🫧 Kiwi 🫧

he's being compensated well for watching over you, listening to you go on and on about your thoughts on any matter–that of which you have very many. therefore, it's rare for you to go a day with receiving something from him. you've got everything you could ever want, yet he still finds something for you to have.

from him.

sometimes it's whatever flora the market was featuring. sometimes it's a dagger he requested the women at the forge to craft just for you. or maybe he makes sure to pluck an extra piece of fruit from the kitchens for you to eat during court gatherings. you'd fall asleep otherwise. not that he wouldn't carry you from the room if it ever came to that.

other times, it's the knight himself. bouncing you about in your bed, and finally making noise that's more than his practiced silence or daily grunts.

he always sounds broken when he fucks you, but in the best way. you've already got his very soul in the palm of your hand, even more so after he's shoved himself balls deep into the prettiest prize of all.

you're pinned to the jolting bed with his body smushing yours, chin buried against the arm he has curled around your neck.

he doesn't say words. he can't. of course, it doesn't stop him from wailing, choking, panting like he's in battle upon every sticky, gushing thrusts inside your hole.

the both of you are filthy. you were supposed to take a bath and he was supposed to watch upon the returning from your two day's journey. instead, him escorting you to your quarters and seeing you slip off your gown led to the knight mounting you in similar fashion to the horses that brought you home.

a mess of slick and sweat forms between the snag grip he's got of you. the knight's wide, battle-scarred back shines in the candlelight as he pounds into you deep. the dull handle of the dagger he'd gifted and fucked you with you a week prior held nothing compared to the sloshing split that his cock stuffs you with. his tip is a reaching, nudging certainty that finds the places you need most, the steady pump of his hips and smack of balls have your muscles limp, but insides wringing his cock dry of milk.

a mix of rough pants and pitiful groans knock against your ear each time you come. thrice so far, and your knight fucks you as if he's expecting at least two more. desperate and weepy and deeply, almost mumbling the syllables of your title and something in the native tongue of his ancient home. words you wouldn't understand even if he were to truly say them. vision going but a blur as his cock pulses and he can cream himself into to a heap of heft and bitten back growls above you.

only after his cock drools cum for a second time and you're nothing but a mess of him and you and him, does he reach to bend your neck with heavy hands to place upside down, slobbering snogs against the corners and centers of your mouth.

for a tongue he often holds, he swirls it well. laps it between your lips before pulling away to stare at your sweaty forehead and fucked out gaze. he's always staring.

then he hums at you with pinching eyebrows. a deep, wordless you are alright?

the knight doesn't move after you nod. keeps his hands at your face, his figure sagging heavy atop yours, really looking at you.

you bit your lip at the heat of the stare with slow, sleepy blinks. the knight sighs. his head and chest fill with swearing butterflies.

all the bodies he's slain, all the soldiers he's led.

war. blood. death and worse.