#egg's fics

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically... I’m a disgusting person) When he touched himself for the first time and felt those tendrils of pleasure overtake him, crashing in a great wave to his spend, he felt so very horrified by the aftermath. The sensation itself was pleasurable enough, to see his hand covered in a thick, semi-translucent white liquid perturbed him some, but not without his usual curiosity in all things new… But then he saw how much of it there truly was… and where else it had landed… and he didn't quite know where the feeling of embarrassment came from, but he did feel the need to inspect his immediate radius thoroughly and wipe away the excess as best as he might manage it. It almost scared him exactly how much came forth he thought perhaps it might be a defect in his design, but what he comes to learn in time is that it is simply how his body was meant to work, that he is otherwise rather normal in this regard, even if Victor's designs in how vigorously his body operated had unforeseen consequences such as this. He simply remembers to keep a spare handkerchief at the ready for himself when such needs arise again to catch the excess of his spend.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) He would confess to you in time that… there had been moments, before he truly knew better, that he had watched you in your intimacies. It was only once or twice… and it confused him at first. He didn't understand why your hands drew down to the apex of your legs, or the way it seemed to make you flush and moan as you stroked yourself there so gently, and yet so fervently that it drew you to make such wondrous sounds, to convulse in such a strange display of delight… but he could not deny that it roused something in him… a premonition? A presentiment? Perhaps, even a memory? He could not say. But it was enough to give rise to the thought that if he should but reach down the length of his torso and touch that tender flesh that laid between his legs… he became curious as to what might occur. Would he too moan and writhe? Would his body grant him the same sensations that made you gasp and clutch at your sheets? He was keen to find out.

And when he finally felt it for himself, an even more curious thought occurred to him; could he bring the same raptures to your body if he were the one to touch you there? If he would ever be permitted, he thought, he would like to know.

But as time, and knowledge caught up with him, he realized what it truly was that you did in the quiet of night. Though the notion of its sinfulness in and of itself as decreed by baser men was something he despised, for himself to bear witness without your knowledge… that was not something he might easily forgive himself for, now that he knew what he knew. Even still, the thoughts and fancies of his innocence plague him every time he hears the rustling of sheets, and the panting of desperate breaths in the chill of evening air. He would of course, turn away, and try to give the privacy and respect you deserved, but he still could not prevent how deeply he longed to know what it might be like to share these labors of pleasure, especially with one so dear as you have become to him.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) He doesn't have much experience at all to speak of. He's read things, of course, in a few of the books the old man kept- references to a higher state of being achieved only in the arms of lovers, here and there, though nothing particularly concrete as to the specifics of procreation itself. That was knowledge that came to him later. He knows now better than he ever did how most men are made… But even knowing what the act entails, he still isn't fully certain if his own body would grant him the same sensual pleasures as most men. It is not a question, of course, in whether he would physically be able to perform the task, but rather a question of if he could ever muster the courage to even try if the opportunity ever presented itself. He already finds it difficult to imagine the sort of person that might desire him as he is. He has his fancies, his dreams… but none yet in life have manifested into his wildest reality. And even if someone were to want him in that way, he thinks, it would take a lot of trust and faith in this imagined companion before he could give himself fully to them in the way he thinks they deserve. Even he would admit that dreaming of doing is never quite the same as doing, but even still, his eagerness to learn serves him well in this regard as it has in anything else.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual) At first, he thinks, the most advantageous position due to his stature and his features may be as animals do, the penetrating party behind, out of sight and out of mind as the being under them is made undone by the turbulent ministrations of their partner. It was a natural logic to him, also, that like all animals in such a vigorous dance that any sort of partner he might be able to persuade to join him would not wish to look upon him as the deed was done. His is not a face that has often been touched by loving eyes, and even in intimacy he feels he should better hide himself away. That it may make the act more… tolerable.

