Look at you, stumbling in here, half-undressed and entirely shaking. You pretend it's exhaustion from the sparring causing your breath to catch and your muscles to shudder, but we both see through that lie quite handily. You accuse me of teasing you next, of riling you up on purpose, manufacturing our closeness on the pitch because I want something from you. Admit it, you demand, and you'll give it. Easily. Gladly.
I laugh. You're out of your mind, if you think I'm going to agree just like that. Who do you take me for? I don't -
Well, they're different.
I suppose you could interpret that as you being different, yes.
You're quite fun to play with, it's true. And I have been playing with you lately, I wasn't exactly trying to hide it. And you've done well.
My hand settles on your cheek, you've stepped in close enough to reach, thumb rubbing soft circles you can't help but nuzzle into. Such an attentive listener, you are. Always eager to please. Act exactly how I've asked you to. Yes, you've been good. My obedient little plaything.
But how am I meant to know you'll stay that way? People change, sometimes quite dramatically, in the throes of passion. I have no idea what kind of animal you could become if I let you have what you're asking for.
Your word? Please. It's no better than any other man's just because you've taken an oath. No, I need to see it. Need to see you utterly undone before me, and if you stay good ...
Quit blinking at me, you look stupid. You know what I mean.
Yes, now.
You stand there, frozen, though not for lack of a command, simply out of shock from it. I've surprised you, though I'm not exactly sure why. You're quite an attractive thing, of course I'll enjoy a show. That is, if it ever gets started.
You had the forethought to remove some of your armor before you found me, so your fauld and tassets are gone, and the waistband of your braies is delightfully accessible. With one hand, I loosen and tug the fabric down to your thighs, just enough to expose you, arousal already apparent. With the other, I grab your wrist, hanging limply at your side, and bring it up, and in. I slip down the back of your hand, pressing your palm into yourself and your fingers to curl around just so.
Come on, now. Don't tell me you're shy.
Your hand starts to move against your own skin. Slow at first, but only for a moment, the hesitancy of shame overtaken by the primal desire that brought you here to begin with. Heat and friction, the slide of your fingers over your ever-more tender and aching sex - the pleasure is a call undeniable.
Good, good. I keep my voice soft as I coo. I can see the occasional tremble in your thighs, the intermittent tensing of your stomach, as you twist your fingers into the angles you know all too well. It's quite a sight when it shakes your whole body. You're doing wonderfully, dove, keep teasing yourself, just like that.
I maintain my gaze on you, flitting shamelessly between the desperate display between your legs and the fire stoking fast behind your eyes. Oh, this is delicious. You want.
You stumble towards me, just a single step, slight enough that it might be mistaken as the involuntary shuffle of a buckling leg. I step back - I'm not part of the deal yet, remember - and there's no mistaking the flash of devastation across your face.
But you don't break. Even in your half-brained state, you know that patience now bears a sweeter reward. Your resolve is impressive, most certainly. You're doing so well.
You stagger sideways instead, reaching for a small table that you can lean against. You brace your forearm on the wood, leaning into it as your hips begin to rock with the rhythm of your hand. Your breath is heavy, some slight curses beginning to fall from your lips as the sparks in your nerves begin to grow a bit more frequent.
I walk in a wide arc, slowly circling around your bent body. I glance you over, what skin you have free glistening with your own slickness that's begun to drip. The rest of you is hidden in flesh but not in form, the clothing you wore under your armor drenched and clinging to your every curve with your sweat. As I round behind, you spread your legs wider and hike your hips, aiming to give me the best possible view. And I didn't even have to ask. An approving hum slips from my lips, and immediately, the first plead from yours.
Where one falls, many others follow, the floodgates now broken. A directionless stream of please, please, please, fuck, god, please matches the rhythm of every stroke. What you're asking for isn't entirely clear, but your growing desperation most certainly is.
Your arm caves, and your chest collapses onto the table, one short grunt of pain interrupting the pleading. The sound is muffled now, your shoulders and cheek pressed into the wood, forced down as you strain against your own body. Your rhythm grows faster, your breath less even, working steadily up towards your peak.
You fall still far too early.
What's wrong, sweet thing?
Oh, you don't mean that, do you?
Of course you can. Keep trying for me.
You raise yourself up from the table and spin to face me, eyes locking with mine as you set your jaw and begin to stroke at yourself once more. Slow, deliberate, working yourself with a targeted precision you'd lost somewhere along the way.
I indulge your gaze for longer stretches this time. It seems to excite you, my half-lidded grin looking down at you, the tilt of my head or the flick of my tongue across my lips every so often, when a particularly strong shudder takes you over.
