sethwritesstuff

Why would his people’s happiness matter to a viscount who lived in his guarded manor? He’d parade around with his wealth, his wife hanging off his arm as they hosted competitions to appease the farmers. Edmund still remembered the indignation he felt as he watched them with their wide smiles and expensive clothes. He could still recall that the viscount’s wife wore gloves, and Edmund couldn’t help but scowl. Were they that dirty to them that she couldn’t even touch them? 

Then, the fact that they decided to host a competition for them. The prize? To serve them and earn more money. The viscount could’ve fed all of them, but instead, he made them compete for it.

Edmund’s mother could only shake her head when the news of the winner’s body being found floating in the river reached their home. Nobody wanted to be the viscount’s winner after that. There were whispers that if it wasn’t the bandits trying to spite the viscount, then it was most likely disgruntled competitors. After all, if the person in first place had died, then the runner-up would be the one to get the right to serve the viscount and his family. 

Edmund hated them. He hated what they pushed him to do. She’d been sick from a flu that spread all over the town, and her exhaustion from labouring all day attending to a Lady’s home took a toll on her body. His poor mother needed medicine, and despite her loyalty to a Lord’s wife, she made next to nothing. 

So he used that hatred he had. This spite that muffled his howling stomach, and kept him from collapsing into despair, the only thing he had after she inevitably passed. He joined the bandits. Because he couldn’t stand there anymore, in that pathetic town, ruled over by that selfish viscount and viscountess. 

Because as fulfilling as anger was, so long as he couldn’t get revenge, he would never be sated. 

Small riots broke out. People were hungry, with the bandits blocking routes to other provinces and beating them if they pleaded. They began turning their attention to the viscount. Surely, he would appease the bandit’s leader. Give him what he was owed. Whatever it may have been. Does he not hear their howling stomachs and their wailing women?

He didn’t. 

He didn’t care. 

So Edmund learned how to use a dagger, then a rusted sword. He learned how to be quiet in the bushes, keeping a keen ear for the whispering of townsfolk who wanted to evade them. He would slam them to the dirt. These people whom he’s known all of his life, and warns them to go back. 

“You know who to blame,” Edmund would growl. His young face stern and merciless as he pressed the broad side of his sword to their throats. 

When the townsfolk turned on the viscount, he decided to run. He left his wife and kids behind, rushing into a wagon filled with grain. Thinking that if he stayed still under the bags, he’d trick them. Edmund would’ve laughed — but he was too angry. This coward of a man had caused so much pain and suffering, and yet, he wasn’t a lumbering figure that rose from fire with fangs or claws.

He was whimpering as Edmund continued to land blows on him. His ribs, then stomach, then the back of his head. Edmund couldn’t stop himself. A part of him wanted to rip the man to shreds until nothing but a gorey stain on the dirt remained. It felt good to do it; the idea sent shivers of excitement through him, this twisted feeling of superiority. 

A knight had tackled him to the ground. The wind got knocked out of him from the weight of him, and Edmund wheezed as dots spotted his vision. He hadn’t remembered much from that fight. He knew he had grabbed a fistful of dirt and smashed it to the knight’s face, making him choke on grass and possibly inhale a few pebbles. That, and how exhausted he was by the end of it. They’d briefly fought by clashing their swords, but resorted to fists, and Edmund fell on his ass after being backhanded. 

He groaned, his vision blurred, and his head ached. Any effort he made to keep himself sitting was thwarted as his arms turned to lead. Edmund lay there, one eye swelling shut and blood dripping down his nose and mouth. His teeth stained red as he spat out blood. When he turned his head, he saw the viscount’s shivering body next to him. 

Anger was all he had left. 

So Edmund, despite his exhaustion and pain, turned over on his stomach and crawled towards him. 

He had to kill this man for what he’d done. 

“Fucking hell, kid.” 

The knight watched, chest heaving as he leaned against a tree. The sun had long gone down now. The townsfolk were most likely ransacking the viscount’s manor if the plumes of smoke and orange glow burning were any indicator. He weighed his options, then he weighed Edmund’s. 

The boy’s knuckles were split open and bruised. But he still gripped them around the viscount’s throat and squeezed. 

The knight decided that killing Edmund wasn’t worth it. But neither did saving the viscount.

He grabbed Edmund by his scruff and brought him along to the next province. Edmund despised him in the beginning. Something he told Edmund wasn’t as quiet an achievement as he thought it was. 

“You hate everyone, kid.”

The longer they travelled together, however, Edmund’s anger became less prominent. It was still there, festering in the back of his mind like a wounded beast, but things became less and less warbled. He didn’t try to stab people as a greeting, and he eventually started to talk to the knight.

“Ser Darren, that’s my name.”

He was a smiley man. Taller than most, broad-shouldered, and with his hair a multitude of browns. Edmund remembered how flushed he’d get when he spent too long at a pub, his pale skin turning red while he hiccuped and slurred about pretty maidens. Darren told Edmund that he had trained somewhere up in the mountains. 

“Real fancy school back then,” Darren grinned. Pride was written all over his face as he reminisced about it. “The cold would burn sometimes; winters were harsh. But those were the best years of my life.”

“And for what?” Edmund didn’t know why he was being snappy. That night had wound down just nicely, there were cooking some hares that Edmund had caught, and Darren had bought some bread from a baker. The fire crackled as the meat cooked, and the winds were cool and the crickets were quiet. 

“To serve some high-born cunts?”

“To not starve in the winters,” Darren replied easily. He was used to Edmund’s curt tone. He smiled despite it. “I was born in a family of 10. I was as dumb as bricks, and no woman would’ve ever married me if she knew better.” 

“My father and I worked in the stables of a Lord, and I’d watch his son train. Learning to use swords, wooden swords at first. I thought of how fun it looked, and decided to play with it at night. Sneaked in and hacked at the straw target.

His uncle saw. He said I had a promise for a stable boy. More than his nephew ever would.”

Darren then got quiet. Edmund leaned forward, grunting a bit as he asked, “Then what happened?”

“When I came back home, my family was dead. That winter had been so harsh that when they fell asleep, they didn’t wake up.” 

Edmund was stunned. Darren had never alluded to such tragedy; he’d mentioned his siblings in conversations once or twice, but Edmund had thought they were alive and breathing. He thought Darren had come from a family that could afford to pay hunters for meat, and that his father had been a knight himself.

“Lord Greymane had taken offence to his brother taking me to the academy instead of his son. My father couldn’t provide for my family; he’d tried, but there were too many mouths to feed.”

“...Aren’t you angry?” Edmund asked tentatively. 

“I am. When I think about it for too long, I get angry. I am a human at the end of the day, kid.” 

“Then why don armour? Why serve them?” he felt that beast step out of the shadows of his mind, and Edmund grit his teeth as the fat from the hare dripped into the flames. “They’d never understand, you know. They think just touching lowborns would infect them.”

“Because I want to be better than you, Edmund.”

Confusion warped his face. Then, indignation caused the ends of his hair to nearly lift. Edmund stood up, his fists trembling as he shouted for Darren to repeat himself.

“I’d earned my place in that academy. Best of the best. Any highborn spawn that came to shove me down? I’d show him where he belonged in the field. I got rid of my accent, and I got rid of my traditions, and I buried them with my family.”

Darren looked up at Edmund, and the shadows that danced across his face made Edmund’s breath hitch. 

“How far do you think your anger can carry you, kid? All that raw talent and determination wasted by becoming a bandit and killing highborns. You could be better, Edmund. Be better than them.”

Edmund wasn’t sure who Darren meant — who they were—  but he could not sleep that night as he mulled over and over again about his words. 

Darren dropped Edmund off at the academy weeks later. He gave Edmund a firm squeeze on his shoulder, then ruffled his hair, and got onto his horse. Apparently, he’d paid the academy a hefty weight of coins for his admittance, even vouching for him when they doubted that he could do well. 

Edmund found himself bruised for weeks by the end of the day. He could fight, but not in the way the teachers wanted him to. Any attempt he made to retaliate, he’d be disqualified. Then there were the written tests, because knights had to know how to read and had to understand how to be courteous. Edmund hated those lessons the most; his writing was chicken scratches on parchment. The teachers would shake their heads at him. A bored look of disappointment washed over their wrinkly faces. They said what they thought without opening their mouths, and Edmund had always found himself staring at the gate of the school. He could run away — they would have no way of finding him, nor would they have cared enough to put in any effort to — but he thought of Ser Darren’s words that night.

“Be better than them.”

His nose wrinkled, as though tasting something sour, and Edmund turned his gaze away. 

“Fine,” Edmund would grumble under his breath, “you smiley bastard.”

So, the last thing Edmund expected from becoming a proper knight and being a part of the Royal Guard was to stare down at a princeling. Who wore nothing else but his night shirt that brushed along the top of his thighs with every bit of movement you made.

“Ser Edmund?” Your voice was soft, but it still managed to pierce through the cotton that stuffed his ears. He gulped thickly, thinking of Ser Darren and his drunken rambles of men with voices as sweet as honey, and how tempting they could be at times. Edmund’s jaw tightened resolutely. 

During the days of the trials leading up to the jousting competition, Edmund wondered what sorts of sins happened behind palace walls. If they could trap mighty beasts in stone and have banquets so lavish that all manner of creatures would be served, he imagined debauchery. Higherborn ladies and beautiful prostitutes; the lustiest boys and girls at your disposal, along with the finest wines and meads and all that. 