But when you yourself insist on seeing him … though he might wish to turn away he cannot help but find himself even more emboldened by the sight of you so lost in desire… that his puzzle of flesh did not deter your passion… it moved him, and it would make him weep to know of such love, of such consummate humanity to be seen and to be loved… And in turn he could hardly contain his own passions gazing upon you, watching your face contort and release, whether it be under or above him, with lips he wished to kiss as your shared yearning overcame you both…

So this he must insist upon, whenever the deed is done, that at least he gets to gaze upon your face, for his head to be held in your hands as you gaze upon him, that he might watch the love etched in your face with a studied eye, and that in turn he might be seen and kissed by one whom he holds so dear and know that he is not so repulsive as to not have earned your affections. It is better this way, he thinks. Much better.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc) In most cases, he is far more focused on the act itself than the moment than anything else. He's so wrapped up in the sensations, the sights, the sounds, that he feels there's so little room to feel anything else other than overwhelming adoration. But as time passes he finds that there is more to this dance than just it's pleasure. The breadth of emotion was just as acute here, he finds, as could be found in any other facet of life, but in pleasure they are all heightened. Joy is more akin to rapture, where gaiety animates every sinew. He may even, which is so rare, laugh a gentle laugh, if the mood persuades him. But oddly too, in the depths of sadness he finds it is also gentler to bear when being touched and held. That something so simple could hold such an abundance of emotion holds him in complete awe, and he resolves to take each and every feeling in the act as it comes, knowing there is refuge here to be found.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) Truthfully he never gave much thought to his own grooming. Victor, of course, used to shave him to prevent infection from his extensive and erratic scarring, though at the time he truly could not parse the reasons why it was necessary in his groin, of all places. But in time when it does grow out… he's rather surprised to find that unlike the patches of dark brown and white hair on his head, the hair scattered across his pubic bone is a warm auburn, like the embers of a dying fire, and it fascinated him how they seemed to spark to life in the low light of a fire. And they are also very fine, with a gentle sort of curl that when his hands press against them he is astounded by his own softness, one of the few places on his body that is not so horrible to gaze upon or touch.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect...) In all his wildest imaginings he could not determine what he might be in moments of deep intimacy. So many stories he's read of all kinds of lovers- the strong, the chivalrous, the passionate, the lecherous… and some of these things he longs to be, others he despises. But in himself he is dubious that he is capable of becoming any of them. None of them… very much sound like him, though of course he might hope to be warm and ardent, the chance he might have to express it seems so far out of reach that his dreaming feels a formless and without shape, and something he cannot grasp.

So at the onset of intimacy, in the moment, he is more bashful than anything. He is so unsure of what to do with himself, whether he should try and embody some simulacrum of what he ought to be… or reject any advance and shy away from the endeavor altogether.

But when the boundary between possibility and reality shatters… when he gives in… he finds that loving is as easy as breathing. He is as gentle as a lamb, and filled with wonder, and he finds that in the truth of love- that it is a bond that transcends these physical manifestations of flesh and stays the wounds of time, space, and even death- he is capable of the tender things he had always longed to be, and that it was never tangible to him because the instinct towards these things had been in him from the beginning. It is a rare thing to know, he realizes, in a world that is so occupied with procreation and proliferation of family ties, or conversely treating it as sin begotten from sin, that he cannot help but treat this piece of it that he has with reverence. To share his mangled flesh with another, to be seen down to his soul, and know that they feel the same… this is something he could never do without the utmost love that he can give.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) When first the inevitable exploration of his form occurred… he was rather confused. He had only been curious about the hair that had begun to grow down by his navel, fingers tangling in the soft curls there, inattentive to that strange dangling appendage between his legs, until he noticed it too had something of a softness to it… the texture of the skin here intrigued him, and he decided it was worth his while to explore it further… that was until after a few minutes it began to stir. It was an odd sensation, to feel it grow hard under so slight a touch, he feared perhaps he had done something wrong- that his body was not meant to react this way, or that something horrible might happen if he should touch it any further- that it might pain him, or worse…