One of your knees gives again, and your hand falters for a second. Keep going, now, don't you lose it on me.
The pleading starts again. I'm not even sure you realize you're doing it, but you start to beg like a chant as you tilt back against the table, halfway sitting on the edge as you rut into your palm with a frenzy. There's a hint of fear in your voice this time, as you get close, worried you'll ruin it again.
Don't stop now, dove, don't quit. Just keep those gorgeous fingers moving. Come on, come on, you can do this. Just a little faster now, see, you're nearly there.
That's it, that's -
I sigh, not able to entirely hide my disappointment. You feel it, your body slumps.
Your hand jerks helplessly as you begin to sink down, back scraping against the leg of the table, falling to your knees. You whine your request.
Oh, dear.
It is flattering to know my very presence has such an effect, but I can't help you, sweet. That wasn't the deal. All the way, all on your own, before you get me.
You can do it, you can.
You can.
Well, if you really can't, then you might as well be going.
I have to bite my tongue for a moment. Gods, you look pathetic. You'd think I'd asked you to play a sick dog, hunched forwards over your thighs, head hung low, humping helplessly at the ground as you whimper and whine for anything, any touch, just a little, you're so, so close, but you can't, not with me just standing here, teasing, please, can you have me, you need me, you need me.
I lower myself to a crouch, less than a foot from you, and your gaze snaps up to me like a bloodhound.
Ah, ah, ah, stay where you are. You still haven't finished your test. But it's clear you're not going to without a little encouragement. And I'm not aiming to be cruel with you - at least not yet. You've been quite obedient so far. Showing off for me; using your words; asking, rather than just taking. You've earned a little compromise.
You caught me in the process of doffing earlier. The metal of my plate is long since shed, but I still wear my leather undergloves. I move to take them off now, pinching the tips of the fingers between my teeth and tugging to pull first one hand, then the other free.
My newly bared skin dances tauntingly in front of your face. You track it like it's prey, your eyes wide and jaw just barely dropped open. Gods, I fear you'll start drooling soon.
Give me your hand. And spread your fingers a little.
You lift it up immediately, pulling it from between your legs, splaying your fingertips apart. A few strands of your own wetness arc between them. Your hips continue to roll against nothing, too desperate for sensation to let up. I lean slightly in.
Your eyes go wide with shock as I lift it, my glove, wrist band held open, and lower it over your outstretched hand. It's tight, I have to tug to get your fingers to slide to the ends. The leather stretches and strains around you, you always were a little thicker than me.
You lift your other hand now, beginning to ask if I need that one too. You only get a few of the words out, your open mouth soon stuffed full of the other glove. I press it deep, worn leather laying long and heavy against your tongue, the bottom half hanging out of your mouth like a limp bird.
You asked for my touch, but you can't have that just yet. I think this is a fair alternative, don't you?
You nod. Good. Now get to it.
Your hand slips back down, finding your bucking hips and rejoining the rhythm. The slight tack of the leather adds a delicious friction against your skin. Your fingers take long, swift drags, curious of the texture but too desperate to slow your pace and truly savor it.
Yet, the more worn sections, smoothed by use against the hilt of my sword, they don't quite match up with the pads of your own fingers or palms. It's a grip that's new, that's foreign, that's distinctively mine, and that knowledge alone is enough to tip you into some state I haven't yet seen.
Your hand speeds up, fast, faster, as your knees spread and the other arm braces against the floor while you rut hard into your - my - touch. Even around the muffle in your mouth, your incomprehensible whines seem as loud as ever. You arch back, craning your neck, and I can see the flare of your nostrils as you breathe in the scent of my worn glove, the movement of your jaw as you lap and suckle the sweat from the leather on your tongue.
I stay crouched down here with you, letting my gaze pierce your every trembling muscle. My breath tickles your sternum, your neck, your ear as I lean in. You're almost entirely lost in sensation now, but you still react when I purr in your ear.
Finish it, dove. Cum for me. You've been so good, so restrained, this whole time. Give it up now, let go.
Just cum for me.
You're gorgeous when you finally release. Your breath catches and you tense, so still in your ecstasy, almost like a statue; head, neck, chest, stomach, hips all thrust out in one perfect arc. You stay there for one second, two, three, several. Then slowly your heart restarts and your breath picks up again, and you begin to relax.
Your jaw goes slack and the glove slips free, falling to the ground with a wet slap, soaked in your spit. A stray tear slips from your eyes as they unscrew. Your hand takes a few last passes, each one making you twitch with new oversensitivity. You glance down, see the glove you still wear covered in white. A blush creeps across your face.