Nada. None. Zilch. 

You instead spent your days riding, and if not, you’d be reading. Walking through the Royal Gardens with Alice and Selene, talking either about politics or about the latest gossip Selene had been there to lend an ear to. The handful of times that you had gone out of palace grounds, you’d gone to the shipyard and talked with the men there. 

Apparently, your brother had sent over a gift, and you wanted to be the first to look at it. Your childish excitement is causing Edmund to wonder if you could even hold your ground during a fight. 

You could.

Ser Gwent had summoned you for a lesson in the yard. He watched, amused, as he placed his elbows on the stone walls and peered down at the sight of you. That bright smile and carefree stance as your sheathed sword thudded against your outer thighs. 

“Has he ever drawn his sword outside of the yard before?” Edmund wondered. The knight beside him — older than him, as most of them were, and balder than a cauldron —  laughed heartily. “Now, why would our prince have to? As the youngest, he does not expect marriage, and as the tides are calm, there is no political need. The people adore him, too; you’ve seen how smoothly he can descend all the way down to the shipyards. Not one insult!”

Edmund thought it was stupid. With armoured guards by your side with their swords displayed by their hips, even the dumbest commoner would’ve realised the consequence of rushing up to a prince and hurling insults in his face. But he kept his mouth shut, his attention returning to you just as you block Ser Gwent’s mighty swing. 

It was impressive how much strength you had. He’d always seen you dressed in light colours, flowy sleeves, and gold decorating you in some shape or form. Either threaded through the sleeves of your shirts, looking like dragons weaving over the other in a dance. Or dangling from your ears, decorating your fingers, and once he’d seen you with your crown whilst you accompanied your father in his throne room to listen to the people’s concerns. 

You had no gold on you now. Instead, you were in silver. Held it confidently in your hands while you lunged at Ser Gwent. Your pedigree was clear as day to him in that moment. He was entranced by your fluid movements, by your precision, and how you did it all with sly curl dancing on the corner of your lips. 

“Are you a virgin, Your Highness?” 

The prince sputters. The blood rushed to your chest, face and ears. 

“Forgive me for being so blunt,” he whispers. Then he clears his throat and glances up at the ceiling for a moment. Edmund was someone who was trained by a prestigious school of knights. But. He was also a young man, which meant before he took his knightly oaths, he was someone whom the whores knew very well. After all those bruises and self-inflicted cuts, his rendezvous with the village below and being treated as special by them felt like a well-earned reprieve.

He was not naive despite his honour. Or maybe he never had any honour at all. That seemed more likely.

“But you flaunt around in nothing but a robe before me. Then ask if you’re tempting me. You must know the answer to this.”

You walk past him, reaching for your robe and bringing it over your shoulders. Gone was the prince with a sword and confident smile, or the prince who helped the shipyard boys with carrying shipments, charming men and women alike with your carefree laugh. 

You shrank into yourself, shoulders drawn as your back faced him. 

“I’ve…I’ve spoken out of turn —”

“I am.”

A pin could drop in the moment, and the sound would’ve rung like a bell tower. Edmund sees the curve of your ears warm from the sunlight that’s beginning to flood through the large windows across from you. You resembled a myth in that moment. The sun casts your shadow down on him, but brightens your silhouette. There was a halo of light that shimmered above your head, and when you turned to face him, Edmund felt like he’d found religion. 

“I see,” Edmund’s throat squeezed as he spoke. It does little to weaken it. That authoritative voice, you could so clearly hear it carry commands over the wind and hills. He’d make a fine general, but that would require a war. 

What would a prince like you know about war?

Still, he stokes that fascination in you. You wanted to see him on his horse again, his posture proud and his eyes determined. He looked regal and hungry; there was a craving he planted within your stomach. Your mouth had never watered before. It never had any reason to. Everything you wanted was always handed to you on a gold platter encrusted with jewels as thick as a man’s knuckles. Yet Edmund was a feast you’d never had before, a book you wanted to open and trace your fingers through the ink-stained path. You wanted to see him do more than just stand and watch you — you wanted him to show you that beast again. 

That rippling strength that blew off that high-pitched-voiced knight from his horse with a brutality he held back. Then the sharpness in his eyes as he rides his horse next to you. He thought he hid it well. But you could recognise hunger as easily as breathing; it’s a darkness in their eyes. Sometimes it's envy, other times it’s greed, but Edmund’s hunger was a burning ember, and like fire, you knew all he wanted was to consume everything. 

His honour held him back. You wished it didn’t.

You wanted him to set fire to your skin. You imagine it like watching fire dancing on oil spilt into water, defiant and beautiful. His skin was a russet, reddish-brown, and his eyes were like red ochre. You see the thin lines on his face. The scars from his jousting event didn’t heal over, but they still left these stark white lines. You tentatively reach for his face, and his brow furrows instantly. You curl your fingers away, bringing your arm to your chest as you try to calm your racing heart. 

“They talk about you as if you’re innocent.”

He lifts his chin slightly, nearly flinching as he takes the sight of you again. He’d learned of the word ethereal once. He thought it was just like these haughty highborns to make words that were overcomplicated when they really meant to be pretty. He hated that you once again proved your pedigree to him.  

“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re truly a man. Do you not lust? Don’t you crave for warm bodies next to you? You have more than enough gold for it. When I say this to your servants, they look…aghast. They tell me you’re pure of soul and heart. But here is that pure prince of theirs. His legs are bare as he admits to me that he’s untouched. Admitting to me that he’s leading me into temptation.”

Edmund lets his words linger in the air. He sees you squirm under this gaze. He takes a step forward, stepping closer and closer to you until your chests are a hairbreadth's distance away. 

“Is it just in your blood to ruin?” Edmund mutters this as he reaches to hold your face. Your eyes flutter as you squint slightly up at him. He parts his lips, his brows pinched together as he takes in the details of your bewildered expression. 

“Ruin?” You feel his thumb drag down your cheek, using enough pressure to lightly pull at the fat under your eyes and distorting your proportions. It makes Edmund scoff. So you were human then — or just sometimes. In fleeting moments, you become something entirely untouchable, but when he’s towering over you, you become so painfully human.  

No different from him at all. Just flesh wrapped over bone. Admittedly, beautiful flesh. But flesh nonetheless. 

“...The sun is up. Your servants will wonder where you are. Your sister will be visiting to celebrate her son’s first birthday tonight. Shall we go back to your quarters, Your Highness?”

He pulls his hand away from you. Then straightened his posture and posed his hand back on his sword’s hilt. 

You fight back the urge to protest like a petulant child and nod.

The palace stirred with bustling energy. It has been for days now in preparation for your sister and her family’s arrival, what with the palace chefs ensuring they had all the ingredients they needed, and the servants bustling about with sheets and wiping down every surface they could find. The cellars were opened to pull out the finest wines they held. Invites had been sent out weeks ago, and now the rooms were being prepared for all sorts of highborns. 

Yet, much to Alice and Selene’s concern, you stayed sullenly in your room. They watched you cautiously as they fixed your outfit onto your figure. Usually, you’d be much more excited. You often were when your older siblings came to visit; they had their own responsibilities now, after all, and so whenever they could come, you’d be over the moon. But you had barely spoken a word the whole afternoon. Nothing, not even the latest gossip about the affair the cook was having, was pulling you out of this funk. 

“Are you feeling well, Your Highness?” Alice enquired as she fixed your hair. 

“You’re awfully quiet, Your Highness,” Selene continues.

“I’m alright. Just a mild headache. I’m sure it’ll go away as the festivities continue.”

You give them a reassuring smile, and they coo their concerns at you, fretting over you. Alice turned on her heel, telling you she’ll get the knights to fetch someone from the kitchens to fix you some tea. You shake your head, calling her name and telling her it wasn’t necessary. 

“I’m sure Ser Gwent and Ser Edmund won’t appreciate being disturbed over such menial things. I’ll be alright.”

“Your Highness —”

You narrow your eyes at her sternly, and Alice bows her head. Sometimes, she forgets that you’re not just someone she cares too. Not just a boy whom she accompanies in the garden because she enjoys your presence. You were the prince of the kingdom, and these rare moments when you remind them of it always feel like a harsh wake-up call to reality. 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The princess has the same smile as you. Edmund notes the way her lips part in that familiar pattern, the traces of the king’s facial structure evident in the shape of her brows and nose. She embraces you tightly, cupping the back of your head like you were something precious and pure. Edmund held his personal feelings back, jaw clenching as he remembered the events of this morning in the library. 

Your guilt-stricken face, the way your lips parted when he held you in his arms, as though waiting for him to do more. Begging for it with your brows scrunched together and your eyes searching for a flicker of weakness within his own. 

He would not throw away what he’d worked so hard for just to taint you. Edmund wasn’t stupid; he could think without the help of his cock. 

So what if his stare lingered on the shape of your ass whilst you rode your horse — something his crotch guard never appreciated. Or those moments when Alice served you sweets during tea time, watching you suckle the sweetness off your fingers after eating fruit makes his cock weep. 

 Then, during dinner time, the way the prince laughs with a sheen of mead and oil on his lips from the meat he’s eaten makes Edmund breathless. When the prince drunkenly licks the stem/stick of the candied apple to chase the gooey, melted sugar? 

