oh, I like it

You’re jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriend’s massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. He’s facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.

As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose. 

“Valko?” You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.

“Hurts,” he grunts. 

Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. “What happened?” 

“Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,” he says, voice grim and shaky. “This one wasn’t.” 

If you had an extra hand, you’d drag it down your forehead right now. 

Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrels—those had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.

“You just get into all sorts of trouble, don’t you.” Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. “Let me have a look at you.” 

The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupine’s decisive victory. 

“Can you take them out?” he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. “If we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know I’m super late. I’m sorry.”

Twenty of nature’s finest knives in his face, and he’s worried about the movies?

“You obviously had a reason,” you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. “I don’t know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this… If I do it wrong, I’ll just make it worse.” 

His response is simple: “I trust you.” 

Cute. But not what you need right now.

Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. “No, no. I can’t! I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You couldn’t if you tried.” He snorts, then winces at the pain. 

“Tell that to the porcupine.” You narrow your eyes. “I think it missed the memo.” 

His ears swivel in acknowledgment. He’s 0–2 in battles today. 

“All right, change of plans,” you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. “We can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.” 

“It’s not that serious,” he protests. “I’d do it myself if I just had a mirror. Let’s go back to the house, and—”

“I’ll get the car ready.” Your word is final. 

His ears droop atop his head. 

Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passenger’s seat so he didn’t accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so he’d have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinic’s often-packed parking lot. 

In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but he’s without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once he’s called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances. 

The vet’s entrance is prompt as always—part of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he “wins.” 

“Well, I typically ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’,” Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. “But today, I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. “I went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it might’ve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?” He looks to you for support. 

Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. “Right.” Not in most circumstances, no!

Nodding gratefully, he continues. “As soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.” 

“Well.” Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. “You’re not the worst case I’ve seen. Sometimes, it’s the whole face—and neck.” She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” 

You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. “Oh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.” 

──────

Right when you wonder if Valko’s death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. “That’s nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.” 

Valko kicks the air in desolation. “Doesn’t feel like it.” 

“It will when you wake up tomorrow and you don’t have to wonder, ‘How did it even get my nostrils?’,” she retorts, heading to the door. “Now, let me just get your treatment, and you’ll be free to go.” 

The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. “It hurts.” 

Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. “How bad?”

“Really.” 

You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter. 

“All right,” she begins. “I’m going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, and…” She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back. 

Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock. 

Is that…? 

No way. 

“...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.” 

When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. “You want to put me in jail?”

“Of course not. You’ve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, it’s best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.” 

You understand her implication, but Valko’s tail thrashes in unease. “What…what kind of activities?” 

The doctor smiles down at him. “The usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.” 

Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think I’m gonna be sick. 

Day 1

Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you. 

Knowing he’ll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, he’ll forget about being in plastic prison.

“So, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?” 

Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things. 

“Okay, what about—”

“I look dumb,” he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you can’t tell him that. 

“You look safe,” you say instead. “That’s what matters, yeah?”

“Not when I look dumb, too.” With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, you’re crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare. 

“You know you aren’t supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.”

“Make me.”

Oh, really? That’s how it is?

Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. “‘Make’ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what you’re up to? I’m sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, you’ll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?” You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone. 

“No, wait!” Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apology—a favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment. 

As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.

“Don’t pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.”

As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.

“No, Koko. It's for your own good.”

Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. He’s never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet. 

Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. “Here. Get on your knees.” 

He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, he’s still half your height. 

“Come here.” Reaching through the cone’s opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure. 

He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. “You’re my big, strong wolf, aren’t you? It’ll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.” 

Day 3

Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems. 

In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.

Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While he’s permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesn’t lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until he’s refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear. 

You won’t let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restless—especially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress. 

He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation. 

Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (You’re quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)

A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning. 

Clearly, he had a lot on his mind. 

Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and he’s sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb. 

Sometimes, he turns his head into your belly—or maybe a little lower—and inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. “Just let me have this.”

As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show you’re watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. It’s the calmest he’s been in the last three days, you think—until the “woodland creatures” portion of the show begins.

His mortal enemy lies in wait within.

“It’s not as big as the one that did this to me,” he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. “He was a monster.”

“I’m sure he was,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this by now. “How else could he have taken you down?”

Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. “Can we do something else now?”

“Okay.” You squint at him warily. “Something like what?”

Slowly, as if you won’t be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.

“No,” you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him. 

Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupine’s snout fills the screen.

“Can you at least change the channel, then?” he mumbles.

Day 5

Since you’ve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook that’s both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.

It’s no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights. 

One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation. 

It’s not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he can’t yet tell that you’ve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.

His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve. 

Before you do something you’ll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump. 

You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.

There’s no point in hoping he didn’t hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.

He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. “Fuck,” he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. “Fuck.”

“Valk—”

“Please help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, it’s been days.”

You bite your lip so hard, you think you’ll draw blood. “You know I can’t.”

“I don’t care what the vet said,” he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. “I care about you.” 

Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.

“Just— Help me finish, please. You don’t have to touch anywhere near my face. That’s the rule, right?”

