000 white Americans and I can guarantee 1990 of them won't even know what an Orisha is 🙄

I'm sorry but I do not feel like sacrificing any more of my mental health reading further, that first bit pissed me off so bad ik I'm just gonna make myself angrier reading. Yeah it's textbook racism. This is a fictional world with magic and fairies and shit, so i get we're not worried about "geographic accuracy". But what would have been the issue with leaving them looking like the gods they were inspired by, if the island is supposed to be influenced by those real world religions? There wasn't enough skinny pale people in the game lmao?

This is also another one of those examples of how nonblack people of color really irritate me when it comes to solidarity. Because why are you caping so hard for whitewashing. 🙄

[tylermileslockett]

Herakles #3: A Fit of Rage

Now a young man, Herakles embarks on heroic adventures, hunting the lion of Cithaeron for King Thespius, and sleeping with his fifty princess daughters over fifty nights, before capturing the lion and wearing the hide and scalp as a helmet. Returning home, Herakles finds himself defending Thebes against the warring Minyans. Victorious, King Creon’s daughter Megara is given in marriage as a reward for his valor. By her they have three sons.

But Hera still plots vengeance against the descendent of Zeus. She curses Herakles with a fit of violent rage, and, thinking those around him are enemies, he brutally fells his own wife and children with bow and arrows. When he finally awakens from his madness, and realizes what he has done, he is inconsolable.

He exiles himself and finds refuge and purification with his ally, King Thespius, then journeys on to Delphi to consult the Pythia priestess of Apollo, who orders him to atone for his atrocity by serving his cousin, king Eurysthius for twelve years. If successful, he will attain immortality.

According to Apollodorus, the war between Thebes and the Minyans is a grim affair, with Herakles treating his enemies with cruelty when he “cut off their ears and noses and hands, and having fastened them by ropes from their necks” Apollodorus also mentions Herakles receiving divine weapons here: a sword from Hermes, Bow and arrows from Apollo, A golden breastplate from Hephaestus, and a cape from Athena.

When Herakles kills his family, he shatters his own Oikos (paternal line/household), a crucial building block for ancient Greek society. There are two major reasons Herakles is ordered to serve his cousin; first, to atone for the murders of his wife and sons, and thus attain redemption and second, to prove his worth and attain great Kleos (glory/renown), and achieve his highest Arete (potential for human excellence)

Like this art? It will be in my illustrated book with over 130 other full page illustrations coming in October to kickstarter.  to get unseen free hi-hes art subscribe to my email newsletter

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[alitan99]

Superhero AU!! This is Luis as a superhero. His superhero name is Valor :D

He comes with a cape but can save the world without it! Just might be a touch more difficult ^^;

Valor’s cape is disguised as his normal jacket but it can transform into his cape, the cape can then transform into a shield, a lance or his very own trusty steed ^^

[qmabailor]

This is so niche but I'm bored:

Rook, in his feathered hat wearing a Guy Faux mask: I can assure you I mean you no harm.

MC on the ground clutching pepper spray: Who are you?!

Rook: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask.

MC: Well I can see that.

Rook: Of course you can. I am not questioning your powers of observation. I am merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man, Who. He is.

MC: Oh.... right.

Rook: But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace subriquet to suggest the character of this dramatic persona.

*Rook bows and places his cape across his face. Then with a swift swish he "emerges" from behind.*

Rook: Voila! In view a humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This Visage no mere veneer of vanity is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished.

*Rook's words quicken a sense of urgency present in every syllable.*

Rook: HOWEVER, This valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified. And has vowed vanquish these venal and virulent, vanguarding vice and vouchafing the violent and viscious in violation of volition.

*A brief pause. Rook begins again but this time his voice is lower with a slight rasp to it.*

Rook: The only verdict is vengeance, a vendetta. Held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.

Rook: *Chuckles breathlessly* Verily this viscious visage of verbiage veers most verbose. So let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V. *Rook bows to MC*

MC: ..... Are you like a crazy person?

Rook: I am quite sure they will say so.

[peacevine]

valorous cape // 2229360

It is said that this dashing cape is imbued with the magical essence of a long-dead hero of renowned bravery.

[the-lonelybarricade]

My Kingdom Come Undone - (2/3)

Summary: There weren’t many ways Elain was allowed to want. Most things were decided for her, every path laid down before she’d even been born, where she was simply expected to follow. Lucien, with his cunning eyes and smart mouth, was something that no one had chosen for her. And even if she could never have him, that couldn’t stop Elain from wanting him. Desperately.

An Elucien Royal Guard x Princess AU

CW: Explicit content, non-graphic violence

Part I・Read on AO3

-

Elain stood at the dais of the throne room with Lucien’s sword clutched firmly in her hands. The metal, once cool, had gone clammy beneath her grasp, and she tightened her fingers in fear the golden hilt might slip.

Her mother’s court was gathered, expressions betraying their general lack of enthusiasm. It wasn’t a particularly exciting ceremony—at least, not to them. To Elain, it was life changing.

Dim light filtered in through the stained glass windows at her back, which depicted the Mother Goddess and her Cauldron. With Lucien knelt on the white marble floor, he was in perfect position for the rosy light to paint his rich features, burnishing the copper in his hair, warming his skin in complementary hues of red and orange. He looked so painfully lovely, Elain would have believed the Mother was expressing her personal approval of this ceremony.

The knight-to-be had, admittedly, caught her eye several months ago when he first began training with the royal guard. She’d heard he was a squire from the northern parts of their kingdom, with distant relations to one of the lords in the Queen’s court. Allegedly, he’d advanced quickly in his training and had mastered the seven points of agility long before he’d met the age requirement for knighthood. Impressive seemed to be the description of choice for any whisperings involving Lucien. Even Elain’s mother, as a woman who was ill-practiced in praise, seemed to think highly of his valor. So much so, that she decided that on his 21st birthday, he would not only be conferred the status of knighthood, but he would also be assigned as the personal guard of the crown princess.