But then it began to ache- not the sort of ache that ran deep in his muscles, on occasion. It almost felt pleasant to ache in this way… and yet it begged to be relieved by touch all the same. So, of course, as so often happens in adolescence, he took himself up in hand, the exploratory fumble of his fingers upon himself teaching him all he needed to know about what he didn't know of himself. A strange sensation, to be sure, but not an unsavory one, and certainly something he might dare to repeat should this scrap of tissue give rise again.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks) He is nothing if not something of a voyeur. There is still so much he has to learn of the world, and there is no exception to him in the matters of physical pleasure. He will not tread where he is not wanted and when he cannot ensure that his gaze is not welcome, of course; time and knowledge has afforded him much wisdom to know that to invade a privacy is to invade upon the self- a freedom which he refuses to take from anyone else the same way it has been taken from him. But to be granted the distance simply to observe, to learn these strange things about the human anatomy that none- not even Victor- dared deign to teach him… he would not refuse his curiosity in that way.

Then sometimes, he finds, it is simply enough to be pressed against your body to find the utmost pleasure. Closeness itself draws sensations out of him that cannot be ignored. The contrast in the temperature of living skin against his reanimated sinews, the way it feels as he might drag his cock along an expanse of thigh or stomach without aim of penetration… it is paradise itself to know such closeness to another, that in the consecration of mere flesh against flesh he may find redemption in his own.

He also likes knowing in certain terms that he is wanted. It goes far beyond mere reassurance of one another's pleasure. It is an absolution for his very existence. That he is worthy of these human things that his creator… nay even he himself, once did not deem him worthy of knowing. That he was made not just for the violence of the world but for its love, assured by a gentle hand, a coaxing gaze, and the simplest of all things- a kind word meant only for his ears to hear as he finds his own self again.

Also… it may sound a strange and spurious thing… but when there is a storm, he feels his senses heightened somehow. He's not entirely sure why this occurs. A charge in the air? The energy coursing through the earth with every lightning strike? He couldn't say, but it was a storm that gave him life, after all. Why then would not he feel inclined to pursue its spark as given to him by unwitting heavens?

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do) He feels constantly torn by his options in this regard. Though of course he would seek the comfort of a bed before anything else, for both his and his partner's sake, he also longs to seek his carnal pleasures in the wild places of the world. To lay down with a lover upon the earth, grass and moss your only pillow, with all life around him, to be seen only by the trees, unbothered by beasts or the burdens of man. He likes to imagine that this would be what it was like in the first garden, with Adam and Eve all alone to know nothing but bliss… And yet then again, there is something also so comforting about the bed. The warmth, the fire burning nearby, the softness of human ingenuity, how it would ground him, make him feel less a wild thing to be tamed, deserving of comfort like anyone else might know. Both appeal to him deeply.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) Curiosity. Plain and simple curiosity is the thing that drives him mad. There is so much that is new to him, and there is so much that he wishes to know, and every time he learns something new he is only driven to beg more questions. Questions like why it is he finds a bare shoulder so intriguing. Why is it each and every form of the human body is so different, all unique… and why does every unique feature intrigue him so? Why do passions stir within him when he is touched a certain way, in certain places on his body that have never been touched by gentle hands before. He wonders what it would be like to be touched that way in other places too… Could he ignite such passions in another by his own gruesome touch? How he might explore these same places on another… would such a touch ever be welcomed by one such as he? He wonders as he reads books if to bare witness to the human form is nearly as enticing as the lithographs make it seem. Do women and men truly lie beside one another and know nothing but reverence for one another, body and soul? Could he ever know such belonging as that? Endless questions, and how they all fall abruptly silent when answered by enterprise.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) One thing that must be understood is that under no circumstances will he ever bring himself to bear over you. It runs deeper to him than simply not to do you harm- something which he already fears for more than anything, but even more important to him is that he could never bring himself to overpower you, to defile and defame and debauch. He knows of the things that lesser men do to those they profess to love, the cruel things spoken to those who indulge in desire without cause or reciprocation . He knows how small one can feel when faced with a cruel hand, even one well-meant, and to him there is no amount of trust that could be given that could take back what cruel hands and words do, and he himself would feel too ashamed to do them, and especially not to one he holds so dear. He could never do that, and in turn he would ask the same of his lover. He wishes only for gentleness in love, and that is the only thing he is willing to give or take.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc) When he first learned that men and women might use their mouths on each other to bring forth desire to its peak, he did not react particularly scandalized as any other man might. It made… an odd sense to him somehow, for lips to explore the depths of the human body in love. It is certainly how he would approach it, given the opportunity… and when he finally does, of course, his instinct is to investigate. "Let lips do what hands do" he'd read once, and as much as his hands wander so too do his lips wherever he might be permitted, and in them he hopes to find what secrets only they might tell. He learns in time that he loves the smell of sex in his nostrils, heady and thick and warm, and how he might bury himself to the bridge of his scarred nose in the pliant skin that rounds to the press of his mouth upon them. To drink then what spend urges forth at his ministrations is as ambrosia on his wandering tongue.