As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. He’s flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?

When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you can’t.

“I won’t touch you, Valko. But you can use this.” Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.

“Use it?”

“To finish,” you explain, folding your arms across your bra. “It’s the safest way I can help you right now.”

Gazing at you like you’re a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his cone’s exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. “Thank you,” he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts. 

Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room. 

“Thank you, thank you— Fuck, thank you. I’ve done this like ten times already, and it’s taken me longer every go,” he admits shamelessly. “This is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.” 

He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the cone’s wall, as if he’ll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together. 

You don’t have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the cone’s opening—just like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch. 

“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just two more days, yeah?”

His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. “Just two more days.” 

Day 7

At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. “Koko?”

There’s no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? It’s barely been two hours since you went to bed.

Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and he’s not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?

It doesn’t take long to find out.

In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window. 

He’s clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, he’s missing his cone. 

The only indication that he knows you’re there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. “It’s day seven, did you know that?” he rumbles. 

Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. “I did.” 

“So you also know what I’ve been missing the last seven days.” He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. “What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,” he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.

In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you. 

After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.

You get the sense that you’re in trouble. 

“Koko,” you start, stepping forward to placate him, “you know that’s not—”

“Don’t ‘Koko’ me,” he snaps. “That’s reserved for people I’m close with.”

Is he serious? “You know I’m closer to you than anyone.”

“Right now? After this week? I’m not so sure. But you will be.” His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. “Come here,” he growls out. 

“We can talk about this, but I’m not going to—”

“Three.”

“Okay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?”

“Two.” 

“That’s my thing! You know, when you won’t let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, or—”

He doesn’t let you get to “one.”

When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesn’t even give you the chance to run. 

You’re in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. “You’re heavy as fuck!” you bark at him. “Let me go!”

“No.” He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submission—your high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.

While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. You’re wearing only a nightshirt—his, you notice all too late—and completely vulnerable to his impatience.

He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While you’re too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat. 

“Usually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,” he says, inhaling you deeply. “You’ve lost it after not taking me for so long. But we’ll fix it, won’t we?”

When you don’t respond, his eyes flash up at you. “Won’t we?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, signing away your fate.

“Yeah, we will.” Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal. 

“I’m gonna let you go, all right?” He nips your inner thigh. “Don’t try to run from me. I’ll catch you.” 

He watches closely as he eases off of you, but there’s no need—you obey. 

“Good girl,” he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff. 

Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. “Sit on me.”

“…What?”

“My face. Sit on it.”

“…What?” 

“Oh, I get it. Is this a ‘make me’ kind of thing? Well, if you insis—”

“No!” You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. “You know we’ve never…done that before.”

He shrugs. “First time for everything. Hop on.”

You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. “What if you can’t breathe?”

“Don’t need to.”

“I think you do, but okay.” Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. “What if I’m too heavy?”

Valko’s smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. “Now you’re just insulting me.” 

In retrospect, you should’ve known that one wouldn’t get you very far.

“Fine,” you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way. 

“Last chance to back out,” you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?

“In your dreams.” In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation. 

For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. “Missed this,” he murmurs, words slightly muffled. “Missed you. Fuck, you’re so good. You smell so good.”

You’re afraid to look down, but you don’t have to. You can hear his smile.

Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears. 

A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so he’s sure to catch all your desire.

When he squeezes your hip, you know he’s asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when you’re involved, knows you’re withholding your full weight. 

And he won’t have it. 

Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue. 

“I’m trying!” you cry. “Whenever we do this, I’m always the one on my back! I feel weird.”

Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. “Tough.”

Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.

Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides he’s had enough. 

His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, you’re more than ready to throw in the towel. 

“Valko!” you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?

A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesn’t provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like he’s nothing but an extension of you. “Valko!” you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.

All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when there’s so much to lap up?

A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. You’re so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his forehead—but he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop. 

Captive to his relentless touch, it isn’t long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth. 

Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when he’s finished. “Smells like me again. That’s better.”

Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. You’re more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath. 

“We should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.”

Valko has other plans.

Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that you’re ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease. 

Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so you’re forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin. 

All the while, he’s moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until you’re being speared on something you’re not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you don’t think that matters anymore.

In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. It’s at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you can’t move too far—not without bringing Valko with you. 

As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily. 

All you can do is whine.

You don’t know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that he’s got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time. 

──────

“Are you satisfied?” you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed. 

“For now.” You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though.

It’s dawn. 

“But you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.”

“In an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,” you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. “I’m gonna miss that cone, you know.”

Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. “What?” 

“You looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.” Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. “So cute.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. “Whatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”

“You really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?”

“‘Course I do. It wasn’t that hard for me.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Not even you believe that.” 

“Yeah. This was fun, though,” he says through a yawn. “We should do it again sometime. Goodnight.”

As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought won’t leave your head.

Should you switch vets? 

❥ Taglist is closed

The softness of the clover and moss under your hands is the only thing keeping your mind centered to the earth, the only thing reminding you that you're in your own body, lying on the riverbank on the edge of the castle grounds. You can't exactly recall how long you've been here. The sun was starting to dip lower, but not quite set. Truthfully, you couldn't be less interested in the time. After the meeting that caused you to seek out the peace of the riverbank, your worry about being scolded for disappearing was replaced with a deep, stomach-churning sense of dread.