Edmund wanted nothing more than to fuck his throat until he choked on it.

But alas, he shouldn’t. As much as the thoughts fuelled a sick desire in him, he risked too much for a fantasy that should only remain in his mind. Even if you peeked into it, and seemed to plead for him to show you more. He would not spoil you. Edmund was meant to protect you — not fuck you. 

The royal family was seated at the top of a stone platform, elevated enough to separate them from the rest of the highborns, so they all would need to lift their heads to look. The king sat in a mighty chair, the high back having an amalgamation of creatures carved into the wood that looked almost as uncomfortable as it did magnificent. But if the king was uncomfortable, he did not even allude to it. The banquet was laid out on every table. Perhaps not on a table as long as the winding roads of the town below, but Edmund imagined just one table could feed a starving village just fine.

You were bathed in candlelight, the chandelier hanging above casting the room in a warm glow. You wore a gentle expression on your face, your posture proper as you held your nephew to your chest. His chubby hands reached for your earrings, and you carefully evade his grip as you adjust your hold on him. You looked beautiful. Dressed in your sister’s colours, a patterned sash of silk draped across your chest and golden earrings twinkling under the light. The baby squealed happily as you leaned down to kiss his nose. In a tender gesture, you nuzzle your nose with his, and he places his hands on your face sweetly. The babe was wrapped in a patterned cloth that had probably been handwoven the moment your sister realised she was pregnant — or perhaps it was a royal heirloom that your family had kept. He imagines it's priceless either way. 

The feast continues. Performances of aerobatic dancers and fire eaters delight everyone in the room except the sleeping baby, who’d been whisked away by his mother’s loyal servants and his wet nurse. You and your sister danced together, your father watching on as he conversed politely with a viscount that Edmund vaguely recognises. 

Your legs moved gracefully as the stringed instrument of the musicians echoed through the hall. Your shoulders moved in tandem with your spry sister, moving as freely as a fish through water. It was the first time he’d seen you smile wide enough to see hints of your gums; unrestrained and elegant all the same.

You looked painfully human and unreachable all the same. 

The dance finishes with a flourishing bow that causes you to spill into bright laughter. You embrace your sister again, and again she cups the back of your head as she holds you.

Then Edmund notices him. The shape that’s been moving among the glitz and glimmer of the crowd, his hair the colour of moonlight and his eyes like sapphire. For a second, Edmund thought he was seeing a ghost. But the man breaches through the crowd, and his mouth forms the syllables of your name. So, you turn to face him. 

This man had pale hair, his beard that framed his jaw, and even his eyelashes continued the colour. It made him look fairy tale-like, an elven prince with his pale blue eyes and unblemished, deep bronze skin. 

“Lord Elowen,” you greet politely. He bows, taking your hand into his own and pressing his lips to your skin. Edmund’s cheek twitches as Lord Elowen keeps his eyes on yours the entire time. 

“You’re as handsome as the stories say, Your Highness.”

Your eyes widen a bit, enough for Edmund to notice from across the room, and you duck your head in thanks. But Lord Elowen does not release your hand from his own. He holds it between his, speaking to you in a hushed tone that makes your face warp into delighted confusion. 

Edmund stalks forward from his post. 

The people part for him, uncaring of his lack of a lineage, as he wore the royal guard armour. That, or the fact that he had a sword on his hip. It made his job easy either way. When you spot his silver cape, you give him a look of minute panic. 

Lord Elowen leans down to your ear, and Edmund watches as your lips part as his jaw moves. 

Whatever he’s speaking to you, whispering to you, it makes you turn to look at him with that expression again. Those pleading eyes, your parted lips, your gaze flickering through his like you’re hoping he finds a reason or an excuse to keep his touch on you. 

“My Prince,” Edmund says stiffly. He makes a show of standing a bit too close to your side, glowering at the strange lord as you finally slip your hands away from him. Lord Elowen smiles, smoothly recovering as he regards Edmund with a once-over. Edmund’s heart jumps to his throat as recognition goes through him. Lord Elowen looked older with that full beard, but his sapphire eyes were unmistakable, especially this close. 

“Such a sweet princeling,” Lord Elowen purrs despite Edmund’s intimidating presence. “How lucky for him to have such a noble knight protecting him.”

Edmund knows what Lord Elowen means. He’s bumped into him in the hallways of brothels when they were younger. Victor Elowen would know how truly noble Edmund really was. 

“Lord Elowen was courting you.” He speaks so suddenly, you nearly jump. The festivities were still ongoing, but you had been swaying on your feet from the wine. So Edmund advised you to go to your quarters, accompanying you through the quiet halls of your wing. Keeping you hidden behind his frame as Lord Elowen watched on.

“He was vulgar. He was not courting me,” you refute.

 “He was. He was courting you to bed, as men do.” The puzzling expression on your face emboldens Edmund. 

He grabs your face again. Still gentle, but there’s a firmness to him now. His figure is imposing as he walks forward. You nearly stumble on your feet as you walk backwards, trying to put a bit of distance, something, anything, to find air again. Your back meets the stonewalls, the grooves and divots providing ample texture for your fingers to dig into as Edmund stares at you. 

Despite how hard you try to hide or turn your face away from him, Edmund presses and presses until he’s nearly on top of you. 

“You do know what men do in bed, don’t you? All those books you read, all the stories Selene tells you about.”

“I’m not an idiot, I know how sex works,” you retort indignantly. 

Oh, you’re too sweet, little prince. Those pinched brows and pouty lips are begging for something you don’t even understand. 

Edmund smirks. It’s sharp, and cocky, and handsome, and your tongue sweeps over your lower lip unconsciously. He drags his thumb to your chin and tilts your head, his eyelids going heavy as yours. You close your eyes, fully trusting him. 

Him. Edmund. The troublesome knight who maims highborns and leaves women heartbroken. The knight who cut into his own skin to keep himself awake as he read books from libraries just so he could keep up with his haughty, richer peers in the academy he hailed from. 

You two could not be more different. 

Don’t you feel the callouses on his hands? These aren’t the ones that should hold you. But he would be lying to himself if the thought didn’t turn him on. 

What would it feel like to fuck a prince? 

The prince?

His lips meet yours, and your breath stutters. Edmund applies pressure at first, lips pouting with yours, then he tilts your head again. This time, he moves his jaw, and you follow along. He steals your breath away with a muffled chuckle.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Shivering at the cool surface of his glimmering silver armour. He uses one hand to hold your waist, and you pull away for a second — he chases after you. You can’t breathe. He won’t let you.

His tongue slips between your lips, and you don’t even fight it. You let him taste you. The rich wine flavour on your tongue, the taste of luxury, and heaven. You make these soft noises. These little gasps. As though every squeeze his hand gives you pleases you.

He pulls away just to place his forehead over yours. He feels your lashes flutter against his own, the tip of your nose pressed to his cheek as you purse your lips. Like you still craved for the pressure of his lips on yours, like you wanted to commit it to memory. Edmund moves your head again and tilts your chin up.

You looked so fucked out just from tasting his tongue. Neither of you should be here. It’d cause a scandal if anyone saw you groping each other in the darkness. Especially someone like Selene. So Edmund reluctantly took a step back, giving you the air you so desperately needed mere minutes ago. 

You didn’t want it anymore. You didn’t need it like you needed him. 

Your white curtains sway as you enter. The heavy door makes a thud; there’s a finality in the noise, and Edmund finds himself uncaring of it. He slips a hand under your silk sash and twists it in his grip. You gasp as he pulls you forward, your hands bracing themselves on his breastplate. Edmund kisses you again, hungrier than ever as he shamelessly tugs and pulls at your clothes. 

Your knight’s strength easily opens your top, the buttons clattering onto the floor as his eyes roam over your bare neck. His open mouth places itself on the column of your neck, and you shiver, trying to find purchase of him. All you feel is his armour, the raised insignia of your family’s symbol over his chest pressing into you. You felt a flicker of fear as his teeth brushed over your skin, but your lips lifted into a smile despite it. 

This heat, this passion. It’s something so frighteningly new, yet you refused to let it go. No matter how much it burned. You just wanted to be consumed. 

Edmund brings your hand to his mouth, and you squeak when his tongue traces over your knuckles. You try to tug your hand away from him, but he tightens his grip on your wrist and brings your palm to his nose. He presses kisses there, his eyes dark as he intently drags his lips to your wrist. 

He swears he could still see Victor. Could see his horrifying blue eyes as he openly undressed you. 

Edmund pulls you into him again, swallowing your gasps. 

“S-Ser Edmund,” You whimper softly. He groans as he lays you across one of the many seats in your bedroom. Your bedroom hearth flickered, a log crumbled and sent a flurry of sparks into the air. His hands quickly pull his armour off. It was with practised ease, something he’d done a thousand times now. His honour falls to the ground with dull, empty thuds. 

Your hands roam over his shoulders, shy in their conquest, and Edmund gives you an amused grin. He guides your hands down. To his chest, letting you feel his thin undershirt, and then to his stomach, where you can feel the definition of his muscles. 

“This is a warrior’s body,” he tells you as he places a hand next to your head. You slip your hands under his shirt, and he lets you feel it. Every scar on his body from his sparring sessions, or when the highborns had decided to pin him to the ground at night and kick him over and over, humiliated by his standing victorious over them. That was a beating he took with a smile on his face. 