But even curiouser is that in all of his own love of excursion, he never bears the expectation that this same venture might be turned to him in favor… and when it does he finds it almost too rapturous to bear. To feel the press of wet lips against the sutures running along the length of his cock is an ecstasy he did not know he was capable of feeling. To feel lips envelop him with care, to feel a tongue trace his shapes and sinews… nothing could have ever prepared him for how good it feels, for how loved the act makes him feel. It is so vivid a sensation that he will not often indulge himself in believing he could ask for it, or think himself deserving of it, but when coaxed by reassurance, by loving words, he could be persuaded to the acceptance of his own pleasure.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.) Like so many things he tends to take things ever so carefully, slowly. Even when the newness of the act itself fades he prefers a slower pace, gentle caresses, tender kisses… But even with such care there is also a need in him that he cannot fully suppress, the need for simply… more. More that he feels he cannot take, when what is given is already more than he would ever ask for. But even still… there is something to the particular way his body moves during the act that even he cannot fully control. The heaviness in his thrusts, the way he holds himself over you as though trying to hold back a great tide, or under you the way his fingers dance and flex at your flesh to bring you closer to him. He will cling to you in his deepest passions, and ask nothing in return for how deep his need for you runs.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) In truth, he much rather prefers to take his time in these matters. He is of the mind that such loving things cannot be rushed, that he would like to take his passion softly, slowly, where both parties can enjoy it most. But that being said, it does give him something of a thrill when you steal a quick kiss from him, sometimes… a brief touch as you pass him by with a look so bewitching… he sometimes wishes he might steal you away a while, might make the time in the day to show you exactly how much you mean to him, however brief that moment may be, because while his time on this earth is undefined by death, he wishes to make certain you spend as many moments of your shared life in the knowledge that you are loved, and perhaps in his own selfishness, he wishes to know he is loved in return.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) Whatever sense of exploration he has is something that he cannot meet with risk. If there's one thing in him that might be to a fault it is that there is a great deal of fear in him. He is not certain where it came from, or why it is in him, but it is not merely a fear of doing the wrong thing, though it is true that he loves far too deeply and far too much to break a boundary where it is not welcome- it is the fear of discovery that frightens him most. The thought of what might happen to him but also what repercussions might befall you if they were to be met with the same brutality that is all that he has ever known… he would rather live the rest of his life in shadows than allow anything like that to occur.