Though Elain did think his achievements impressive, that certainly wouldn’t be the first word to come to mind when regarding the accolade knelt before her. Handsome, she thought. She liked the color of his hair. Red, but not like the cape on his back. More like a fox’s coat, or the color of the sky just as the sun touched the horizon. It was braided off his face in several sections, collecting in a knot at the back of his head, and she thought it made him look even more rugged than usual. He was dressed in the ceremonial white and royal blue uniform of the royal guard, with a cardinal cape draped over one of his silver pauldrons, stretching proudly behind him. It was the same color of the carnations she had planted the other day, which had conveniently been just across from the barracks

Elain was grateful his head was bowed towards the floor, because she was certain she would have forgotten how to speak, how to stand, if she was subjected to the dark russet and satin gold eyes that had made her breath catch the first time she’d made eye contact with him. This man was going to be her personal guard. Mother help her. She felt tongue tied and he wasn’t even looking at her.

Thankfully, she didn’t need to speak. That was Lucien’s job.

All she needed to do was stop her hand from shaking as she extended the blade to the curve of his shoulder. Lucien didn’t so much as flinch at its touch. He knelt with one arm propped against his raised knee, the other placed on the empty scabbard at his hip. She held her breath as he parted his lips, and the rich timbre of his voice resonated through the hall as he spoke his sacred vow.

Princess Elain, to the Mother Goddess I swear:

I am the shield that will ward off any threat against you.

I am the sword that will fell your enemy’s hand.

I am the justice for those who have harmed you.

And I am, forever, yours to command.

-

Present Day

Lucien had betrayed her.

The most honorable man she knew.

It defied every understanding Elain had of the world. She shut her eyes, for a moment certain that this couldn’t possibly be real. But when she opened them, those leather boots remained. Her mother’s most loyal knight, the man sworn to protect her with his life. Kneeling to Prince Koschei.

Just last night, he had knelt before her. Had—had—

Elain sealed her lips with her palm, raging against the sob rising in her throat. She could do nothing about the tears, but at least they were silent, dribbling down her cheeks in fat droplets that burst against the kitchen tile.

She had trusted him so implicitly. Had loved him—for years. And when she had given her body to him, she had been assured that he at least felt something in regards to her. That he’d cared for her, even if it was just the platonic devotion of a guard.

She did not even have that much.

That sword had cut through more than dirt. He’d pushed it through her heart, pierced that lovely, blossoming feeling in her chest. The memory of their night together shattered, until it was nothing more than scattered fractals of a man using her, discarding her.

Betraying her.

Elain sucked in a harsh breath, struggling for air in this new, smothering reality. The maid squeezed Elain’s arm, moreso in warning than comfort. Now was not the time to unravel, though Elain felt she had little say in the matter. She was a loose thread, unspooling as Lucien raised back to his feet. She stared at those black boots, the color of charcoal. Of a sinking abyss. Of a hollow, empty girl who’d been robbed of all her light.

And then he left. Towards the village, where he believed she was heading. Where she would have headed, because he knew her. Had been learning everything about her for years. How long ago had this been planned? How long had she watched him in adoration, while he was helping plot her downfall?

Eventually, the second pair of boots wandered off as well. Back inside the castle, where her mother and the rest of her court was… dead? Taken prisoner?

“You must go now, your highness,” urged the maid, pushing at her shoulder.

“Where?” Elain cried, voice splitting.

“As far away from the castle you can get. Somewhere they would never look for you.”

Elain still didn’t know where that would be. She would have asked, but she was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the servant’s quarter on the other side of the scullery.

“Go,” the maid hissed.

She gave a hearty shove, forcing Elain to stumble out of the table cloth, onto her hands.

The maid rushed out behind her, scrambling to her feet a moment before Elain, who felt she was doing everything much too slowly as she watched the maid break into a sprint—not towards the door.

Towards the sounds of leering men.

Elain wanted to beg her to stop, to come with, but she didn’t know how to throw her voice so that it reached the maid without alerting the men on the other side. Not that it mattered. The maid reached towards the handle. Elain panicked, reaching blindly towards the table for something to defend herself. An iron skillet, a rolling pin, a—

She yelped, retracting her hand from the sharp object that had sliced her palm. A knife.

It was loud enough for the men to hear, because the maid immediately threw herself against the door, determined to buy her princess time. She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide and, despite her courage, full of fear.

Run, she mouthed.

Blood welled from Elain’s hand, dripping to the floor. It made her feel like a hopeless, wretched coward. But she used her uninjured hand to grab the hilt of the knife and darted out the doors, feeling the sunlight warm her face just as the maid let out a scream so loud, so piercing that it leached into the air Elain swallowed. She choked on it, feeling that pain lodge against the strangling sob that was already building in her throat, constricting her airflow. There wasn’t time to stop. If she did, then the maid would have thrown herself at that door for nothing. And Elain didn’t even know her name. Had been so—so blinded.

And now she had nowhere to go, besides away from the village.

It was too much. It was all too much. And as much as she gasped, not a single breath made it to her lungs. Elain forced herself to keep running instead of clawing at her neckline, trying to force her body to take in the air she was gulping. But soon her lungs started shrieking, desperate for air, and Elain stopped, worried she would suffocate before she even made it past the castle grounds.

Breathe, she could hear a steady voice chide in the back of her mind. But that voice sounded like Lucien, and it only made her want to scream until her throat was raw. Which, by the way each shallow, rapid breath ravaged her throat, would not take very long.

He was the only steadying presence she’d known. And if he was here—and weren’t a liar—he would probably have far too much to say about the way she was hyperventilating in the open.

Why are you panicking? She could hear him ask in that infuriatingly mocking tone. You have plenty of practice hiding from me.

Elain forced herself to raise her head, scanning for better coverage.

That’s it, Lucien would say. The one who hadn’t betrayed her. You’ll be less overwhelmed if you take one step at a time. What’s the first thing you need to do?

Find cover. She could do that. There was the woods, which would present its own set of dangers, but Lucien would certainly never think to look for her inside them. They were in the opposite direction of the village, mostly used for fox hunting. She headed that direction, summoning the memory of the time she’d ranted to Lucien about the annual fox hunt. The wry smile he’d worn, always listening without revealing anything of himself.