He was proud of those scars. He feels your touch lingering over the raised skin, but your smile doesn’t spread with pride. He sees the flicker of anger, and when he calls your name, he pauses at how the fire from the hearth reflects in your eyes. It’s gone in a blink, but he feels lust burning within him now. Where did you hide that fierceness within you?

 He pulls his shirt off and reaches to do the same for you. 

“Is my body any different from yours?” You ask him. 

It was. You had unblemished skin. Perfect and pure, soft to the touch. He traces his fingers over your chest, feeling the pebbling of your nipples and finally tracing the scars hugging the underside of your chest. He wouldn’t consider that a blemish. It complemented you, almost like a beauty mark rather than a scar. 

“Of course it is, you’re a prince.” 

His words cause you to squeeze the base of his throat. He narrows his eyes at you, his hands pausing over your chest.

“Am I…your prince?”

Edmund can’t fight the smile that crawls onto his face. 

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Edmund traces his touch to your jaw, and he’s back to kissing you. You feel his strong arms, your path unsure but curious as you feel the contours of his body. The cropped hair that tickles your palms as you feel his nape, and the curve of his spine as he moves his hips. You gasp, and he watches you closely.

“There’s my cock, pressing into yours.”

He smiles loosely as your legs widen. Edmund slots himself right where you guide him to, and he lets you feel his hardening bulge as he puts what he’s learned from brothels to good use. Even over clothes, you can’t help but moan softly at the pressure he applies there. Knowing what he’s grinding against you, hearing him groan softly as he hovers above you — it makes your head dizzy with desire.  

“Are you getting hard, too, my prince?” You pant for a moment. Then, you reach down to the ribbons that laced you into your pants. You pluck at the knots that come loose for you and untie yourself from the constraints. You reach for his hand, then bashfully guide it to slip underneath the clothes. 

He feels your warmth. He releases a shuddering breath when he goes further down, and is met with slick. Your slick. He groans as his fingers trace your sex, the heel of his palm brushing over your twitching cock. You cover your mouth, and your cock pulses again. 

“Does it feel good when I rub you here?” 

He does it again. A slow grind to your dick. A firm pressure, a warm hand, the rough callouses that cause shivers down your spine. 

“Yuh-yes, yes, it feels good.”

Edmund’s fingers slip between your folds and tap at your winking cunt. Your eyes widen, and you try to twitch away from him, but Edmund presses on. 

“Ah!”

“Your Highness,” his voice goes lower than before. The timbre borders on a growl as he slips past his first joint. “You’re tainted now.”

“How filthy of you, to allow a lowly knight to touch you here. To know what your royal cunt feels like.”

“Edmund —”

“What would your future husband think?”

You squeeze your thighs together as he sheathes his finger inside of you. He angles his palm to rub at your cock as he curls his digit inside. You moan weakly, grasping at the throw pillows on your seat as he braces himself on one elbow above you. He’s hypnotised at the sight of it; of a prince virgin who’d never experienced this before. How the pulse on your neck jumps as you toss your head to the side, how wet your lips were as you moan airily. 

Your usually neat hair is now getting tousled as you shudder beneath him. Your hips are jerking as your chest picks up its pace. 

“Oh, you tightened around my finger. Are you hungry for more, my prince?”

He’s not rough as he slips another in. He doubts he could be. You were so wet, your cunt barely gave any resistance.  You gasp again, choking on a moan as two of his fingers begin to thrust in and out of you. Your eyes are getting glossy, and he presses kisses to your cheek as he strokes your jaw sweetly. 

“Do you feel it?”

“I — I feel like I’m going to die,” you admit in a whine. “My heart's ra — mngh! — racing, Edmund.”

He smiles. You can feel his teeth on your blushing cheeks. Your brain is getting hazy. The taste of him on your tongue, the wine, the heat from the hearth, the cool breeze from your windows; you’re feeling everything and nothing all at once. 

Your back arches, and your mouth hangs open as his fingers brush against a spot within you that causes you to clench around him like a vice. 

“Right there?”

“N-no! It’s – ah! — Too much!”

He shushes you, kissing your lips in cute pecks as he speeds up his pace. Your muffled noises of pleasure make his cock ache to be inside of you. He reaches for your clenched hands and threads his fingers through yours, pinning them next to your head as he watches your orgasm wash over you. Your eyes squeeze shut, and when it washes through you, he moans along with you. 

You go limp underneath him. He licks his lips as he notices the sheen of sweat on your neck. He knows he can’t leave marks on your neck — your servants would notice and they would most certainly tell the others — but he leaves kisses there anyway. He lets you feel how good it could be, and faintly wonders if he could have you begging for him to leave marks. The thought makes his eyes darken. 

He pulls your pants down. You watch in a daze, mouth going dry as he places your thighs over his shoulder.

“Ser Edmund?”

How dirty. Calling him with his title with your cunt mere centimetres away from his face. 

“Hm?” He licks a wide stripe over your cunt, and whatever you were going to say breaks into a series of shaky moans. He wraps his lips around your dick, ignoring the way you squeeze his head as he grinds against the soft seating beneath him. 

“T–that’s filthy — please, you mustn’t —”

“You taste delicious,” he murmurs against your thighs. He bites hard enough to have it twitching, then laughs when you pout at him. “Your boycunt is the finest thing I’ve tasted.”

“You’re vulgar,” Edmund’s eyes shine in mirth. Then he descends, and you toss your head back, your ass pressing into the soft seat just as your heels dig into his back. He groans against you, the vibration making you mewl as he sucks your dick. His slick fingers find themselves inside of you again, accompanying his tongue in consuming you.

You squirm, panting out that his tongue feels odd inside of you. He makes no retort, just slips his eyes closed and savours you like your body was a feast made for him. You feel that coil of heat build in you again, and reach for his hand. Edmund felt his heart skip a beat as you shakily thread your fingers together. He rests your hands on your hip, whispering your name as he feels his own orgasm draw close. 

He ruts into the seat, and when he feels you clench around him, he lets out a growl of pleasure when he comes undone in his pants. 

You whine at the hot breaths he pants against your twitching cock, flustered at the sight of his wet lips and wetter chin. He sweeps his tongue over his lips, his pupils expanding at the taste, and you swear your head is going to explode from the blood rushing to your face. 

“Ser Edmund…”

“...Yes, Your Highness?”

“Stay with me until the morning?”

It filled him with a sense of superiority. He’d earned his place here among the higher born — he’d proven himself worthy. He was different from the filth he came from. He must be. If not, then why would all these scars along his thighs exist? He’d painstakingly ripped into them with every failure, using them as motivation and passing them off as scars from sparring. This arena he was in was tangible proof of his pride. The mud that speckled across his boots would be a bygone era once he managed to complete this final task. 

Becoming a prince’s royal guard. The prince. Beloved by all, his eyes were said to be able to bewitch anyone; his voice a soothing melody that could calm the wildest beast. That prince. Edmund swallowed his anxieties as he peeked at the tall towers of the castle. It was a daunting piece of architecture, painstakingly built with intricate details most could only dream of seeing. He’s heard that there were sculptures in there that were so lifelike, they hadn’t been carved at all. Instead, they ensconced these mighty beasts in a hardening solution, which is why they were always mid-snarl or poised in a pose of attack. 

He’d once heard tales of the banquet table being so long it could stretch down the length of a city’s walkway. Goblets filled to the brim, sloshing with rich and heady wine, while all sorts of meats were served alongside it. Venison, boar, aurochs, fat rabbits, fatter chickens. Edmund’s stomach roared, and he shook his head, hardening his expression as he focused on tightening the leather straps of his armour. 

The others around him seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were from other academies; they didn’t look much older than him. The ones that did kept to themselves in another corner, scoffing derisively at them with the minute shake of their heads. These kids, he imagines them thinking, they don’t have what it takes to protect a royal. 

Edmund stood, rolling his shoulders testily while he held his helmet under his arm. Ensuring he could actually move around as freely as possible. He didn’t have the luxury of having a squire, not yet. One squire, a boy with olive-toned skin and shimmery black eyes, rushes through the flaps of their quarters carrying polished armour in his arms that made so much noise with every hurried step that the boy was cringing into his own neck. Edmund hears the murmurs of the servants who walk past, ladies dressed plainly but obviously cared for. 

“It’s a shame the prince isn’t a fan of women; he’s such a looker,” she spoke like the village girls Edmund had met on his nightly endeavours of sneaking into the pub. Bright-eyed, nearly squealing, as they discussed how handsome the knights from the academy up the mountains were. Edmund found them as amusing as one would find an overly affectionate pub cat. Purring against your legs and flopping over to show off their furry bellies, pawing into the air with their tails curling and sweeping across the floor.

’He likes men?’ Edmund tilted his head at the information, brows raising slightly. He supposed it was a good thing the royal family weren’t discriminating. 

An announcer shouts, informing the participants and the honoured guests that the event will begin soon. Edmund ducks under the flaps and squints at the sunrays that reflected off another knight’s armour. 

“Fucking hell.”

You weren’t in the best of moods this morning. That much was evident in your slouched figure and deep frown drawn on your face. “It’s an era of peace,” your tone remained gentle despite your reluctance to upheave yourself from your plush bed. “It’s entirely unnecessary for such an event. What fun would I have watching Ser’s attempt to impale each other with an elongated club whilst they’re sat on horses.” 