Not unless, of course, he were coerced otherwise. Though there is fear there is also curiosity vying for his attentions. Though he would not indulge in one over the other himself, he may be coaxed by reassurance and trust and surrender himself to the unknown with a gentle hand. If there is safety and assurance that allowed all of this fear to melt into nothing, he would welcome such a hand that brings him then into the light and take what risk as it comes knowing no harm will be done.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last...) Though you might imagine that much like his rage, his stamina too is rather infinite… in reality that is inexact. He imagines it of himself to be true in some ways. He has no sense of how other men would spend and tire after experiencing such bliss only once, and therefore cannot conceive in himself ever wishing for cessation, and his body in spite of its flawed state does give him some grace in that regard that he can outlast the exertions of physical love better than most. He feels that he could hold and be held for eternity, making love as though it were a natural state of being, rather than something one simply does at the precipice of emotion. But even he tires eventually, though he wishes it weren't so. In spite of himself he does find he must slow down eventually, and in truth… he finds that he enjoys the quiet moments in the afterglow just as rapturous as the act itself, lying spent, skin to skin, the slow and tender touches and kisses soothing every nerve as it recovers… or simply studying your form as the tension dissipates, and all that is left is overwhelming adoration that does not fade but only lies dormant, waiting for overwhelming desire to rise again.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) He finds it fascinating the level of human ingenuity that there should be devices designed for the sole purpose of human pleasure. Phalluses carved from ivory and bone, or spun from glass, and all manner of strange contraptions designed to both simulate and stimulate gratification intrigue him. He would use them, if asked, and may even take great pleasure from observing their use. For himself? He may blush to even think of such a thing, but perhaps under careful and loving guidance he would be willing to try them, maybe even enjoy them, especially knowing who might use them on him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) If he were to tease, he would be entirely unaware of it. He is not so methodical as to be aware that what he does deliberately holds you in suspense, from any kind of euphoric precipice or otherwise. Though he will admit, he does have a tendency to linger when certain fancies strike him, a sheer fascination overcoming his sense of time or purpose that he by needs, must indulge in. Though you might be able to return his attentions to where they are needed most with a gentle sigh, imploring him to what you need… it is also worth indulging his intrepid survey of your body. In his innocence, he may even discover delights that even you yourself were not privy to.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) He's far more… quiet than you'd expect. That isn't to say he isn't vocal at all- oh to be sure he makes himself known, but what noises he does make are more subdued and yet wider in range than any of the common man. He is never one to cry out or shout or roar in a primal dance of passions, but in those moments where the pleasure is more acute, you will hear a whimper, or the soft low moan of desire rumbling through him almost imperceptible to human hearing. On the rarest of occasions you may even hear the faintest heavy growl, though it is never in malice but in his own withholding, the intensity of his pleasure too great to bear without gritted teeth. The best sounds he makes, however, are those perfect little gasps of life as he cums, reaching precipice. The whole of the world becomes new to him all over again as love and light wash through him, and he makes those same sort of sounds he made when he took those first steps and when he first drew breath. It is a wonderful thing to behold.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice) He likes it very much when you touch the seams of his body. It feels odd because even in time there's still something of a freshness to them, like a wound recently scarred over, never fully healed, but still strong enough so as with every move he does not simply open up and fall apart. But to have careful fingers trace over the lines that make up the matter of him, he feels an intensity there that he can't fully understand. It's not painful, but it feels like a lit line of gunpowder sparking along the tender nerves that sets his heart fluttering in a frenzy for more.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words) Well… Victor had once said "scale would make the work easier"… and in this regard his logic was no different. However, it was difficult to find the perfect specimen for this purpose amongst the wreckage of men at his disposal (they were all soldiers after all, it would be impossible to expect any one of them to remain chaste and untainted by any manner of sexually transmitted malady in their line of work). So, as with the rest of his creation, some adjustments would needs be made. He'd managed to find one large specimen with intact penile tissue and a hefty glands that would be suitable for his creation, albeit with some superficial imperfections that were remedied by grafting some of the foreskin from one or two of the of the other smaller but more visibly chaste specimens he managed to procure for this purpose. Much like the rest of him therefore, there are some faint seams along the skin of his shaft, with only a minor difference in coloration between them, but when he hardens it flushes all kinds of hues- purple at his tip with splotches of peach and blue along his sensitive seams like stained glass come to life. His testicles were also borrowed each from different cadavers, with an off-kilter scar running down their middle (because heaven forbid he have any unevenness in his manhood). All said and done, his manhood, at least in Victor's eyes, was just as impeccably made as the rest of him, though to the man to whom it belongs, it makes him a little self-conscious sometimes to know that he is rather larger than the average man. He fears it may even be too large to be of practical use sometimes (it certainly is bothersome enough between his own legs, he can't imagine what it might feel like between someone else's). But he learns in time that a little consideration to accommodate for his size goes rather a long way.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?) He is something of a puzzle to himself in this regard. He doesn't seem to have a base line of want in the way that other men-men like Victor- seem to describe. He does not need purge himself of lust at any given provocation by any fleeting temptation before him, he doesn't feel desire overwhelm him and drive his body to merciless strains of pleasure with a need to be released… no. He experiences nothing like that. But when he does have someone to attach his desires to… he cannot deny that there is something there in the way of desire. It pulses through him in a low hum, murmuring as quietly as his blood pumping through his incessant heart, lingering with every thought of whom he loves- or wishes to love. It remains there, fixed, and yet revolving in a dizzying orbit that he fears he may never wish to be released from, or else collide from the sheer gravity pulling him in to that being whom he most yearns for. In that way, his desire feels as endless as his very life.