It’s cruel, she’d said to him. What’s there to enjoy, when the men aren’t even the ones doing the hunting? Is it simply that they have the power to inflict suffering?

Lucien had sighed. Foxes tend to be a nuisance, and men often have little sympathy for the things that inconvenience them.

Do you?

Your life’s mission is to inconvenience me, princess. And yet here I am, continually at your service.

She remembered smiling at him. Mother forbid the day you run out of sympathy.

Had she unwittingly been the fox all along? Being chased into the woods certainly hadn’t warmed her opinion of the sport, but at least the forest was dense. And dark enough that once the shadow of the canopy fell over her head, Elain needed to push back the hood of her cloak in order to see, turning her head to scan the miles and miles of timber and foliage.

With no bearings on where it led, she picked a direction and started walking.

Wind rustled through the leaves, her only companion. Soothing her with soft whispers that, too, sounded like Lucien’s voice.

Get as far away as you can from the castle. Then worry about what comes next.

Is that what Lucien would advise? Elain knew nothing about surviving in a forest, but she thought it sounded sensible, and that Lucien would say something sensible if he were here.

And something unhelpful, like—maybe you should have considered better footwear for trekking hours through the woods.

“Well maybe you should have warned me that you’d be chasing me from my home,” she snapped, aware her grumbles were heard only by the loose stone that kicked up beneath her ill-fitting shoes.

The wound on her hand throbbed, still spilling blood where she cradled it against her dress. The thought of foxhounds reminded her that she ought to be careful of leaving a scent trail. Though Elain didn’t know the first thing about doing so, preventing herself from bleeding onto the forest floor seemed like a good start. She used the kitchen knife to rip a long strip from her skirts—which she hoped would be cleaner than the cloak. Elain had watched Lucien wrap wounds more times than she could count, and she supposed she should be grateful at least something had come in handy for all those wasted hours spent watching him train when she should have been focusing on her lessons.

Maybe she would have been better prepared for a political invasion if her mind wasn’t addled by thoughts of Lucien shirtless—a memory that was very difficult not to recall, especially when there was little else to distract from her pulsing hand and aching feet. Walking through the woods for hours, it turned out, was a miserable affair. It was the middle of summer, and though the trees offered shade, her mouth had gone dry. She deliberated removing her cloak, knowing she risked overheating just as much as being identified as the princess.

The Lucien in her head scoffed. Do you really think a cloak would stop me from recognising you?

He was irritating, but he had a point. She unfastened the cloak and nearly chucked it to the floor before she considered it was best not to leave any sign she was there. Even if it was cumbersome to hold the cloak and lift her skirts.

Elain didn’t feel any cooler. Her skin was still clammy and the hot air was still trapped between the layers and layers of fabric she wore.

Princesses weren’t made for the forest.

She would remove it all—but there were worse things she could encounter than Lucien. Men that she was certain would be delighted to find her in a state of undress, whether they were looking for the princess or not.

Better not risk it, the Lucien in her head advised. Good thinking.

Elain needed to remind herself that there would be no impressing the real Lucien, whom she would be directly inconveniencing by making good decisions. It was an awful thought to chew on.

Lucien would find her.

She knew that he would. He had pledged as much, drove his prized sword into the ground in a great show of dedication and meaning.

But… but maybe he could find her with a sword in her hand and an army of men at her back. Not that she knew, precisely, where to find one. Maybe if she could get on a boat, she could convince a crew to sail her to Tarquin’s kingdom. And maybe if she promised to marry him, he would send an army to reclaim her throne. Granted, she would need to find passage to Tarquin’s kingdom in the first place. Which meant she would need to get out of these woods, find a boat, and convince its captain to charter her across the channel.

That would, of course, rely on her finding a way out of the woods. Which seemed increasingly unlikely for every hour that slunk past. The low light of sundown filtered through the trees, elongating the shadows. As Elain passed a large, mossy rock she was certain she’d seen before, she wondered if she would simply die of exhaustion and starvation before she ever met a sword.

She was preparing to lay down and simply spend the night on the forest floor when she heard a branch snap. Elain stilled. The knife slipped against her damp hand, but she tightened her fists until the leather-wrapped handle imprinted in her skin. Scanning the forest, she saw no sign of men or hounds. Surely, she would have heard them sooner? They’d been loud in the castle, and in the woods, every step would have been met with crunching leaves and loose gravel and the clink of their heavy armor.

Elain held her breath, listening. Whispering wind. Chittering birds. Another crack. She jerked her head in its direction, but still, there was nothing in plain sight. An animal, maybe? One of the foxes that survived this year’s hunt.

Crack.

Elain’s heart stuttered. It didn’t matter if it was just an animal. It was coming towards her.

Moving felt like forcing rusted gears to turn. Her body was heavy, thoroughly wrung out from the day of running. She grit her teeth in response to her groaning muscles, and as her heart rate spiked, she found it was easier to match its accelerated rhythm. One step for every thunderous beat, until the forest blurred.

She thought she heard someone swear, followed by a heavy thud that turned her head.

And there he was.

Long red hair pulled off his face, dressed in the royal blue of her kingdom, golden pommel jutting out at his hip. Sprinting straight towards her.

Elain hated that the sight of him still made her breath catch. Not because he was gaining on her with alarming pace, or because he’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere. But because, even now, she couldn’t help feeling giddy to be the sole focus of his attention. Even if her objective mind was aware of his ill-intentions, Elain couldn’t help feeling pulled to him, like a powerful current surged around her.

Even so, Elain raged against it. Because the Lucien she still loved was in her head, urging her, run. Run as fast and as far as you can.

He would catch up to her, which she had always known. But at least she would be hauled back knowing that she had fought him to the very last moment.

Blood roared in her ears, so loud she almost couldn’t hear her own crashing footsteps, or every shuddering breath. Elain couldn’t count the number of trees she nearly collided with, moving too quickly to evade them with any amount of skill. Bark scraped her arms, clawing and ripping at her dress, but soon Elain broke through the treeline entirely.