Your servants stifle their chuckles. Barely. But their muffled noises of joy cause a grin to tug on the corner of your lips. They coax you from your bed, ushering you to the bronze soaking tub that sat across from the large arches of your room that overlooked the city below. The wind tried to mend your mood, causing the sheer white curtains to float gracefully and the steam dancing over the surface of the water to swirl as if delighted to greet you. 

“I’m sure it must bring you some joy, Your Highness,” Alice folded your night shirt over her arm, averting her gaze as you stepped into the tub. The water sloshes but doesn’t spill over the rim. Further proof of how devoted your servants already were. You trusted them with your life, why would you need a stranger to stand out in front of your door every night so callously? You were comfortable enough with the Kingsguard. 

“Seeing knights fight for you,” Selene chimes in. “I’d be fanning myself just thinking about it.”

”You two are naughty,” they laugh along with you. 

“Truthfully, I feel as though Ser Gwent is just fine —“

”Ser Gwent fell off his horse last week, Your Highness.” Alice plucked your hand out and placed it on the rim, gently wiping you down. 

“Well, yes, but he’s walking just fine. He still holds his sword with a proud stature,” you said like a child convincing their older siblings that their tattered childhood toy was completely fine. 

“Ser Gwent thought that he saw a boar during the hunting party,” Selene leaned in with her brows sloped in concern, “It was a fat hound dog.” 

“Alright! Point made!” 

It was exhausting to constantly smile. Lifting your cheeks just enough to show a sliver of teeth, but making sure your gums weren’t showing, and ensuring you didn’t look insane or dead-eyed. Being a prince had a tremendous amount of perks, especially as the youngest. But that didn’t mean you could completely escape royal duties or procedures. Like this horrendously tight outfit you were wearing — as beautiful as the fabric was and how gorgeous the detailing was, you’d much prefer to wear something looser. The garden was singing siren songs to you, and you had to restrain yourself from running into her arms with a good book so you could enjoy the breeze and sun. 

Instead, here you were. Seated in the stands, your posture is as perfect as your closed-lip smile that you generously send to the familiar faces of high lords, dukes, duchesses and their respective children. The scent of horse shit and iron made your nose crinkle. Your father clears his throat, so you fix your expression with a scrunch of your nose instead.

”It’s abhorrent how you cast Ser Gwent aside so quickly,” You whisper to him.

”He’s been guarding our family for years,” he replied calmly.

”Exactly,” you give him a pointed expression. “Where is our loyalty?”

“Son. I was a boy when he became a part of the Royal Guard. At this point, he’s been begging to be speared by a sword.”

”Father!” You scold him, disbelieving of his smug expression. “He taught me and my brothers how to hold a sword.”

”Yes, just as he did to me,” he said in a guiding tone that came off as condescending just as it had been humorous.

The jousting began. The knights in their gloriously shining armour parade and trot in front of your stand. Tipping their heads, eyes shining in hope, and you do that practised smile again. Alice had told you they’d hope to curry favour from you, maybe a flower, or perhaps a wreath of flowers. Ser Gwent had never asked for flowers from you; he preferred the desserts you’d sneak up for him instead after dinner. He’d always been fond of the chewy bread doused with syrup. 

The knights came and went. Horses neighed, nickered, and bucked. Wood splintered, armour dented, blood splattering and mixing with the mud. It was all so very boring for you. Your siblings had their own jousting events; you’d been to them countless times before. You never quite got the appeal. The knights were skilled, you’d give them that, but they were entirely too haughty. With their toddling squires that they’d kick away and their rowdy horses whose coats were almost as pristine as your mane. You felt your shoulders aching, so you subtly stretched your back to ease the tension. The squirming catches your father’s eyes. He places his bearded chin in his palm and mutters to you; 

“None of them are interesting to you?”

”They’re well trained, Father,” he cocks a brow. 

“Gods, I thought a few of them were decent. The one with the silver mare, he’s got impressive strength, doesn’t he?”

”Hm, he also thwacked his squire’s head with his helmet when the boy didn’t get to his side in time.”Your father’s face twisted in displeasure. 

Then, a horse rides up to your stand. A few of the ladies nearby gasp, bringing their hands to their lips as they fanned themselves, and you level your gaze down to the knight before you. 

He had his helmet held by his side, revealing his dark curls and honeyed skin. This knight smiled — no, smirked — at you as if he was sizing you up. Your face warped into confusion as his head tipped up at you, revealing more details of his visage. Freckles dusted across the high points of his face, his downturned lashes brushing against his skin with every blink, and his lips full with the corners curled into a feline grin. 

“My Prince!” his voice diminished your intrigue. It was pitched, as though he was struggling to keep his voice from wavering, to call out for you. The accent that paired with your name tells you that he’s from the eastern villages. Flowery and smooth, but ear-grating, paired with such a weak voice. He flourishes into a bow, and you incline your head. Your father chortles into his fist, and the ladies all go back to whispering, this time about his humiliation instead of adoration. The knight falters, but he guides his horse back to its place. 

“My Prince.”

This voice held itself with authority. A steady tone that could easily command a room full of people, it makes you curious about who it belonged to. 

He had no helmet. Not under his arm, nor between his legs. His armour was not polished, the animal-hide straps having veins of white from years of use, but the knight who wore it was a curious one. He had dark skin, his hair was cropped like a soldier's, and his eyes were such a deep shade of brown that under the light they almost appeared a deep burgundy. He had high cheekbones, making his cheeks appear hollow, and his eyes were slanted with monolids that made him appear intimidating. 

He bows his head, no flourish, no extravagance. 

“I humbly ask for your favour; it would be a great honour to win with your blessing.” He had a rough accent, not unrefined, but clipped at certain points. This knight was from the South, and he had the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. You imagine your father’s brows reaching his crown as you stand up. 

“You’re so certain that with my blessing, you will win, Ser…”

”Edmund, Your Highness.”

You place your hands on the bannister, and Edmund feels his heart jump to his throat. You were a thing of beauty, just as the rumours had said. Your facial harmony was unlike anything he’d seen before — village girls, whores, haughty high-borns who wanted to feel dirty lying with a lowly knight like him — simply couldn’t compare to you. Were all royals like this? With eyes that held his attention, making him detest every blink simply because he wanted to see more details. 

Your lips part, and you say his name.

”Ser Edmund.” His horse shifts underneath him, sensing him tensing most likely. 

“If I give you my favour, will you win this tourney for me?”

”Yes, Your Highness.”

You scan his face, and he’s suddenly conscious of how he holds himself. He tries not to squirm. 

“Don’t disappoint me.” A servant motions for him to lift his lance, and he does. You give him a wreath of flowers. 

“Ser Edmund.”

”Of course, Your Highness.”

Alice and Selene exchange glances. You didn’t have to look to know that; you could hear their giddy whispers and feel a flare of heat rush to your face. You pressed the back of your hand there, just as Edmund turned his horse to get back into place. 

“Going for the runt of the litter, I see.”

”Father,” you chastised. “You said these knights had gone through several trials, some were even recommended. He’s no runt.”

”He’s a nobody,” Selene smoothly added from your right side. Neither you nor your father blinks, listening to her as she speaks. “He comes from an academy up in the mountains, best of the best over there. He was the last to arrive at the trials, but he managed to impress a few of the facilitators. Ser Gwent said his swordsmanship was exceptional."

“It’s concerning how much you know,” your father murmurs. Selene bows her head humbly. 

The knights get into position. Edmund wore no helmet, but the wreath of flowers at the end of his lance drew more attention than his bare face. You hadn’t been indifferent to the previous knights, but you hadn’t given them any flowers either. The knight from the East narrows his eyes, his horse clawing at the mud as he glares at Edmund. 

He was a prick. Ever since he set foot into the makeshift camp, he’d been a judgmental little bitch. Edmund didn’t speak a lot, but his facial expressions were irritating enough. It didn’t need to be said; it was obvious that he thought he was infinitely better than everyone. A flag swings down between them, and both men charge at each other. 

Tourneys were fast. It was the rush of excitement that made it a thrill to watch. But watching Edmund on his horse made your heart race for an entirely different reason — his face of concentration made you think about those romance novels in the palace library, or those moments when your servants would coo about how dashing men looked whilst working. 

He skillfully avoided his opponent’s lance, as though expecting him to be aiming for his chest with an almost murderous intent, whilst his lance hit him right on his shoulder. It causes his armour to concave, and his lance to shatter, but the force of Edmund’s strength causes him to fly off his horse and face-first into the mud. Edmund reigned his horse back, victoriously holding his lance and releasing a long breath. 

Cheers erupted around them. Some yelled in disbelief while the drunker lords yelped in laughter as the fallen knight slipped on the mud, yelling at the servants attempting to help him up.

In the chaos, Edmund makes his way to you on his horse. He allows his eyes to fill with mirth, and when you look down at him again, he gives you a closed-lip smile. There were scratches on his face, most likely the splintered wood from the broken lance, and your brows sloped in minute concern. 

“Well done, Ser Edmund.”

Edmund’s horse tossed its head back as he tensed once again. 