You had been forced into meetings with suitors since you were eighteen. All were eager before actually meeting with you—extremely interested in both your beauty and the access to power and resources that a union with you family would enable. This interest waned after the conversation, as they assumed a princess as pretty and adored as you would speak excitedly about wedding planning and children, not poetry and astronomy. You were all the things a girl of your status should not be—courageous, sincere, intelligent.

At last, in your twenty-second year, a prince in a much further kingdom decided that the resources your family had access to were worth a marriage void not just of romance, but friendship. In six months, you would meet the prince the day you marry him, move into a private residence within their grounds, show the face of an adoring wife to the public, produce heirs (hopefully mostly boys), and don't complain. You knew nothing about this prince, other than he was in his early thirties, he came from a family known for farming and animal husbandry, and that his parents were long tired of being responsible for him.

"We are just so happy that he will finally have other people to mill about with," his mother said with a too-tight smile.

As you think of this, you sling an arm over your eyes, blocking out the dwindling sunlight. You do your best to place your focus on your surroundings—the gentle, persistent rushing of the river at your side, the pillowy moss and tufts of clover under your hands, the smell of damp earth and wild hyacinth. You place this focus a little too well, your darkened vision and preoccupied ears missing the shuffle of leather boots on the ground approaching.

"You alive down there?" A boyish, charismatic voice says above you. "Because I'm in big trouble if you're not."

You tear your arm away from your face, finally taking in the view above you. Steven. Sir Steven to the court and the rest of your family, but you two had been so close since childhood, the first time you called him "Sir Steven" after his official knighting, it felt as foreign as a different language.

"Much to your delight and my chagrin, yes," you say sitting up on your elbows. "I am alive."

"Alive and grouchy," he teases, having a seat next to you. He takes two apples out of the satchel at his side and offers you one. With a sheepish smile, you accept. "What's wrong? You're usually more optimistic than this."

"I'm getting married," you sigh. "To some stranger from the farming lands far west."

His eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together slightly, and you realize this is a rare occasion where Steven is lost for words. He's been quiet like this before—when his mentor Sir James didn't return from the war when Steven was still a squire, when his first and most beloved horse fell sick and needed to retire to a pasture, and now. You feel a little surprised that this news hurts him as much as the other heartaches.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice catching strangely around the sadness. You can't bring yourself to look at him yet. You nod as you take a big bite of your apple.

"I was perfectly content to stay here," you say bitterly, laying down again. "I assumed after four years of hundreds of suitors and no marriage, rumors about my lack of wifely disposition would spread far enough that no one would ever try again." Steven chuckles softly at this.

"It really is a shame," he says. "You would have made such a good old witch." You shove him lightly and he relaxes onto his back. When he turns his head, the tip of his nose brushes your bicep. His warm hands reach out and take hold of one of yours, now chilly from the hours of mid-autumn breeze. For the first time all day, you take an actual breath.

"The land's nice at least. I've done some scouting out there," he explains, fidgeting with your fingers. "Lots of animals, I know you'll like that."

This was certainly true. In fact, your first meeting with Steven happened for this very reason. You were seven and he was eight, with sandy brown hair and arms and knees already covered in scrapes from dueling with the other squires for fun. You were on night three of sleeping on the ground of the sheep pasture after your father informed you that he would be sending your favorite lamb away. Younger Steven gently shook you awake by the arm.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that you need to come home," he said, parroting his instructions. "He said he isn't selling the lamb but that you can't do this anymore because it makes him look bad." He escorted you back home, and you had been attached at the hip ever since.

"It's a stupid thing to be upset about," you remark. "I was always going to end up married, and almost certainly to a stranger. I have no right to be disappointed."

"Of course you're disappointed," he replies sternly, tracing the lines of your palm with the pad of his thumb. "Anyone would be upset about being shipped off to a stranger."

His words cause your stomach to churn all over again, and you squeeze your eyes shut. His words sting, only because of how painfully true they are. In your twenty second year, and you had seen so little of the world. Now, you finally have your chance to see more, and entirely on someone else's terms. You had a grand castle for a home, a brave and handsome knight that swore to stand between you and anything that could bring you harm, a ridiculous wardrobe of expensive clothes, but nothing that truly belonged to you. You try to fall back into your body again, letting only your surroundings into your thoughts. The flow of the river. The plush of the ground. The smell of the crisp air. A tender kiss to the inside of your wrist pulls your mind back.

"Sorry," Steven says softly. "You just… went somewhere."

"It's alright," you reply, barely louder than a whisper.