She didn’t slow down, even when cool air rushed against her face, soothing the moisture collected on her skin. Elain had thought she would be able to see better without the canopy blocking out the silver moonlight, but as she stared ahead, all she saw was darkness.

“Elain!”

His voice was right at her ear, utterly panicked.

A strong arm banded around her waist, hoisting her back from an edge she hadn’t even realized she’d been careening towards, until she’d taken a step forward and her foot met empty air. She screamed as Lucien pulled her backwards, likely intending to keep them upright if she hadn’t thrashed, kicking her leg beneath his so that he fell onto his back with a soft oomph. Her knife clattered to the ground.

Elain immediately grabbed it and scrambled off of him, edging toward the cliff both to put distance between herself and Lucien, but also to gauge just how far of a drop it was. The roaring in her ears, it turned out, had not just been her rushing pulse. The ocean crashed over rock far beneath them, spraying sea water high enough that if she laid on her stomach and reached, she’d be able to touch it.

“I didn’t even know we were this close to the ocean,” she admitted, only to feel foolish for speaking her thoughts when there were vastly more important things to occupy her.

“Of course not,” Lucien said, brushing himself off. “There’s not many handsome lords in this direction.”

Elain glared. Not that he could see it very well, in the dark. “You’re not a very good spy, if you thought I was truly interested in them.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“You just chased me through the woods!”

Lucien balked. “You were running towards a cliff!”

“I heard you!” Elain cried. Her voice was more shrill than she would have liked. She had wanted to be angry—to sound angry—when she finally confronted him, and yet tears were welling in her eyes. And her voice cracked as she said, “I watched you bow to Prince Koschei.”

He took a step towards her, then froze when he watched her raise the knife and stumble back. Too close to the edge for both their likings.

Lucien held up his palms, saying calmly, “I am loyal to you, princess. Only you.”

“Liar.”

“What did you hear me say to him? That I’d find you?” His eyes gleamed. “I did. I promised you that I would.”

“You helped them attack the castle,” she whispered.

“I had no hand in that—none.” He took another step. Elain was running out of room to retreat. “And the moment I found out what was happening, I did all I could to delay Koschei’s men from going to your room. I sent a maid—”

“More lies.” Elain’s hand started shaking, sending moonlight dancing across its surface. “It’s all you’ve been doing for years.”

He swallowed. “I have been lying. But not about this, not about protecting you. I swore to the Mother Goddess I would always keep you safe and that is all I have been doing.”

She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. “Why did you bow to him?”

“If I had known—”

“Why did you bow to him?”

Lucien flinched. “Years ago, I was sent to your Kingdom as a Raskan spy. I—”

“You betrayed me,” Elain interrupted, shaking her head because she knew she couldn’t bear to hear any more of his explanation. Years.

“I have never betrayed a word,” he protested. “I was sent to become the Queen’s most trusted guard, and instead, I was assigned to protect the prized princess, who was more interested in flipping her hair at confectioners than providing me with any valuable intel.”

Elain blinked. “Is this supposed to persuade my forgiveness?”

“You don’t need to forgive me,” he said, gaining an edge of desperation. “But I need you to understand. I took one look at you, and all my loyalty swayed.”

More lies. More lies. More—

“I never betrayed you, because I am in love with you.”

A sob built in her throat. Lucien took another step, fingers gentle as they circled her wrist and carefully pried the knife away. Then he pressed a hand to her cheek, and she knew she should have pulled away, but instead she leaned into the warmth of his touch.

Lucien continued, thumb swiping away her tears, “I have been trying for years to convince Prince Koschei that there is nothing of interest in this kingdom. But your beauty precedes you, and your mother circumvented me. And I thought perhaps, with her compliance, he would merge your territories peacefully.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “If I had known about the attack, I would have run away with you last night.”

His expression was so earnest. But then again, she had always thought him earnest, and he had been keeping secrets the entire time she’d known him.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Her voice warbled when she asked, and he frowned. Like it pained him, the doubt, or her sorrow, or maybe all of it. Lucien dropped his hand from her face to draw his sword. Slowly. So as not to startle her, though she still risked stepping to the ledge of the cliff to lean away from the sharp metal. He extended the golden hilt towards her and bowed his head.

“Throw it in the sea, if you must. The knife, too. I have no intention of taking you anywhere besides where you wish to be.”

Then, when she still hesitated, he dropped to his knees, raised his chin to meet her eyes.

“Or kill me, if that’s the only thing that could set your heart at ease.”

Their eyes held. Beneath them, a wave crashed against the unmoving rock. If she looked down, she’d find the ocean as dark and glistening as the pools of russet and gold that beheld her. But where the water below would have been frigid, his eyes promised warmth. Love, if she could suspend her belief past the years of deceit. He could be bluffing. Lucien knew her more thoroughly, more intimately, than anyone else. And perhaps he knew that she loved him too, and believed she did not have the capacity to kill him.

Elain wrapped her fingers around the golden handle, testing the weight. It was lighter than she’d imagined.

“You loved me when you first saw me?” she asked.

“No,” Lucien said. “But you’d earned my loyalty. Love came later.”

“Why.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Because on the first day I met you, you invited me to the table for tea, and when your mother scolded you for it, you snuck a cup to me on my post.”

Elain remembered well. It was the first time she’d seen Lucien’s smile, and the memory had caused butterflies to haunt her stomach for weeks.

“I was flirting with you,” she admitted.

“Guards are expected to take orders and otherwise stay unnoticed. You were the only person who saw me. Every day, you saw me. And I knew I could never betray you, that I’d sooner die by Koschei’s sword. When I took my vow to the Mother Goddess, I meant every word.”

I am, forever, yours to command.

She lowered the sword to his shoulder in a twisted impression of that ceremony. The metal trembled in her hands just as it had all those years before. And just like he had then, Lucien didn’t flinch at its touch, even as the sharp edge pressed into his neck.

“And—you love me?” she asked

“Yes,” he said. Not at all like he was bartering for life, spilling honey into her ear as a means of convincing her to drop the sword. No, he said it like the prayer of a man already dying. Like that simple fact was his salvation, a comfort he would take with him into the next life.