He too was once no more a fetid mass of parts as these, rent from their resting places and assembled into this amalgam of flesh before you. He was indeed a victor in every sense, over life, over death, and now over this lifeless husk that would have done either of you great harm if it had continued to live.

Yet as he breathed now, low, heavy, air rushing through his stolen lungs like wind through a tunnel pass with nowhere else to expell but in a rush, there cast no glory in his shadow, no triumph for his deed - noble, though it had been. For one who loomed so large there was a smallness in the way he shuddered in the aftermath, in the way his shoulders adorned by old and worn furs rose and fell, and there could be no doubt that something troubled this great and terrible creature. It was for this knowledge that all fear from what had transpired before quit your mind, and was usurped by a need you could not name, but one that made you wish to console the beast in your purview all the more for it.

He looked fearful, as he turned to face you. Though his eye caught a fierce shade of amber in the dim lamplight of night, it did little to mask the panic that held steadfast in his face as his eyes darted over your form in a frenzy. He spared no moment in approaching, his footfalls disjointed and weary on the ground, hands reaching for you as though you stood at a vast and lonely distance, when it had only taken but a few small strides for him to stand before you.

His eyes roved and raved, seeking injury. His hands roamed, his survey thorough, his hands palpating all the while against your tender skin, as though you too might quit every perfection or imperfection and fall dead where you stood. He found nothing. There was nothing to find. You had been unharmed, thanks to his swift action, but he knew there was always a cost to be payed for the violence of the world.

Still yet, he could not calm. His breathing did not cease its stampede on silver zephyrs through the chill of the air. He could not stop the stinging tide of fear in and out of his own tattered body, even if he rent himself apart to find its source and tear it from his chest, he would find no relief. He could only shudder from the pain, and gaze into your eyes now and ask with honesty and tears that rode down his cheeks what he might dread to hear.

"Are you hurt?"

It came more a quiet plea than a question, hope beyond hope running wild in his mismatched eyes. You shook your head before you could even think to respond to him in words.

"No…"

His breath hitched. Hands reached for your face, and touched with a trembling gentleness the warm swell of your cheeks. It was so tender you thought his fingers might be no more than phantoms that would pass through your skin if he attempted a firmer touch.

"No, Adam," you breathed, hand reaching for his, uncaring for the blood it imparted onto your skin, holding him steadfast to you, "I am all right."

There was a hardness in the way he kissed you then. Lips that had found yours in unbearable softness since ever you had known them met you now with a stiffness that could only be borne through pain and grief and loss… and in that pain, an unbearable knowledge that this creature will know it again and again as long as his unending life will allow.