The tourney had sealed his fate. His ticket to a better life was now as tangible and real as the weight of his new armour on him. Ser Gwent had given him slaps on his back, welcoming him into the royal guards like a proud father, and Edmund resigned to his fate of being treated like a boy. His hair was ruffled, and his older comrades all poured more mead into his cup as they celebrated him into their ranks. They teased him about his time in the academy, wondering if he wandered down to the local pubs and laughing when he smiled. 

It felt amusing that these hardened knights were no different from the boys at his school. 

Now, with his new gear and fancy shoulder cape, Edmund stood by your bedroom door with Ser Gwent. 

And they stood.

And they stood.

And they stood.

Edmund shifts in his spot just as Ser Gwent begins to snore. He couldn’t believe the sight before him. The man had his eyes fully closed, and he was still standing there. Edmund blinks, takes a step forward, then waves his hand in front of Ser Gwent’s face. His bushy moustache trembles as he inhales, but he doesn’t stir. The door behind him opens, and you laugh as Edmund flinches. 

“Your Highness —“ he sputters, bowing quickly and causing his head to pulse in pain. Reprimanding him for last night's endeavours. 

“Your servants aren’t here yet. Shall I fetch them for you?” 

“No, no. I was just curious how you'd react to Ser Gwent. He tried to make a good impression for you; he stayed awake far longer than he usually does.” 

“He…he does this often?” Edmund gets a snore in response. You smile, leaning against the wooden doors casually as you nod your head. 

“He’s old. But he’s too stubborn to admit it.” You step out from your room, dressed in nothing but a luxurious robe, and Edmund’s eyes widen. ”Come with me, Ser Edmund.”

”Your Highness, shouldn’t you get dressed?” You snort at the question. “Everyone’s hungover or still drunk from last night, and I’m not that indecent.” 

You turn, and he nearly trips from the unexpected stop. You tilt your head up at him, your bare feet taking a step back as you open your arms. Your robe brushed along the floors with every step you took, and the slit between that revealed bare skin. His eyes climbed up your calves, to your knees, and when they reached the white sleeping shirt you’re dressed in, he glanced away. 

“Am I?” 

“Your Highness…”

Edmund learns quickly that you were sheltered. Not in a comical way, where you didn’t even know what the birds and the bees were. But rather, you were kept away from it all. Something about purity and modesty, royal expectations and the like. As if Edmund hadn’t seen young lords in the rooms of brothels before. Even if they had merely been Little Lords — as Ser Gwent calls them — it made no sense to him how your virtue in bed correlated to your being. 

This all culminates in your naivete about how desirable you were. Everyone else in the castle had seen you grow up; they doted on you like a nanny or an older sibling. So you pranced around in your robes early in the mornings, sneaking past the snoring knight by your door and making your way to the library. Edmund tried not to let his eyes linger too long on your bare skin — those delectable legs, that untainted neck, the way your collarbones tempted him to look — and for the most part, it was easy. You made conversation with him, rambling about this or that with a chipperness he’d never seen someone have so early in the day. 

What could a prince bemoan about in his world? Edmund would be happy too if he were you. 

But then, in the library or in the garden, when you settled down with your book, it was pure torture. You lean on the chairs, then prop the book up on your legs. The robes wouldn’t hide much then; they slid down your thighs like silk, and Edmund swore you were doing this on purpose. Your night shirt would ride up, the plush of your ass peeking out under the already sheer material. 

Edmund would keep his back to you. Listen to your breathing, the pages turning, the huffs of amusement you’d make as you immersed yourself in the books. Sometimes you’d talk to him, explain how stupid some of the characters were, or how boring the book was. Edmund would reply in turn, but never turn his head. 

“Have you always been sullen?”

”Sullen?”

You close the book, and he hears your clothes rustling as you move. 

“You keep your gaze away from me, and you’re so quiet most of the time,” you sniff in what Edmund assumes is an indignant act. Then, he hears you stand up, and he turns to ensure you remain in the library. He regrets it almost instantly. You’d left your robe over the back of the chair, and Edmund felt like a starved lion, and you were a piece of steak dripping with blood dangled in front of him. He chastised himself by shaking his head, resolutely keeping his head forward. 

“I thought you’d provide more conversation compared to Ser Gwent.”

“...Ser Gwent follows you to the library?”

He hears you place the book back onto the shelf. It must’ve been boring, or perhaps you weren’t in the mood. You make a humming noise, your footsteps keeping him informed of how far away you are. 

“Whenever he’d wake up, he’d accompany me.”

“And you…Would you be in your robe?”

You pop out behind him, silent as a mouse, and Edmund turns his head away again. 

“Does my robe offend you that much?” Your voice lifts at the end as you chuckle. Edmund gulps thickly, the grip on the hilt of his sword tightening as you stand firmly before him. You notice his white knuckled grip and take a step forward to cup your hand over his own.

“Your Highness,” he strains out, gently pulling your hand away from his. “You must know what you’re doing.”

You blink owlishly up at him. 

“What…what am I doing?”

Killing him is what you’re doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, squeezes, and takes a deep breath. 

“You’ll catch a cold walking around barefoot in your night shirt and robe, Your Highness.” 

You’re stiff underneath him. He can feel it. He can see it. He can see almost everything, and he shouldn’t be seeing it. But a part of him is filled with a wicked desire to look and commit the details of a royal’s body to his memory. It befuddles him — nothing about you was godly or supernatural. You had a torso like his, arms, legs, fingers. The whole set. You were both human. 

But Edmund knew that social status separated you so much that you might have been from two different worlds. Two different species, even. 

So, he looks. He sees your nipples under your shirt, how your chest rises and falls with each breath. Your waist, stomach, and hips, and when he notices the trail of pubic hair, he inhales sharply and lets you go as though touching you burned him. 

“We should head back to your quarters, your servants will be there soon —”

“Am I…” 

Your voice causes everything to go quiet around you. For a long moment, Edmund swears he couldn’t breathe as he waited for you to speak. 

It left you with the task of “babysitting” his partner—the ever-famous and reliable Connor. 

You didn’t mind him. Truly, you had no qualms about working with an android. You’d much rather him than Detective Reed. He was a real piece of work. But, there were times when Connor could be a teensy bit unnerving, which was no fault of his. As far as you know, he’d only been made a few years ago.  

Hank had even invited you and a few other detectives and uniformed officers to watch a basketball game. Connor had told you he nudged him to be social, and you distinctly remembered snickering quietly as you stood next to him, bringing the plastic cup of alcohol to your lips as you told Connor he was performing miracles. 

So it wasn’t like you were unfamiliar with Connor. Neither of you had worked a case together. There was a difference between casually watching a game of basketball and working on an attempted homicide case.

“Yeah,” you slipped your eyes closed and peeled away from the window. “I’m just thinking. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”  Connor tilts his head. Looking all the more puppy-like. 

You hesitated to answer him as you turned to face him. Would an android be able to understand the inner turmoil in your head at the moment? You doubted that they even had brain fog, or that their ability to be happy sometimes partially relied on the weather. The thought of even confessing this to him caused heat to rise to your cheeks and you shrugged it off.  

“Taking my sweet ass time to think,” your muttering earns another head-tilt from the detective. “It is a tough case,” he responds neutrally, “the circumstances have me…bewildered.”

You scoff as your expression turns incredulous. Connor offers a gentle smile, his brown eyes as warm as ever as his knees shift to point your way in his seat. It escapes your mind that this man was capable of inhuman feats— vaulting between the gaps of buildings, tanking bullets to his torso with minimal issues, being a walking forensics lab to name a few— and you loosen your grip on the steering wheel. 

“The evidence left was nearly nonexistent thanks to the rain. The victim’s in a coma, and the perp was careful. It was a methodically planned out crime. I’m frustrated.” 

“You don’t show it,” your tone is lighthearted and Connor breathes out a laugh. “Sorry, is that offensive?” you grimace, shoulders lifting. 

”Because I’m an android?” Connor laughs again. He leans into the seat, posture still impeccable somehow, and shakes his head. “I’m not offended. It is something I have to work on. Hank says my dry humour isn’t always appreciated. He suggests I have a sunnier disposition.”

”What? Like his?” 

Connor coughs into his fist— you belatedly realise he had snickered and feel the brain fog slowly begin to fade away as you turn your car's ignition. The smooth rumbling and the radio announcer's voice blend seamlessly with Connor and your laughter. 

“You don’t have to apologise for being thorough, detective. It’s an admirable trait to have.” His reassurance should not have your heart picking up speed, but it does and you focus on the road before you instead. Your brain reminds you of every little road law that you had not thought about for years as the other vehicles on the road— including yours— fall into a monotonous routine. 

“So you admire me? I’m honoured,” you jest. Connor knows you’re joking. But his gaze lingers on you, the darkening bags under your eyes, the grip on your steering wheel, and the way your heart rates slightly elevated despite simply driving. Connor is perceptive, he was made to be. He noticed just how— for lack of a better word— funny your body acted when you were alone with him. At first, he assumed the rush of blood to your face and your slightly clammy palms indicated anxiety. All signs pointed that way. 

But you carried on conversations with him as smoothly as ever. He wondered if you had a knack for acting, most people do in their own ways, but you weren’t someone that was distrustful. He could hardly imagine you being deceitful. You were like he had said; admirable. Maybe a little clumsy at times, hard-headed too when you find a lead but Hank says that’s normal for younger detectives. 