“I love you,” he said again, “despite knowing that I shouldn’t. I knew that I was yours and you would never be mine, and I fell in love with you anyway. I flew into your sun like a man bent on hellfire, I betrayed everyone but you to do it, and now I am prepared to live or die at your service.”

“What if I want to leave?” She asked. “What if I got on a boat tomorrow?”

“Then I’d go with you.”

“What if I didn’t want you to?”

Lucien met her eyes, searching for her meaning. If it was truly what she desired. “Assuming you don’t kill me, I’d return to Prince Koschei and spend my life ensuring he never finds you.”

“And what if—” Now it wasn’t just the sword shaking. It was her hand, her shoulders, her lower lip. “What if I love you, too?”

He went so still, then. And it hadn’t occurred to her that he didn’t know. When to Elain, it had been so obvious.

“You do?”

The sword dropped first. Then her knees. She crashed over him, the water against the rocks below, her arms the sea mist tangling around his neck. He gasped, like he expected it was his last breath. Or like it was his first. Air, a precious commodity as her lips found his and then all they were breathing was each other.

His arms enveloped her instantly, banding over her back to tug her closer. It was strange, how his body tightened and relaxed at her touch. Something in him unwinding despite how tightly he held her.

Even so, his kiss was gentle. Sweet.

And unending.

He kissed her again and again, almost feverish. She could taste the salt of her tears and sweat and she wondered if he minded, but he kept kissing her like she tasted of sugar or wine or something equally intoxicating. He just tasted of Lucien—the most intoxicating thing of all.

Elain tugged at the leather tie on his hair so she could plunge her fingers into the loose strands. Her other hand pressed into his back and she gasped into his mouth at the resulting pain, so consumed in his touch she had forgotten about the wound entirely.

He pulled away. “You’re hurt.”

No. No, she wasn’t. Because if she thought of the weeping cut on her hand, then she would think of the maid and the kitchen and the kingdom that had crumbled in less than a day. She would need to face the uncertainty of knowing if her mother was alive and the downfall of their crown and their people. So Elain wasn’t hurt, because none of that had happened. There was only Lucien, who was in love with her, and the stars, which looked so pretty reflected in his eyes.

“Keep kissing me,” she said, resisting him as he tried to turn to look at her injured hand.

“Elain—”

“Please.”

Lucien looked pained. He leaned down to brush another compliant kiss against her lips. “There,” he murmured, like it was a job finished. She fisted her hand into his tunic, stopping him from pulling away. She felt, more than heard, him sigh. “What do you need, princess?”

So many things, of which the Mother Goddess had clearly decided not to grant her. But there were some things still within reach. There was this.

“Make love to me beneath the stars,” she whispered. Pleaded, the way a princess was never meant to, but she had never felt much like a princess around him, anyway. “Promise me that when I wake up in the morning, you’ll still be here.”

She couldn’t bear it, if he wasn’t. He was the only thing she had left.

Lucien stared at her for a long minute. Taking in whatever was betrayed by her expression and her rumpled clothes and the fist she had buried in his tunic. He started with that, loving hand closing over hers, gently prying her fingers away. She let him, moved to silence by her curiosity. Her anticipation.

He removed the golden pin from his cape and swept it off his shoulders, laying the fabric over the ground in one fluid motion. Then he picked up his sword and slid it back into his scabbard, sheathed the knife in a spare slot in his weapons belt, and unbuckled it from his waist entirely.

“Come here,” he murmured, opening his arms to her.

An open invitation to touch him. Elain couldn’t help thinking that was all that she’d wanted for years, and how like the Mother it was to grant her that wish in the most twisted of ways. And how Elain wasn’t certain if she would have chosen differently, if the choice would always arrive between Lucien or her crown. At least this way, she wouldn’t endure the guilt of making the decision herself.

Elain fell against him easily, further proof this was always the Mother’s intention. Even with the aching heartbeat in her palm, and the more excruciating one in her chest, touching him seemed to banish it all. As if the state of her world couldn’t truly be so dire, if she was in his arms and his plush lips were against her mouth, then her cheeks, her collarbones.

He laid her on the cape with a caution she knew was partway devoted to her injury, afraid of jostling her. But despite the gentle way he held her, there was a wildness in his eyes that she was certain must be reflected in her own. A shared disbelief—that they loved each other, and that these were the circumstances that led to this moment.

“I love you so much,” Lucien confessed as he hovered his body over hers. He studied her eyes, her face, like he was trying to commit every detail to memory. His knuckles skimmed her cheekbone, brushing a stray piece of hair away from her forehead. “It has been my greatest source of torment.”

Elain knew precisely what he meant. Because he kissed her, then, and she could still feel a sliver of that pain. Her cutting desperation, each slice lethal. Precise. Laid in every place he touched her. Wounds that would never mend.

She whimpered into his mouth and Lucien’s kiss became firmer. He groaned when she arched her back to press closer, responding by crushing her body against his. She could feel his hammering heart and his overwhelming heat and his—

“Elain,” he gasped when she brushed her hand over the affronting bulge in his trousers.

Last time, it had all been so new, so overwhelming. She had simply followed his lead, terrified he would gain his sense and change his mind at any moment. Now, though. There was nowhere else to be, no risk of being caught and scolded. She had the time to explore.

Elain repeated the motion, fascinated by the way Lucien groaned and bucked his hips into her touch. He kissed her again, increasingly less gentle. But she could tell, by the tension in his body and the shaking arm he propped himself up on, that he was still exacting a great deal of restraint. She didn’t want that. She wanted all of him, no more masks, no more lies.

“Tell me again,” she whispered between urgent kisses.

“I love you.”

She laughed, breathless. “Tell me your vows.”

Lucien stilled. Clearly surprised by her request. He watched her, swallowing hard.

Her confidence wavered, suddenly worried it was too odd of a request. But then Lucien leaned over, skimming his nose and lips across her jaw. Until he arrived at her ear where he could whisper, voice roughened in a way that made her stomach knot.

“Princess.”