A strong gust of wind rustles the leaves in the trees above you and blows a fresh cloud of hyacinth-scented air your way. Steven's thumb ghosts over your ring finger, soon to be adorned by a jewel, priceless to your future husband and meaningless to you. It breaks your heart how easily your family gave you to someone else. Your body, your dreams for yourself, your very sense of self, now belonged to a man you've never met. You would miss everything. The air around the castle, that smelled of hyacinths and pine. Your library, filled with books on astronomy, alchemy, poetry, music. Your big, overstuffed, goose feather canopy bed. The hallways of your home, where you would run around and hide in corners with Steven when you were little. Steven. God, you would miss him. The way his body felt in your arms when you rode behind him on horseback, and the little looks you would share across the room during parties and feasts. The ridiculous way he would smirk for the crowd after winning a joust.

A calloused finger runs the length of your nose.

"You keep going away," Steven says, sitting up to look down at you. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"I just feel silly," you say. "I'm angry. I want to take everything I love about this place, and wrap my arms around it, and squeeze as hard as I can."

"I wish you could," He says, moving a lock of hair away from your eyes.

"I wish I had any control over my life," you say. "I mean, the first time I ever kiss someone is going to be when I meet this total stranger on my wedding day."

His eyebrows creep up.

"Are you serious?"

"There hasn't exactly been a line of people eager to, Steven," you grumble. "Besides, I'm not even allowed to go for a walk by myself. I don't get many chances to be kissed."

"But it's not right."

"Nothing about this is right," you say. "But it's always how my life was going to be."

"That's exactly right, it's your life," he responds, his eyes going a little glossy. You sigh.

"This is how things are," you say, sitting up. "I don't like it. Of course I would like to actually know the first man I kiss."

You look down at your lap, gazing wistfully at a little cluster of daisies growing out of the ground by your knee. Steven is also deep in thought next to you, waging the proposal he's about to make until he speaks.

"I'll do it."

The words cut through the air, fizzling like red-hot iron suddenly plunged into cold water. You laugh a little in disbelief.

"Do what?" Your voice is reedy and shocked, unfamiliar to your ears.

"I'll kiss you," he says casually. "Only if you want me to, I mean, this whole conversation has been about you not having any choice. So, if you would let me, I'll kiss you."

His eyes are shiny, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close you are to him. You can see all of his pretty moles and freckles, the tiny scars that dot his face and neck from years of combat, the bit of chest hair that peeks out from under his shirt and leather tunic. He's handsome in a way that feels unfair.

"That's not funny," you say in disbelief.

"I'm not trying to be," he replies sincerely. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but you deserve to have a little life of your own before you get married."

"I want to," you blurt out before you can really consider his offer. You feel your face grow warm.

"You're sure?" He asks, moving himself closer to be in front of you instead of at your side. "Like I said, this is all for you. I only want this if you do."

You nod. "I'm sure." He smiles and exhales with a little laugh, evidently pleased. Steven reaches for your hand again, drawing it close before he presses a kiss to the center of your palm. Your breath hitches and the warmth in your face starts to grow.

"Thank you," he says softly, lowering your hand.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask nervously.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says, shifting to be even closer. "Just follow my lead, it's not scary at all."

You nod, trying to exert a little more confidence. It doesn't necessarily work.

"Where do I put my hands?" you whisper. He laughs slightly, entirely because he is so endeared.

"My shoulders, or my face," he offers. "Whatever feels good to you."

You hesitate for a moment before you lift your hands, letting them lay flat on his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders. You give them a slight, experimental squeeze.

"Good, that's good," he says sweetly. He lifts his hands to return the touch, a hand floating above your waist.

"Can I?"

"Please," you breathe out.

Steven's warm palm rests firmly on your waist, the other hand coming to cup your cheek. Despite the callouses and hard lines from years of handling reins and swords, his touch is impossibly gentle. Even in someone else's hold, you've never felt so free.

"Close your eyes," he says in a low voice. You do. His thumb gently brushes your cheekbone for a moment before you feel his face come closer to yours. His hand lowers a little for him to tenderly swipe your upper lip. "Soft," he whispers to himself. You feel his lips ghost against the corner of your mouth, and he gently kisses.

After what feels like an eternity, Steven finally, and so sweetly, presses his lips to yours. His hands moves to cup the back of your neck, causing the warmth in your face spreads through your whole body like wildfire. He can taste the sweetness of the apple lingering in your mouth, and he presses a little harder, eager for more of it. A small noise emits from your throat and you feel him smile against your mouth. When he pulls away for you to take a breath, you chase his lips, gathering the leather at his shoulders in your hands and you kiss him again. The hand at your face moves to your waist, and he fully wraps his arms around it. When you finally pull away, you're both wide-eyed and breathless, still holding onto each other desperately.

"I-" you try to speak. "Thank you." He smiles big and releases you a little, a hand gently rubbing up and down your side.

"You're very welcome," he says, still smiling. "I hope you feel a little more…lived, I guess."

You felt extremely lived. Alive like you had never been before, like the kiss was the last click of the lock on the door that was your life. A whole new fire blossomed in your chest, a fire that longed to read every book, run as fast as you could, make friends, ride horses, fight with swords, laugh loudly, bleed, cry, kiss, make love. Your desire to live a life wholly your own fully eclipsed the resignation to your fate, like it was never there to begin with. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him again. He kisses you back before he gently retreats.