‘The need to prove themselves, make a name in the precinct.’

Hank had told him. The human desire to leave a mark on the world, to be remembered. Connor could flood his entire brain with historical figures with a blink. Some more infamous than famous, some with their names used as a stand-in for another word even. So he knows that’s a fact.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as you stop at a red-light. The pitter-patter of rain makes you squint at the warbling sight past the windshield. You pinch your brows tight, and Connor says something funny. 

“I’m starving.” 

“…What?”

He points to a diner. The red and yellow colour scheme stands out brightly in the gloomy hues of the weather and Detroit smog. The place was less than desirable, and as Connor read through the reviews and health department ratings he found himself tightening his smile. Still, he urged you to park in the parking lot next to it because he was ‘starving.’

You didn’t want to offend him by asking what exactly he meant. Maybe he’d gotten a stomach upgrade or something to be able to fit in a bit better. Eating together was an important aspect in socializing after all. So you kept your questions to yourself, simply parking all the way in the back and unbuckling your seat belt. Only to stop when Connor places a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen, turning to face him with your eyes widened and your brows raised in question.

”How long have you been awake, detective?” 

You sputter, your words barely tangible as your mouth gapes. Connor’s head-tilt this time seemed more like a honed police dog than a puppy, and you pressed your lips together. 

“I don’t know. I don’t exactly count that down, ya’ know?” You motion your eyes between him and his hand. Connor reluctantly slips it away and folds them politely on his lap. You try to ignore the lingering feeling of his body warmth on you. Your brain was playing tricks on you, mocking you again for not having a supercomputer instead of a mass of flesh and short-circuiting neurons. 

“I estimate 16-hours.” 

‘Way to rub it in,’ you thought bitterly. More so to yourself than Connor. But he catches the twinge of displeasure in your eyes. 

“Maybe we should end our day early. Both of us are tired.”

”Jesus, Connor. First, you’re starving and now you’re tired? Are you trying to take pity on me, or something?”

The anger in your voice is beginning to make itself known. Your lips curl as you hastily unbuckle yourself and practically swing your door open. Cold air rushes in, and so does rain, but you stubbornly soldier through. 

“I’m a grown-ass man. I can take care of myself.”

The car shakes when you close your door and Connor’s reminded of Hank. Logically, there was no way every single detective he’d known could be such…hardasses, but yet here he was with his own sample size. The thought of you sharing similarities to Hank causes him to scrunch his nose, as if tasting something sour, and he sighs softly. Connor rushes towards your grumpy figure, entering into the restaurant just a few steps behind you. 

The servers glance Connor’s way, wary but trying their best not to show it. As long as they didn’t commit any crimes in front of him, Connor would stay out of their way. Besides that, he had more pressing things to attend to. You, in particular. You find a quiet corner to sit at and Connor sits across from you, watching as you rub your hands together. 

He wanted to ask if you were cold. But he shouldn’t push his luck. Maybe he should’ve been more tactful leading you here, but he wasn’t unhappy that you weren’t behind the wheel anymore. For a while, the ambience of the restaurant muffles the awkward silence. You reach for some of the tissues and wipe off as much water as you can from your jacket, and face. 

Then, you push the box to Connor. He nods, then methodically wipes off as much water as he can. The peace offering was taken, so the silence was less thick this time. 

“What can we get for you, man?” You give a tight smile to the waiter, telling him you’d like a warm cup of coffee. He tells you the coffee here is shit. Connor knows he isn’t lying— the reviews didn’t exactly hold back on them regarding that. 

“Shitty coffee is exactly what I need,” sarcasm drips from your words. You add on a sandwich with a side of fries and the waiter goes off to fulfill your order. Another bout of silence. 

“Is the case keeping you awake?” Connor takes in the micro-expressions on your face. The twitch in your cheek, the tension between your brows, and when you brush your tongue over your lips his eyelids flutter. 

“It’s frustrating. I know. But you’re one of the youngest detectives in our precinct for a reason, your record’s impeccable.” You know he’s telling the truth, and using it as a way to comfort you. It was sweet, and you resist the urge to grin his way and say ‘thanks’ like some bright-eyed idiot. 

“It’s not just that, Connor,” you knead at the nape of your neck. Barely straightening up when your shitty coffee arrives in a white mug. The smell and warmth loosens your shoulders, and even when you grimace as you take a gulp the comforting heat that travels through you further eases the tension from you. 

You dismiss his reassurance. He takes note of it, but doesn’t push. Connor slides the sugar your way and you squint your eyes up at him as your cheeks barely lift to give him a pursed-lip smile. You were exhausted. It’s like the walk from the car to the diner sapped everything out of you. 

“The victim’s mom…God, she was…”

Connor knows. He saw her rush to you with tears streaming down her face as she begged for answers that you didn’t have. Her daughter was in a coma from an attack, her stitches fresh and bruises discolouring her skin— it would cause any parent distress. 

“It’s been days of nothing. No trails, no motive, we have a shitty CCTV clip of him running out the door but then what? We owe it to her to find answers for her daughter.”

”I know, and we will bring him to justice. But, detective,” Connor’s voice turns severe as he searches for your gaze. “It does no one no good if you’re sleep deprived. I need my partner to solve this case, so I need you to be 100%”

You scoff, ignoring the clink of the plate of food being put down your table as your sandwich arrives. It’s suspiciously room temperature while the plate is warm, and the fries are a little limp but you just stare down at your coffee. 

“You don’t exactly need me. I can barely think.”

”Yes, that tends to happen when someone experiences sleep deprivation.” 

You curl your nose at him, and he just gestures to your plate of food. You take a few bites and with each of them your face twists into further confusion. Eventually, you settle on eating your fries, something Connor thought was the safest option. He tries not to stare at you too much, occasionally looking out the window and noticing the Raindrop Race as most people do during a storm. 

There that puppy is again. Your eyes soften, and you grumble with your mouth still full of food. ”Sorry for being a dick.” 

Connor just chuckles. 

“Sorry, but Detective Anderson’s got you beat there. I didn’t even notice you were being a dick.”

Connor can’t drive. Something they were still pending on regarding androids driving personal vehicles. It was dumb, if androids were allowed to commandeer buses and aeroplanes then why couldn’t they drive their own cars? 

He’s not happy with you buckling into the driver’s seat. But the shitty coffee wasn’t worth a refill and you were in no mood to order anything else. 

“You should rest before you get behind the wheel, detective.”

You look over your shoulder and sigh. “There’s a motel, but I’m not shelling out 40 bucks for a 3-hour nap. I’ll be—“ you yawn, and you try to speak through the yawn “—fineee. I just had a coffee anyway. It’ll kick in.”

When you reach for the gear, he places a hand over yours. You’re always a bit surprised at how skin-like his touch was. You’d seen him exchange information with other androids before, how the flesh just smooths away to reveal that pure-white shell. You didn’t hate it though. He felt nicer than the cup of coffee. The weight of him, the feeling of the lines on his palms. Artificial or not— it was still Connor.

He narrows his eyes. His head tilts. Connor leans in, and you don’t lean away. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, detective. Do I make you nervous?”

”E-excuse me?” Your grip loosens, but Connor keeps your hand pinned beneath his. It was effortless; naturally, what with him being made of some sort of metal. 

“Your heart rate rises, you get clammy palms, but your pupils they,” he trails off as he catches your gaze with his own. Curiosity was so clearly written across Connor’s face, you felt like he was attempting to read you— as though you were some case file that he wanted to pour hours of attentiveness into. A steel-trap resolve to understand you more, to know your motives and intentions and grasp you in his arms. 

If you were a criminal, maybe you’d feel much more frightened. 

You tried to mask your expression, twisting your mouth into a frown.

”My pupils…what?”

”They…expand.” Connor tilts his head, then his mouth parts like he came to a stunningly miraculous conclusion. 

“Detective, do you perhaps have an infatuation towards me?” 

The radio plays a jaunty tune from decades ago, and the rain doesn’t lighten up the slightest. You don’t say anything. Stunned at your own stupidity for thinking Connor out of all people wouldn’t have noticed— the guy read your heart rate for fucks sake!

You try to slip your hand away from him, but he carefully cinches his fingers around your wrist. 

“Connor,” you warn. Your voice coloured with embarrassment. 

“Please, I’d like to know,” he sounded sincere. You wondered if he was morbidly curious about it. It wasn’t that humans falling in love with androids were anything new, there were plenty of cases. 

“I…shit, maybe I do have an infatuation with you, okay? It’s not like there’s a lot of options at our precinct,” you grumble as you finally slip your hand away from him. You place your hands on the steering wheel, but make no move to actually drive. 

Connor’s lower lip almost juts out as he processes what you said. Then the corners of his mouth curl up, and he faces his knees your way again. 

“You had a process of elimination to determine who’d be your precinct eye candy, detective?”

Your ears nearly turned red at the teasing tone he takes. You narrow your eyes at him, cursing for him to shut up as you reach for the gear again. But again, Connor’s hand grasps yours. 

“Are you trying to fuck with me or something, Connor?” 

“…I could if it’d help you rest.”

”What?”

Connor offers that gentle smile again, then glances down at your hand in his. He smooths the pad of his thumb over your jutting knuckles, and he feels the rush of blood on the protruding vein. 

“Orgasms are known to help with sleep.”