Elain gasped, feeling her skin pimple as the rich sound skirted over her skin, a rock skipping over water, rippling heat through her body. His hand caressed her thigh, calluses scraping ever-so-softly as he pushed up her skirts.

He murmured, “I swear to you.”

Fingers, feather-soft, skimmed over the dampened lace between her thighs. His breath shuddered at the same moment hers did.

“I am your shield.”

A kiss over her thundering pulse.

“I am your sword.”

A swipe against that sensitive bud, sending a burst of stars behind her eyes.

“I am your justice.”

Lower. His mouth skimmed over her clothes, lavishing heat through the valley of her chest, down her stomach. He stopped between her legs, eyes still on hers as he hooked a thumb into her underthings and pulled the fabric off. Cool air brushed against the most intimate part of her body and Elain stretched her arm out, burying her fingers into his soft cape.

Finally, Lucien whispered, “I am yours.”

He didn’t do anything else for a moment, only stared, wanting those words to hold gravity.

I am yours.

She could see it repeated in his eyes, gold and copper glowing like an ancient forge. Elain turned molten beneath their heat. She wanted to let him reshape her with his touch. Turn her into something that wasn’t a princess, nor a exile, nor a refugee.

Something that was his.

Elain met his eyes, wondering if hers were burning with equal fervor.

“And to the mother I swear: Lucien Vanserra, I am yours.”

That felt, somehow, more sacred than any vow of marriage or oath of knighthood.

Lucien made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

Then, he bowed his head and kissed her so sweetly between her legs that her mind scrambled, wondering how something so obscene as his circling tongue could feel like the most ardent declaration of love. And it was the way he groaned, crushing her body to his face like he could smother himself and still not get enough, that sent every inch of Elain burning. He wasn’t like this last night, so abandoned with desire that he lifted her beneath the thighs and slung her legs over his shoulders. The cool sting of his pauldrons made her gasp—or maybe it was his tongue, licking upwards against her clit over and over.

“Lucien,” she whispered, because it was the only word she could still scrap together. She murmured it over and over again in her building delirium, its meaning changing each time it expelled from her lungs in sobbing gasp.

“Lucien—” I love you.

“Lucien—” I am yours.

“Lucien—” You are the only thing I have to hold onto.

He couldn’t speak either, too consumed in his own passion, but she felt his response in every slide of his tongue. In this way his fingers pressed into her skin, hard enough that she hoped their imprint would remain. He kindled her like a fire, building that intense pleasure to its peak, until her entire body tightened and shuddered around him.

Elain cried out as bright light seared behind her eyes. He continued licking her even after each pass began seizing her entire body and she whimpered, overwrought, pushing at his forehead while she gasped, “Lucien—” Stop.

Ever obedient, he lowered her to the ground and sat back on his knees. His chest was heaving, red lips glistening, and when their eyes met it was like looking into a mirror of her own ruination.

Far away, the ocean still crashed against the rocks, a distant roar drowned out by everything else in the forefront. Like Lucien, falling towards her like she was the shore pulling the tide back in, desperate to feel his kiss after so long apart—because every second not touching him had felt like hours. Already, the breeze had pressed in, and she needed him to banish its chill with the comforting weight and heat of his body.

He settled over her, legs wedged between her own, elbow propped beside her shoulder, hair falling around her face like a satin curtain. And though he was careful not to crush her beneath his weight, there was nothing controlled about his descent, near desperate to outline her mouth with his own. Meanwhile Elain returned her attention to his trousers, pulling at the laces to set him free.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “My princess—my Elain.”

Elain felt her eyes burn. Knowing she could finally admit it, she fought the pressure of tears and said, “You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I have loved you for years—”

“Years?” He interrupted, stunned.

She blinked, feeling her wet lashes brush her cheekbones. “Surely you must have put it together.” At his blank look, she elaborated, “All those men I flirted with, it was to get your attention. Get you alone.”

He clearly had not put that together, and she watched the realization dawn on him, watch his lips spread into a smile. And then he surged forward, capturing her in a kiss as he angled his hips so that she could feel his erection slide against her arousal.

“And to think,” he said, pressing a hot kiss to her throat while the head of his cock bumped against her clit. “In the end, I’m the lordling who has the honor of fucking you in the dirt.”

She could hear the satisfaction in his voice and now it was Elain realizing belatedly that he’d been jealous when he’d said that. And maybe she was the fool to not have seen it sooner.

“What do you say, princess?” Lucien asked with a playful nip at her collarbone. “Is that what you want?”

She should never have stroked his ego.

“Lucien,” she said, exasperated.

“Come now,” he coaxed, slipping a hand between their bodies to readjust himself at her entrance, offering the barest hint of pressure. “You sounded so pretty begging for it.”

“A princess shouldn’t beg.” A statement that was not very convincing, given the whine that built in the back of her throat. “Besides, you are meant to obey my command.”

His fingers slipped upwards, circling tightly over her clit in a way that made her hips buck, which in turn pressed his cock the slightest bit deeper. They both groaned.

“Then command me,” Lucien said, partly choked.

Elain bit back a moan as his fingers continued teasing her oversensitive bud. “Give me your cock,” she said, well aware that her hoarse whisper made it sound far from a command.

And because Lucien would never pass up a chance to vex her, he ducked his head close and murmured in a low, scraping voice, “Where, Princess? Here?” He illustrated his point by grinding his cock against her. “Or would you like it somewhere else, like that pretty mouth?”

“Lucien!”

He chuckled, satisfied with her scandal. “Another time, then,” he said, before pressing a kiss to her jaw at the same moment he pushed inside her.

Elain immediately forgave his antics—she couldn’t have held a grudge if she wanted to, from the way every thought abandoned her. She threw her head back, allowing her to witness all of Lucien’s male arrogance crumble into reverence. His head fell forward against her shoulder, sucking in several sharp breaths.

“Oh, Elain,” he said on an exhale, hips flush and stilled against her.

She hooked her legs around his waist, needing to feel him closer, wanting to urge him to move the way her body yearned. He continued catching his breath, each warm puff of air caressing her collarbone. His hands clutched her so firmly, one at the joint of her hip and thigh, the other a tangled knot in her hair.