But this was not the day he would lose you. And you tasted the freedom in his heart from the tears that mingled between your mouths as he plied his open to your lip's gentle caresses, though his could not help but to remain firm as he returned these passions to you. Though the pain would never fully relent, it became easier to bear as your kiss assured him that at least now, and in this moment, you were here beside him, and that you would not leave him even now, having seen what these hands that held you so softly have wrought in the name of love for you.

His eyes flooded in relief as you broke apart, though he still held you close as he spoke in a quiver.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I couldn't…"

"It's all right, Adam."

Your hands came to his chest, where the patch over his heart pounded and bled, and suddenly began to slow, your warm palm its only balm to soothe its incessant toil. His eyes shut and shed the spare tears that had gathered in them as his blood began to cease its roaring.

"I cannot suffer any man to live that would hurt you," he said with a great solemnity, a promise made that only this night might keep.

His cheekbones caught the light as his head tilted down in shame, and you hand that spared his heart came to grace its countenance, returning his eyes to your comely face.

"I know. And you haven't."

He could not help how he leaned into your touch, a calm rumble emanating from his chest as you held him. As you shifted your step, the squelch of blood coagulating under your feet alarmed you both to reality; that it wouldn't be long before another might chance upon this scene, and what further turmoil that might bring caused you to act.

You removed your hand, and found his, fingers dancing over the patch of his fingers, tugging him away.

"Come. We have to leave this place," you bade, and he nodded in consent as he fell in tandem with your steps as you pulled. If it must be ever thus to keep you with him, he would not regret any action he took to prevent it for the rushes of fear that came with it. For your safekeeping, he would suffer any misfortune, as long as you were there to guide him out of that place and into the night with only the love you could give that was a solace to his forever broken heart.

It made him content at last, then, to follow where you led, leaving all fear and doubt with the ruination you left behind.

But when Baelor had entered your bedchamber, you became less certain. There were dark rings under his eyes, and lines that drew deeper on his face that aged him beyond his years, weariness clinging to him like a shroud. It had been many a year since you had seen him so tired. Before he even chanced to look at you, before he might kiss your brow with gentle words and prayers for sleep, you stood, and approached him with a heavy but hopeful heart.

"What is it to be, then?" you asked, voice cracking from lack of sleep. Baelor's eyes seemed to harden some.

"Aerion has called for a Trial of Seven."

The words hung in the air like like a blade suspended, threatening to cut what next crossed its path. Aerion's intent in its use could not be more clear, an artifice meant to masque his cowardice in facing the large man whose claim to innocence he would challenge. And all the worse, it would surely spell the young Hedge Knight's doom to be thus summoned.

"That rite hasn't been invoked for over a hundred years..." you recalled, memories of your history lessons from days long past flashed through your mind, the horror of the ancient practice at the fore.

"And yet he has invoked it all the same," Baelor sighed, a most wearisome sound as he began to pace the room. There were cups of course by the table your host had prepared for you visit, as well as wine, though with no one to serve it at this late hour, Baelor stood not on ceremony as he poured some from the flagon into the cast pewter cup.

"What of the boy- the Hedge Knight?" You asked.

"He will have to find seven sworn knights to fight beside him before the morrow, or his challenge will be forfeit."

"Surely there must be honorable men who would take up his claim?"

"He scarcely was permitted to enter the lists for how none claimed to know his master before him but I."

He paused his pouring. Setting aside the flagon with a heavy clink, and though he held the cup in his hands, he did not drink from it still. Instead, your husband worried its edges with his fingers, the liquid red like a tidal wave of blood swirling inside, unable to escape its confines.

"His prospects are... impossibly unlikely."