"What was that for?" He asks, laughing a little. "Getting in all the kissing you can before you leave?"

"I'm sorry," you say, a little shy. "Just felt really good."

"Don't be sorry," he assures you. "I enjoyed myself, too."

Similar to Steven's own thoughts turning before he offered to kiss you, an idea forms in your head. Evidently, it shows on your face.

"You're back in your head," he says quietly. "C'mon, you shouldn't be lingering on those thoughts if they make you upset."

"I'm alright," you assure him. "Thinking about something else entirely, actually."

"You are?" He asks, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. "And what are you thinking about?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to suggest what you're thinking of.

"Kissing isn't the only thing I was going to have to do for the first time when I get married," you explain. "His parents kept going on and on about how excited they were for grandchildren, so he'll probably also be expecting me to…consummate the marriage."

Steven's expression shifts from confusion to realization, the tilt in his head disappearing as he sits up straighter.

"You mean…" he trails off.

"Yes, I mean," you say. "It's like you said, I only want to if you want to. But I trust you."

"You trust me with your… maidenhood," he says, the word tensely tumbling out of his mouth.

"Please don't say it like that," you whine, your head falling to rest on his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulders. "But you're sure you want it to be with me? I mean, you deserve to do this with someone you trust, but you're smart and beautiful, and I'm… me."

"That's exactly why I want it to be you," you insist. "My whole life, you're the only one that doesn't treat me like an ignorant child. You care, you want me to be myself. That's the sort of person I want to give it to."

Steven's brow furrows, turning the idea over in his mind.

"I won't force you, that would just be me passing along the cruelty I've been given," you say, lightly squeezing his hand. "But if you would like to, it's what I want."

He returns the squeeze.

"When do you want to?" Steven asks.

"Is tonight too soon?" You suggest shyly, looking down at the grass again.

"Tonight?" His voice nearly cracks from the surprise. "You've just been kissed for the first time, don't you think this is a little fast?"

"Trust me," you say. "I know what I want. I know I'm ready."

He sighs.

"I trust you," he promises. "I'll come to your room after shift change, a little before midnight." Your heart jumps a little and your face grows warm again as you nod. You brings your hands to his face, feeling the slight stubble and heat on his cheeks.

"Thank you," you whisper, then you lean in to give him a quick, sweet kiss goodbye that he happily reciprocates. "I need to go, I'm already in so much trouble for being out here by myself."

"I know," he replies. "I'll see you tonight, angel."

The waiting is agonizing. Having to sit through dinner as your parents happily chirp about finalizing your engagement only made the fire in your chest burn harder. Each scrape of utensil against plate chipped away at your sanity. After you finished eating hastily, you were given permission to be excused. You all but flew out of your seat in the dining room and ran clumsily through the halls and up the stairs to your chamber. After your washing basin is filled with hot water, you go absolutely overboard—dumping an entire small jug of lavender oil, most of a bottle of rose water, haphazard handfuls of chamomile flowers and orange peel. You scrub obsessively at every inch of yourself, lathering yourself in a thick layer of sweet smelling foam. Your hands rake through your hair meticulously, fixing and de-tangling everything into place. After drying off, you debate between putting a nightgown on and getting dressed in one of your finer things. As your hands reach for a chemise and deep green overdress, you remember who it is you're getting dressed for. Steven. Your Steven, that has never asked anything of you. One of the only people you don't have to perform for. You pull out a nightgown and slip it over your head.

Even with the admittedly excessive preparation, there was still another hour until midnight. You paced a little, attempted to read by the fireplace, fluffed and arranged your bed, paced again, and retreated to the balcony for some fresh air to soothe the rapidness of your thoughts. As you close and lock the balcony doors, you hear three subtle knocks on the entrance to your room. You rush over, unable to suppress your eagerness. The door opens to reveal Sir Steven, entirely stripped of armor. He wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and undone at the chest. His legs, which were always covered in either plates or leather braces, wear only simple trousers. His hair is a little more in place than usual, and he's smiling from ear to ear. He gingerly closes the door behind him and locks it, before he wraps you in his strong arms.

"Missed you," he says softly against the side of your head.

"It's been five hours," you tease, despite the feeling being mutual.

"Felt like fifty," he replies, pulling away a little to cup your face and press a kiss to your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. You giggle at the sensation as the tip of his nose drags softly over your cheekbone.

"You're sure you're ready?" he asks, taking your face into his hands. Yours find the front of his shirt, and you gently tug.

"I'm ready," you assure him.

Steven takes your hand and leads you over to your bed, pulling back the canopy for you both to crawl in. He takes in the the softness of the mattress, your thick bedcovers, feather pillows, all luxuries he never would have dreamed to indulge in. The orange candlelight bounces softly off of his features.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pulling you close. "We're going nice and slow, alright? You can tell me you don't want this anymore any time you want." You nod, smiling sheepishly. He starts with soft, slow kisses pressed to your mouth, his hands wandering your waist and the expanse of your back. His tongue barely traces of the seam of your lips, deepening the kiss.