Just as she opened her mouth to ask if he was okay, Lucien pulled himself out and began whispering, “Through any trial that rises against me.”

His lips brushed over her skin as he spoke, inscribing the words on her body like they were a love letter—words that had never intended to act as one, but now felt more befitting as a declaration of love than the second verse of a knight’s oath. Hearing the words, hearing their meaning applied in such opposition to how they were intended, how she’d always closed her eyes and imagined, made her heart race blindly, made every thrust feel all the more like they were rewriting the rules of this world together. Ignoring even the Mother Goddess and her divine intentions.

“Ice or fire—“ Elain buried her fingers in his hair, cutting him off with a warbled moan as her body tightened against him. Lucien grunted, “or steel.”

And Elain knew it was only an oath for a knight, but still she pushed her lips up to his ear and whispered, “Across any distance your service demands me.”

She barely made it through the line before Lucien’s mouth was on her, open and heated and groaning unabashedly into her mouth as his pacing sped up.

He broke away only long enough to meet her eyes and pant, “I will carry your royal seal.”

Elain fisted a hand over that seal now, still crumpled but proud over his heart, just beneath the clipped-on armor he still wore.

“Lucien,” she gasped, a wet sound between their lips and tongues as his cock scraped against a cluster of nerves that built white-hot pressure in stomach, her chest, until she was drowning it.

He slowed his thrusts to grind deliberately against that spot, saying roughly, “In your name, I wield my strength and valor, an eternal vessel of your will.”

It sounded so filthy, punctuated by her whines.

“Lu—Lu—“ Elain tried desperately to say his name, to tell him that it was all building up too much, too fast, and she didn’t know what to do with the warm, glowing chord knitting tighter and tighter around her spine.

Too tight, too—

“In your name, I bid my loyal service.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and it could have been the middle of day for the bright, blinding light she saw behind her eyelids. She tightened her thighs around his waist, buried her face into his neck, gasping, pleading, Lucien, Lucien, Lucien.

“That’s it, Elain,” he whispered, fingers returning to that sensitive bud, intent on forcing more desperate, incoherent sounds from her. “And to you—“

The last word tapered off into a groan as she tightened and shattered around him. His own pace faltered, and he was gasping to keep himself above that lethal current. In the distance, waves crashed like cymbals, another instrument accompanying the great song of their colliding bodies and the soft pluck of that golden string she swore tethered them together.

“And to you,” he repeated, each word ragged. He took another breath, then rasped, “To you, Princess, I will always kneel.”

Then he kissed her, sealing the vow so that it was seared, forever, against her lips. Duty and love and devotion, all intertwining with their tongues and the last, wild thrusts that led to his body shuddering and trembling with release. He cried out against her lips, before he slackened against her. She could feel his cock still twitching inside her as they parted to catch their breath.

His eyes were wild, so dilated they were nearly black in the moonlight. Elain pressed her hand to his chest, feeling it rise and fall, unsteady. She felt dazed. Like they’d been on a ship that had lost a battle against the rocks below, and they were the lone survivors who had pulled themselves to land. They had no bearings, no concept of what awaited them in this strange new world. Elain was uncertain what tomorrow would bring, but simply knowing that Lucien would be beside her, and that she wouldn’t be alone, made facing it more bearable.

Lucien cupped her face, brushing away her tears. “Are you alright, Elain?”

She could read the weariness in his expression. He’d given her what she’d asked for, had let her pretend for a prolonged moment that everything was alright, but aside from their reunion and their vows, nothing had changed. Koschei would still be looking for Elain, her kingdom had still fallen, her hand was still wounded. There was no answer that could soothe him.

“Just stay with me,” she said. “Like you promised.”

Take one step at a time.

He nodded. “Of course, your highness.”

“Don’t call me that anymore.”

“Elain,” he corrected with a small smile that made her heart flutter. He kissed her, so gently that it sparked a new round of tears. “I will never leave your side again, if that is what you wish. Wherever it leads me—wherever you lead me.”

There was an unspoken question in that statement, one Elain felt ill-equipped to answer. Where would she lead them, what happened next?

Take one step at a time.

She exhaled, trying to calm herself before she let the thought overwhelm her. It helped that Lucien’s weight was still draped comfortingly over her, like a heavy woodsmoke-scented blanket.

“For now, we sleep,” she said. That was an easy answer. “And then…”

He watched her, and she thought he might supply an idea, but he only waited patiently. Prepared to carry out her will, whatever she decided, even if he knew it would be to their doom. She simultaneously loved and loathed that about him.

Elain bit her lip. “And then… we take it back.”

He blinked. “We do?”

“We do,” she said. Even if it would have been easier to run away, even if she knew that was what Lucien had expected her to choose. She could not abandon her people, her crown. “We take back the Kingdom, and we make Prince Koschei pay for what he’s done.”

[the-woild-is-y-erster]

gonna talk about a dream i had so i don’t forget it

so i was at this camp, which was a lot like one i’ve been to for several years, we couldn’t have our phones or any food or even art for whatever reason? like we couldn’t keep anything we made, they would occasionally raid our stuff to look for anything contraband, so it was lights out, and i knew i wasn’t the only one with contraband, but for whatever reason i was the only one good at hiding it, so the counselor came in and caught one girl, so she sacked our stuff, and i was the only one that got caught, and blah blah blah timeskip, she comes in later asking if anyone has any trash, and i’m like “oh shit this is a trap” so i hide my stuff, and she comes in and takes everyone else’s stuff and blows up on them, sends them out of the cabin, and she’s stuffing people’s art in the trash bag and i’m like “why can’t we have any of this stuff?” she goes “it’s not allowed.” and so i argue eith her and she’s finally like whatever. one of you can keep some art at the end. so she leaves and suddenly for whatever reason sniper tf2 comes in????? and he’s like “m8 you look different, you alright?” because apparently we’re friends in my dream??? and i look down and i’ll have to draw it later because it was sick, but i had knights armour but it was more agile, and i had a cape and these giant crazy red feather wings, and an old grecian helmet with a red plume, and he’s like “that’s the lord high admiral’s uniform, yeah?” (wtf is the lord high admiral??) and i’m like oh shit youre right so apparently the lord high admiral just gets chosen by an act of valor and you have to fight the other one to the death to recieve your formal title??? so sniper’s like “you gotta scram, m8, lil birdy told me the prev one is wreakin havoc in the castle” which was apparently where the grounds of the camp was???? so i hug him and walk out the door and my armor like flickers and dissapears, classic “hero doesn’t know how to use their powers until theyre in the heat of battle” so i’m like whatever and then as i’m running towards the drawbridge of this bigass castle it comes back and i’m fckin flying, and i crash through this giant stained glass window into a corridor that for skme reason i know leads into the bell/clock tower, and there’s a ton of like, narnia style fighters, like rabbits and beavers and bears with battering rams and stuff, and they clear the way for me with my majestic ass cape and wings to the huge oak doors and they creak open and it’s like a greenhouse instead of the bell? so in the middle is a wooden throne, and sitting in it in the most faggy like legs over the armrest position, is my brother scout with the same gear i got, but in blue. and so i stand in front of him, and oh so dramatic dream me, as the doors are slamming shut, draws my blade and says “hello, brother.” AND THEN I WOKE UP???????