He had said it as cold as a Septon, a judgement from on high from The Father himself to be passed. And yet the words still came with the bitter bite of pity- one that twisted his lips into a grimace. It was a look you knew well enough not to be borne of ill will- neither for the poor Hedge Knight, or even your nephew, but it was the imposition of circumstance that wore so heavily on him all the same. You could not have recalled seeing it very much, especially since the Blackfyre met his demise some odd years past. Though it had become a rarity, you yourself could never forget its countenance on his face, the dread it made you feel, as surely as it now deepened his own.

This is when your hand came to his- steady and sturdy though it ever had been, seemed to calm some as you clasped your hand over his. You led him to place the cup back down upon the table.

"Is there is nothing to be done?" You sighed, pleading, leading him by his free hand as it covered your open palm closer to the bed than to the cups. Baelor, though perhaps with some reluctance, did not resist your pull.

"No, my dear," he shook his head, turning to face you at last "not nothing..."

His meaning, his intent by saying that could not be more clear. It stunned you, threw your balance off kilter even for a brief moment, as disbelief clouded your next words.

"You mean to ride with the Hedge Knight?"

"Aerion has his seven," Baelor reasoned, "with Maekar, Daeron, Donnell, Cralkehall, Wylde, and now Ser Fossoway at his side, I've heard tell. I fear he will not fare well against such a force."

"Then you would ride against your own brother?" you asked, a worry so acute in your voice, "Our nephews as well?"

"I have no choice" he had said, firmly, though there was guilt in his eyes as he spake the words all the same. Not guilt for the choice. Guilt perhaps in knowing how you would fare for it.

You found the earth could not help but give out from under you, though luckily the feathered bed below was close at hand to catch you as you sat.

He did not even have his own armor here. His horse. He would by needs borrow your son's if he were to fight now for such a cause, worthy though it may be.

Baelor followed you, sitting beside you atop the unturned sheets. His hand gently cradling yours.

"What Aerion did, what he means to challenge... his actions cannot go unchecked any longer. If I do not stand here and now for the smallfolk, for the innocent, for even this blameless Hedge Knight, as all knights are sworn to do... what kind of prince..."

He hesitated. You knew as well as he that these were not the words.

"Nay," he corrected, "what kind of King might that make of me one day?"

When your eyes met your husband's again, there was a determination in his eyes you knew well enough to be unwavering. The die had been cast. Fate had made its claim known. A king of lesser mettle may shy the gauntlet and let events fall as they may without honor or resistance.

But the man you loved? This Prince of goodness who bore his heart with honesty? You could not hold a man in higher regard than whose hands you held to now so very fast, even as it held this unnamed fate all the same.

"We will do as we must do, my love," you sighed, an uneasy acceptance washing over you. Though still you removed your hands from his to hold his face, his lines and circles seeming to ease some as his head fell heavy into your touch.

"But before this night is through, will you grant me kiss you, husband? For how I fear for you on the morrow..."

There was nothing for you but admiration in his eyes. Weariness itself made a mummer's farce in the face of your resilience. Even for all these years you had been wed it never ceased to amaze him how you might raise his spirits even as his fell so low. He nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips as he did so.

"I would grant you whatever it is you would wish, if it means you would not fear for me so much."

"I can't help that," you replied, with a small, sad smile of your own, "I made vows too."

He chuckled at that. A little thing, barely there, hanging in the air, perhaps the only sign of levity he'd known all night. With its passing it seemed that even the rain could not help but hold back a little now, as the soft pattering on the hard stone of the castle walls quietened some.

There was nothing in the way of duty with the way you pressed your lips to his. It was hope, and longing, and perhaps something of fear, but it was met by Baelor's eternal patience, the soothing slide as he slotted his mouth against yours, bending this unbreakable man to only your touch. You hand came to the back of his head, cradling gently the top of his neck where flesh met bone and caressing the small hairs that seemed to shiver in promise under the caress, even as you finally drew apart.

"All will be put to rights, my dear," he soothed, holding you closer too him as his forehead bore deeper into yours.

"I am certain of it."