"Can I lay you down?" he asks softly, and you nod. He gently lowers your head onto your pillows, trying to shift so his weight would be grounding on top of you and not overwhelming. His lips are on yours again, then they shift to the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, and finally onto your neck. You gasp a little, the feeling unfamiliar and thrilling. Soft kisses pepper across your throat and collarbone, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth. Steven lifts his head up, frowning a little when he sees that you're embarrassed. His thumb gently tugs at your bottom lip, and he gives it a sweet kiss.

"You don't need to hide anything, angel," He says softly, gently rubbing your upper arm. "I want you to feel everything, you deserve that." His lips find your neck again.

"I know you would make the prettiest sounds if you let yourself," he murmurs into your collarbone and you shudder, letting out a voiced sigh.

"Knew it," Steven says, smiling as his reaches for the ties at the front of your nightgown. His big dark eyes blink up at you, silently asking for permission and you nod. You feel the pull of the cotton ties loosening, as your nightgown reveals your sternum and the very top of your breasts. His thumb brushes over the soft skin, and he plants a kiss on the right, then the left. He slowly tugs the fabric down further, leaving all of your chest on display for him. Your nipples pebble from the sudden, cool air.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers, his words full of longing and reverence. You feel his warm, big palm come up and gently squeeze, feeling the suppleness of your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple with intention and you whimper, too caught in the feeling of his touch to muffle yourself. He kisses the top of your left breast again, then trails his lips down to your nipple. Carefully, he pulls it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the peak as he applies the slightest pressure with his teeth. Your hand reaches into his hair involuntarily.

"S-Steven," you moan. "I- it feels…God…" He pulls off of your breast with a quiet 'pop' and pulls himself to kiss your lips again, breathless and needy.

"You're perfect," he mumbles against your lips. Steven grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts, exposing his torso. You had seen Sir Steven shirtless before, especially during the hot summer months, when training outside is unbearable in heavy armor, but this was different. His shoulders were broad, dotted with delicate spots that trailed down his arms. You reach for him, your palms making contact with the dark hair that covers the broadest plains of it. A pretty line of finer hair extends from the bottom of his navel to the top of his trousers. You feel your mouth water a little as you feel the warmth of him under your palm, the strength of his heartbeat. He takes the hands on your chest and brings them to his lips.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, lowering your hands to his chest again. Woman. Everyone else in your life saw you as a little girl, a maiden, and you would be until you had your first child. Your access to womanhood was behind the door of motherhood—to most people around you, they were one in the same. Not to Sir Steven. To him, your maturity, your intelligence, the way you understood yourself; these were the things that determined what you were. Your eyelids flutter a little, and you reach for a shoulder to pull him down again. His chest hair brushes against the nakedness of your own breasts, and you sigh at the sensation. A hand trails downward and grasps the fabric covering your thighs. He looks at you before he pulls upward.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, with a kiss to your cheek. "Just let yourself feel it, sweetheart."

"I trust you," you say, cradling his cheek. He turns his face to kiss your palm. Your nightgown moves up your thighs and your legs start to cross on instinct until his big hand coaxes them open again.

"You're beautiful," he reminds you. "Every part."

Fingers skim up your thigh, tenderly grasping the flesh until the pad of his thumb slowly swipes from your cunt to your clit, smearing the wetness that had accumulated there. You mewl, burying your face in his shoulder. You had touched yourself before, but the way you felt in Steven's hands was something entirely different. He rubs slow circles, tenderly stroking your hair off your face with his other hand.

"I need more," you whine into his neck, eager to chase the feeling. He obliges your words, lowering his hand to press two fingers at the opening of your pussy. They press in slowly, and the stretch stings before it quickly melts into goodness. Fullness. His thumb continues its attention on your clit, causing your back to lift off the mattress for a moment.

"Feels good?" He looks down at you with eager eyes.

"It feels wonderful," you say, your voice breathy and light. His fingers pump in and out, in and out until you've fully relaxed in his hold again and you no longer need adjustment. Steven thinks for a moment before he removes his hand. He brings the hand that was inside of you to his mouth, and sucks at the fingers that were pleasuring you. A low moan vibrates around his hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and your tummy starts to swim, seeing him so shameless. Steven leaves your side and shuffles down, pressing a kiss to your knee before he fully lowers himself, chest flush with the mattress. You feel more kisses trail up your thighs.

"What are you-"

"Just trust me."

The next thing you fill is his lips on your clit, sweet and brief before he gives an experimental lick. The sensation shoots up your body, straight to your tummy.

"Please," you moan out, unsure of what it is you're exactly asking for. Steven flattens his tongue, dragging a long lick from your hole back up to your clit, and he gently suckles at it. His tongue flicks back and forth across the sensitive bud and your hands rake into his hair again, tugging a little at the strands.

"Pull as hard as you need, angel," he says looking up only for a moment before going back, arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs to keep them spread. He sucks and licks and kisses at your pussy, and you feel a hand leave your thigh.

"So sweet," he whines against your cunt.