[fenglianist]

Feng Xin Week Day 5: Childhood

fenglian drabble from my modern AU fenglian childhood best friends wip for @fxweek <3

Xie Lian had liked Feng Xin immediately when they first met. Their mothers were good friends and Feng Xin’s father worked for Xie Lian’s, so when their parents met, the children would play together. Xie Lian liked this boy who had funny jokes and remarks on everything and used words that grown-ups said were inappropriate for ten-year-olds. He was also a wonderful playmate who enthusiastically participated in the make-believe stories that Xie Lian dreamed up.

Today, while their parents had tea and discussed grown-up matters, Xie Lian was showing Feng Xin his figurine collection.

“Feng Xin, choose one!”

“Hmm…” Feng Xin scratched his head. “I dunno, they’re all good. What are you gonna choose?”

He looked up at Xie Lian, who was smiling. “I’m gonna be the crown prince.”

Xie Lian reached out a hand to pick up the figurine of the crown prince, testing its weight in his hands. He showed it to Feng Xin - the Crown Prince was an intricately carved figurine with flowing white-and-gold robes, a smiling face, wielding an elegant sword in one hand and a flower branch in the other.

Feng Xin stared openly in admiration. “Wah, that’s a good one!” 

He turned his gaze back to the remainder of the figurines, scanning each one. “Then I’ll be this Imperial Guard.”

He picked up the figurine of a young man in sturdy armour plates, with a bright red half-cape trimmed with gold.

Xie Lian smiled, his nose wrinkling. “Perfect! You can be my loyal guard.”

Feng Xin gave a salute. “Taizi Dianxia, your general reports for duty!”

Xie Lian laughed. “You promoted yourself to a General already?”

Feng Xin scratched his head. “Is that not how it works? I can be your loyal guard, who fought by your side valiantly in battle, and was promoted into becoming the general of the imperial army!”

“That’s an awesome backstory! Then, you just need a title.”

Feng Xin tilted his head to one side in thought. “How about Nan Yang?” 

Xie Lian laughed. “Perfect.”

Together, Xie Lian and Feng Xin wove grand tales of epic battles, General Nan Yang’s valor in battle and steadfast faith in his prince, and Xie Lian’s feats as the young but noble-hearted crown prince who trained diligently in martial arts and would one day grow into a fair, compassionate and just king.

In the end, the nickname “Dianxia” stuck, and Feng Xin would call Xie Lian that even when they weren’t playing make-believe. The halcyon days of their childhood were perfect, all endless summers flying kites and games of hopscotch and shuttlecock, racing each other down the hills and collapsing in a heap of laughter when they reached the bottom, patching up one another’s bruises when one of them fell from a bike, lapping up ice-cream and laughing when Feng Xin got some on his nose. 

In some ways, their personalities could be different as night and day - Xie Lian being a responsible class president and student councilor and consisting topping the cohort in most subjects, and Feng Xin being the kind of student who would snore in class and later try to cheat by copying their friend Mu Qing’s homework, which incurred Mu Qing’s wrath. 

But in other ways, there could not be a better pair of friends. They stuck to each other like niangao, and in class Xie Lian would spend his time managing their rowdy classmates and comforting kids who went to him crying, while Feng Xin would be his faithful best friend who assisted him in his duties, tried to carry Xie Lian’s books, and swore up a storm at anyone who ever tried to give Xie Lian trouble. Though Xie Lian was, more often than not, vastly well-liked, with many of the other students looking up to his exemplary grades and conduct, and drawn to his warm and kind personality.

They grew up together, growing into one another as tightly as two vines who twined around one another, inseparable, and each summer, they would light sparklers and laugh and vow to always be the best of friends.

[flightpolling]

Flight Rising Mimic Melee! Round 1

The Top 2 winners from this poll will go on to the next round!

[neapoliting]

monel! mon-el. or m'onel. or lar. or valor. this guy!

i have a confession with this one. i don't actually have any strong feelings about any monel other than pzh m'onel.......so the ideas here are a little biased towards that

something that i was interested in communicating with this design is the juxtaposition of someone as strong as superman who can be killed by something extremely common. making a character look both strong and fragile is a really fun exercise!

a fairly average, sort of thin body type works better than a more recognizably strong one, i think, contrasted with how huge i draw his cape being. that giant shape can be used to just literally hide the unassuming body type, and i think it looks cool.

i just REALLY like the space pattern that valor and andromeda have in pzh, okay. so i put them on here, and i went one further by giving him space eyes, like those guys from star wars. that, plus little markings on the face was all i did for the Alien Design Mission here - i'm hopeful that changing more on other legionnaires allows me some wiggle room in keeping others fairly human-looking.

i actually think that for something that's basically just inverted superman, mon's general costume design is pretty solid, with the little jacket thingy and those big golden buttons, so i kept the basic gist of it. i stuck to using Just reds and blues as much as i could in the design as a whole, with those couple yellow rectangles to break it up