Your jaw drops. 

“My model doesn’t have functioning genitalia, but I can still provide—“  He flutters his lashes when you slap a hand over his mouth. Your brows are furrowed as you try to find the words. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is the offer offensive to you, detective?” Connor’s voice is muffled from behind your hand but he continues.”I just assumed that it would…my apologies.”

”I didn’t even know you could talk about those sorts of things…” You said in a breathless voice, stuck between feeling appalled and amused at the absurdity of it all. He tilts his head and you unmask his mouth, retreating into your seat again as you try to process his words. 

“I am…” he searches for the word, and you watch as he thinks. “Fond of you, detective.” Fond wasn’t a common word in these modern scenarios, and you’re unsure what he means exactly by it but you allow him to continue. 

“And I would rather you be well-rested than not. I can help…if you’d like me to.” You try to find any trace of bullshit on his face. You find none.

”Christ, you do this for every partner you have?”  Connor’s face twists into genuine disgust at your lacklustre joke. “Please don’t even imply that with my relationship with Detective Anderson.” 

You grimace, and apologize as you knead at the back of your neck once again. 

“Do you even know how to—“ Connor smirks at you when you ask. You shut your mouth and scoff. Of course, even if he didn’t know now…he could learn how with a few blinks.

”Show off.”

”We all have our flaws.”

”Shit, am I really going to spend 40 bucks for a nap and a lay?” You reach again for the gear and Connor’s had it. He reaches for your chin, pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger and he forces you to look at him. 

“Visibility’s low with the rain, detective. This diner isn’t well-liked. Your window tint provides enough cover as is. You can rest in the backseat.”

“Holy shit,” you utter. A lazy roll of heat crawls down your spine at his assertiveness. You’d never seen it aimed your way before— maybe a few times towards Hank, and a few interrogations as well. But never at you. You gulped thickly, then nodded. 

“Okay.”

You’re both sitting side-by-side in the backseat. The rush of cold that flooded in from opening the car doors causes you to shiver, so Connor slides his hands into yours. He raise his body temperature and you sigh in relief. You turn when he gets closer and when your nose brushes against his own he pauses. 

You’re wide-eyed. So unlike the detective he’s known. It’s adorable. Connor reaches and cups your cheek in his warm palm. Your breath stutters when he ghosts his fingers over the curve of your cold ears. 

“May I kiss you, detective? Studies show that foreplay can lead to a more pleasurable—“ You press your lips together. His eyes widen a bit, but he then adjusts to accommodate. 

It’s unfair how good he is at kissing if this was his first kiss. You frown, and pull away as the thought crosses your mind. 

“Is this your first kiss?”

”Yes.” 

Connor pulls you in again and you gasp. He doesn’t slip his eyes closed. He didn’t want to— though he knows it's what was expected. Connor was curious, and he wanted to make sure you were enjoying yourself. His attentive, thorough, partner deserved the same dedication in the bedroom. Connor could keep watch while he read through the case files, it wouldn’t be any less productive. 

You made a sweet noise when he experimentally bit down on your lower lip. He slips his hands into your jacket and slips it off your shoulders. His warm touch causes goose flesh to ripple under your clothes. Your flesh is so soft— he’s always marvelling at how soft humans are. So plush, and so fragile. 

You flutter your eyes open when he trails his kisses down your chin, to your jaw, and after a sweet kiss under your jaw he descends to your neck. You crinkle his coat when he traces his tongue on your pulse. 

“Your neck is sensitive,” he notes in a whisper. You slip his coat off next, your fingers crawling up to his nape and feeling the scratchy texture of his ‘shaved’ hairs. He grasps at your waist and you groan his name.

It stokes something within Connor. 

“Am I doing good, detective?” You nod wordlessly against the junction of his neck and shoulder. Your body is louder than you are— rising heart rate, the flushed ears, the perspiration on your skin— and he finds himself a bit upset at it.

He calls out your name, and you turn your head to look at him questioningly. 

“I…” Connor pauses for a second. This word always felt foreign for Connor, but he should say what he means if he wanted this interaction to go well. Studies had shown open communication during intimate acts proved more positive results, and he didn’t want the foundation of trust and infatuation between you to become shaky. 

So he continues. 

“I need to know if I’m making you feel good.”

You press a kiss to his cheek, then to his lips as you nod again. 

“You’re making me feel really nice, Connor. Your hands are so warm, and as annoying as it is you’re a real good kisser.”

Connor preens inwardly, and his grip on your waist turns more confident. 

“I’m sorry for being a good kisser,” he teases. You chuckle, brushing your teeth over his neck as you undo his tie. There was something fun about unwrapping Connor from his usually perfect shell. You can’t deny the rush it gave you, and he returns the eager sentiment as he unbuttons your top. 

You shoulder it off and he presses his kisses there too. His warm hands touch your bare torso and when it reaches your pebbling nipple, you bite down gently on his neck. Connor chuckles, tilting his head down at you as he nips at your collarbones. 

“You might break your teeth if you try any harder.” 

“Worth it.”

”Absolutely not.”

You feel his hands reach to unzip your jeans and when he does, he pats your outer thigh. You look at him, panting while he motions for you to lay down. The second you do, he descends onto you like a heated and weighted blanket. A very handsome one. 

Your eyelids go a bit heavy and Connor relishes at the signs of success. You shimmy out of your jeans, Connor helps. 

You’re now in your underwear and Connor zeroes in at the darkening spot on it. You curse, telling him not to stare but he remains fixated on it. 

“You’re aroused. Very aroused.” 

”I’m very aware, Connor,” you reply dryly. 

He braces himself on his elbows, kissing you again and you’re struggling to keep up. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, his loosened tie dragging across your torso as his tongue battles for dominance. He reaches to place a palm against the window when he feels the seat under him giving away under his hand. It leaves a print, thanks to the panting you’re doing and him raising his body temperature. 

You inhaled sharply when that same hand sneaks down your sides. Connor watches you as your brows furrow, your jaw loose as every little noise excites him more and more. 

“Does this feel good?”

He slips his hands in your underwear and you flutter your eyes open. 

Connor’s eyes are hungry for your praise. 

“Touch me more, Connor. Please.”

He finds your slicked hole. You moan as he presses his fingers on your cock, and begins to rub you off. You stretch your back, tossing your head back as your hips ground on the seats. He’s entranced by it— by you. 

“Fuuuck, that feels good.”

”Forgive me, I didn’t think to ask what terms you’d like to use for your—“ Connor is cut off by your wanton groan. “Dick, cock, cunt,” you mutter against his lips before sneaking your tongue into his mouth again. He finally slips his eyes closed this time, focusing on your cock as he swallows your moans. 

“You’re too tense,” Connor tells you as he grasps the back of your neck. The car’s swaying slightly with the movement, and you mewl when he slides two fingers down to your cunt. 

“I was going to cum,” you pant out. Connor narrows his eyes at you. 

“Liar.”

He slides his fingers into you and you cover your mouth, thighs trying to snap shut around his hand if it weren’t for him quickly slipping out again. 

“Hm,” Connor peels away from you and you’re left a bit confused until he’s maneuvering your body around like a puppet master. You find yourself on his lap and he’s gazing up at you as your underwear is looped around your left thigh. You looked like a desperate slut— your button up still sleeved on your arms, your badge swaying between your bodies as your underwear’s rolled down, while your boots are still on. 

But Connor? 

With his loose tie and tousled brown hair. Pants still intact, and despite the crumpled shirt; he looked much more composed.

He holds your police badge, and then pulls you down for a kiss. Your bare cunts on his lap and he spreads your ass apart causing you to lift up. 

“You need to relax,” he whispers to your skin. “I can assure you that there’s no one here, just us. No one can see us.”

”This…This is still illegal I think,” you laugh at it. Connor gives you a pointed look, groaning a bit as you giggle about it. 

“Must you remind me?” Connor nearly grumbles. You press another kiss to his cheek, then to the tail of his eyebrows. 

“My bad, Mr Goody Two Shoes— Ah! Fuh—Fuck!”

He’s slipped two fingers in again, and you barely give any resistance to it. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, glancing out the window to ensure no one else can this— see you. So exposed on his lap, dishevelled and shivering in pleasure.

He presses a hand to the small of your back and it forces you to arch it further. He pumps his digits in and out of you. A slow pace that has you bunching his shirt in your fists as you mewl on top of him. He curls his fingers and you moan out his name.

That lick of fire within him grows bigger. You’re sweating now, and he strokes up your spine to impede the race your droplets of sweat were in. Connor takes your nipple in his mouth and you brace a hand on the roof of your car. 

You tighten around him, hips jerking and brushing your dripping dick onto the front of his pants. Marking him with your slick. 

“You’re— You’re making me— I’m going to—“

Connor looks up at you through his lashes, his expression puppy-like and you cum around his fingers. 

He releases your nipple with a lewd ‘pwah’ and reluctantly snaps the string of saliva that connects him to you with a sweep of his tongue. You try to catch your breath, swaying slightly as the aftershocks of your orgasm lazily wash over you. 

You fall forward into him and Connor wraps his arms around you, smiling a bit as he feels your breathing slowing down until you’re limp across him. 

He darts his eyes to his fingers, spreading two of them apart and admiring the traces of you still there. Connor brings them to his lips and into his mouth.