Fingers press against your entrance again and push in, curling slightly to reach the most sensitive spot. The gentle waves of pleasure in your belly churn harder and faster. You can feel yourself gushing against Steven's hand and face, too caught up in pleasure to be self conscious about. The heat in your stomach isn't entirely unfamiliar, but the sensation of him so shamelessly adoring you, making you feel good—it gave the heat an entirely new presence in your body. You feel beautiful. Powerful. Loved.

"I think I'm close," you mumble, your mouth struggling around the words as more cries of pleasure rise in your throat.

"Let go, angel," he replies, briefly replacing his tongue with his fingers. "This is all yours. All for you." The second he's finished speaking, his tongue is back on you. The coil in your tummy winds and builds until it finally snaps, sending shock waves of real, relaxed pleasure throughout every inch of you. Steven tongue slows, working you through the intensity after your orgasm. Pulling away from you entirely would just be cruel. Once he hears your breaths even out, he presses a final kiss to your clit before bringing himself back up to you. His mouth presses against yours tenderly, licking into it a little. He's right, you think. Sweet.

"How do you feel?" he asks, cupping your cheek.

"Amazing," you sigh, trying to catch your breath before pressing a kiss to his palm this time. "You're so good to me."

"You deserve it," he replies with a smile. "You deserve everything."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your hand against his heart, pounding strongly. As you kiss him, your hand travels from his chest, down the softness of his stomach to his pelvis. You hesitate before you gently press your palm against his clothed cock. He bucks into you involuntarily, eager for stimulation.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans. "You just sounded so pretty, and you're so beautiful, and I-"

"It's alright," you giggle, hand on the swell of his tummy. "I"m actually flattered."

He laughs, giving you a kiss.

"I want to touch you," you say. "Can I?"

"Oh God, please," he breathes out.

You lower your hand again, gently cupping at the bulge in his trousers. You haven't seen anything yet, but you can feel that he's huge. His breath hitches as you tenderly squeeze and palm at him a little. He grinds back against you ever-so-slightly, pressing a long kiss to your lips.

"I'm ready," you pull away to tell him. When your hand closes around the waist of his trousers, you can feel smooth skin and coarse hair. He nods and you pull the tie, releasing his pants from around his hips. Steven sits back on his heels and takes hold of your nightgown again, pulling it up and over your head. He eases himself out of his trousers, leaving both of you entirely bare before each other for the first time.

"You're unbelievable," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You look back at him with glossy, wanting eyes, gaze moving from the broadness of his torso to his now naked lower half. You never imagined a man's cock to be pretty. You had seen vague, unappealing drawings before in some health journals, but Steven's couldn't be more different. Long, and curved upward towards his stomach. He's thick, too—when you wrap your hand around, the tips of your middle finger and thumb barely meet. Your hand moves up and down, giving tentative strokes to feel the warmth and thickness of him. He groans above you, desperately grasping at the tops of your thighs. Steven lowers himself to kiss you, causing his cock to prod at your clit and you moan into his mouth. He wraps a hand around himself, gently stroking up and down your cunt with the tip. When he shallowly nudges the tip inside of you, you whine. This was an entirely new stretch, feeling fullness in a way you never had before, even on his thick fingers.

"I know, angel," he says against your neck. "I know, just breathe. I'll be so gentle. I've got you."

You nod, trying to best to take in a deep breath as he pushes in a little further, about halfway. His hand gently rubs at the side of your hip and your thigh, soothing you and bringing you back to your body. Another hand gently rests flat on your tummy, the warmth of it helping to soothe the subtle sting that lingers.

"I want more," you say after another deep breath. "I want to feel you, all of you." He gives a final swipe of his thumb over your tummy, then he pushes all the way in. You gasp as a whole new rush of warmth flows through you. You had never felt so full before, so wanted before.

"Gripping me so much," he mumbles lowering his face to your neck to press a soft, open mouthed kiss to it. "You're doing so well, angel. Taking me so good." Your arms wind around his shoulders, desperate for any closeness you can get. He thrusts shallowly, giving you a taste of how it feels for him to move inside of you. The rocking of his hips and press of his cock against your walls is intoxicating, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

"More?" He asks, rubbing at your side again. You give him a lazy smile and nod. He pulls out, leaving a little less than half his cock inside of you before pushing in again. The pad of his thumb finds your clit, and the last lingering sting dissipates into pure warmth, pulsing gentle and strong in your belly. When he pulls out again, you feel your pussy empty entirely. He doesn't give you the chance to whine at the emptiness before pushing in again, nestling his face against your neck.

"Feels so full," you pant, raking down his back with your fingernails. "God, Steven, n-need you so bad."

"You have me, lovely," he says through heavy breaths, lifting his head up to look into your eyes as he thrusts. "I'm yours. Yours always. I don't care what shit-hole corner of the world they send you to, there's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't belong to you."

His words pierce straight to your heart, instantly sending a mist of tears to your eyes.

"I swore myself to you," he says, rocking into you slowly. "I swore I'd never let anything hurt you. I plan on keeping that promise."

You pull him down to kiss you, trying to convey everything you feel into the kiss. Longing, gratitude, need.

"I love you," you say against his lips. He smiles wide, his shoulders shaking with happy laughter and he presses his forehead to your sternum for a moment.

"I love you," he replies, moving his hips again. "As long as I've known anything, I've known that. Fuck, I love you so much."

He thrusts into you with renewed purpose, the motion of pelvis continuing to pulse pleasure throughout your body. A familiar feeling arises in your tummy again, and you drag hand up from his back to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your cunt pulses around him and he moans, sensing your approaching orgasm.

"Come on, angel," he says tenderly. "Fall apart for me, I'm right here." The sweetness of his words combined with the grind of his hips into yours is all it takes to send you over the edge again. The fluttering feeling in your body bursts again, filling you with a fuzzy euphoria.

"Feels so good," you sigh, grinding your heels against the mattress, desperate for something ground you.

He gives you a final, long kiss before pulling out, starting to stroke himself above you.

"So perfect," he says through gritted teeth. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you wanted me to do this. I'm the luckiest fucking bastard alive."

He grabs at one of your hands with his free one, interlacing the fingers. After a few more strokes up and down his cock, he finishes, painting the soft skin of your tummy with creamy white cum. His chest rises and falls in panting breaths until they eventually slow, and he leans down to kiss your lips.

"I love you," Steven says again, kissing your forehead. "You were perfect." He stands from the bed and searches around the room until he locates a basket of handkerchiefs. When he returns, he wipes your tummy clean. He lays back against the mattress, pulling you into his side. Your arms wind around him instantly, relishing in the closeness. He presses a long kiss to your sweaty hairline.

"I'm getting you out of here," he says after a short silence.

"What?"

"I don't know what I have to do, but they're not sending you away like that," his voice is firm and final. "I meant what I said. As long as you'll have me, I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. This choice they made for you, it hurts doesn't it?"

"It does," you whisper.

"Then it's my job to stop it," he insists. "I'll figure something out."

His hand gently strokes up and down your bare back, lulling you to rest. You know he'll be gone when you wake in the morning, out on the early morning watch near the castle walls. You know that as the months leading up to your wedding go by, you'll only be under more scrutiny and pressure. For now, you let the tender stroking up and down your back soothe those thoughts away. You trust him to figure this out with you. Sir Steven has yet to break a promise.

author's note: thank you for reading!! This is my first effortful attempt at writing smut and I hope I at all succeeded. Knight!Steve has always been so near and dear to my heart, and I absolutely want to write more about him and you (because you're literally a princess)

“Spend whatever it takes,” he continued.

‘Whatever it takes,’ you had echoed in your head.

You had then smiled at him, pocketing the card with a devious plan already forming in your mind.

Now, the athletics department’s annual charity-date-auction was in full swing. Every single hockey player that had stepped on stage was met with excited screams, and people were spending a lot. You were sitting in the middle row, casually sipping your drink when the host called out the next name.

“Up next, we have senior defenseman, Dean Di Laurentis!”

The room broke out into cheers again. Dean stepped out from behind the curtains and onto the stage, his walk dripping with confidence. He was wearing a tailored suit that probably cost more than your tuition.

Hands casually tucked into his pockets; his eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto you. He gave you a confident wink. ‘The fool,’ you giggled to yourself.

“Let’s start the bidding at a hundred dollars,” the auctioneer said.

Paddles shot into the air instantly and the numbers climbed rapidly. Five hundred. Eight hundred. One thousand. One of the puck bunnies in the front row aggressively shouted out, “fifteen hundred!”

Dean didn’t even blink. He just looked at you, tilting his head toward the stage as if to say, well, what are you waiting for?

You grinned, lifted up your paddle, and called out, “two thousand!”

Dean’s smile widened. But the bunny in the front row wasn’t backing down, as you knew she wouldn’t. “Two thousand, five hundred!”

Dean looked at you again, waiting for you to shout a higher number. Instead, you slowly lowered your paddle, pouting and pretending to look defeated. Dean’s jaw dropped. His eyes widening in panic.

“Twenty-five hundred going once, going twice... sold to the front row,” the auctioneer said as he banged the gavel.

Dean was ushered off the stage by a very smug-looking puck bunny. He glared at you the entire way off, but you weren’t done yet. Two people later, the team captain stepped into the spotlight.

“Up next, team captain Garrett Graham!”

Unsurprisingly, the crowd went wild. The auctioneer had barely gotten his sentence out before you raised your paddle high.

“Five thousand dollars!” you shouted clearly.

The entire auditorium went silent. Up on stage, Garrett choked on his own spit, his head snapping toward you in complete disbelief. Behind the curtains, you could see Dean poking his head out, his face a mixture of betrayal and horror.

“F-five thousand?” the auctioneer stammered, looking around the stunned room before composing himself. “Going once... twice... Sold to the middle row!”

As you walked down the aisle to collect your date voucher, Dean intercepted you in the hallway, “Graham?! You brought Graham?” he gasped, pointing a finger at his captain. “With my card?”

You patted his cheek. “It’s for charity, sweetheart. Besides, Garrett promised to teach me some basic hockey moves. You can tag along if you’re any good.”

💭: LOVED doing Dean for this one, felt so right hahaha! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

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