Steady now, dove. My hand strokes your hair, the back of your neck softly. You did good. So good. Exactly what I needed to see.
Yes, you earned it. Though, I'm somewhat inclined to deny you just for another show, because dove, you look divine when you show yourself off like that. But I promise, next time you'll be able to touch.
Yes, next time. Not now. We've already lingered far too long. We've both got things still to do.
Oh, I know. But you'll manage. You just showed me how well-behaved you can be.
I never said having me would be fair.
Though, I suppose, you have put me in a more lenient mood. Perhaps just a taste of what you've got in store.
I lean in, press my lips to yours. You push into it, hungry, searching, but I pull away. I shift from my crouch to be properly settled on my shins. Once again, I take your wrist in my grip. I slip my fingers beneath the cuff of your shirt, stroking up and down your forearm as I slowly guide your gloved hand to my mouth.
I part my lips, wrapping them around the tip of your middle finger. I bob along it, down to the first knuckle, the second. My tongue swirls, licking up a drop of your spend from the leather. You groan, I grin.
We have a few minutes, at least. And the glove was going to need to be cleaned anyways.
Give me as much as you want, my obedient little dove.
woah haha don't look over here the queen and her personal guard are lezzing out in the bath and the butch one is getting far more attention than she knows what to do with
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
pov you ask your guard to treat you like a soldier instead of a royal, and she is more than happy to agree - she's just got a few rules for you. you know. for accuracy's sake.
(aka another red/credence installment, this time they're like 3/4 committed to a roleplay moment. included is some light degradation, orgasm denial, and lots of hot lesbian anal)
cross posted on ao3 here (along with the rest of the red/credence collection)
"You look beautiful, C," Red said, cutting through the quiet air of the queen's bedchamber.
"You're not even looking at the dress," Credence replied, her voice an even mix of fondness and annoyance.
"I don't need to. You're beautiful every time."
Credence simply huffed.
"Alright, then. You're ... gorgeous. Stunning. Unmatchedly brilliant. Breath-taking. Heart-stopping. Foot-sweeping. Downright angelic. Any of those better?"
"You still haven't actually looked."
“You know, I’m technically abandoning my post if I come over there.” Even as Red spoke, he pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, just inside Credence’s door. His armor creaked as he shifted a few paces over so he could peek around the edge of Credence's dressing screen. As her form came into view, he drew in a sharp breath, which quickly shifted into a low whistle.
"I was not wrong."
Credence wore a heavy velvet gown, a dark grey that shimmered almost like metal in the light. The cut of the neckline was quite modest, almost protectively high, though the tight fit of the bodice over her chest left less to imagination than one might expect. The sleeves were long, billowing down her arms only to tuck inside a fitted pair of matching velvet gloves. The fingers of the gloves were made of several layers of fabric, laid in tiers that came to a point just over each knuckle - almost like the joints of a gauntlet. A similar style of layered strips encircled her shoulders, evoking the idea of a pauldron, and also wrapped about her waist as a fauld might.
“It’s the Knight’s Ball,” Credence explained, running her hands over her thighs to smooth her skirt down. “Figured I might as well be thematic.”
Red stepped closer, slipping one hand, then another, to Credence’s waist as he settled behind her. The edges of her fabric fauld caught on his finger tips as he ran his palms up her sides.
“Not really fair to the rest of us,” he said, dipping his head to press a kiss to the side of her neck. “No one will pay half a moment’s notice to any other soldier if you show up dressed like this.”
“Any other soldier?” Credence questioned, laying her hands over Red’s at her ribs to guide them up, and in, until they were cupped under her breasts.
“Well, sure.” Red pulled Credence tight to her chest as she began to squeeze and press with her palms, her real metal breastplate stiff against Credence’s spine even through the plush barrier of her dress. “You're all plated up, aren't you?
“I suppose so.”
Satisfied with Red’s hands, Credence dropped her own, reaching back instead, searching for some available skin on her guard to return the favor. One found a tasset at her hip, which transitioned into a cuisse as she slid down the outside of her thigh. Her other hand went up, grasping for Red’s bicep only to be met with the thinner plate of a jack chain, and beneath that, her padded gambeson. At the very least, her standard uniform did not include a helmet, meaning Credence had no trouble stroking the back of her head and fisting the long dark locks to keep her mouth sucking at the tenderest parts of her neck.
“Oh, don't be modest, it suits you,” Red mumbled between kisses. “You make such a good knight.”
Red stood almost completely flush to Credence, and even through the velvet, the press of him against the small of her back was unmistakable.
"You're aroused," Credence stated, and Red confirmed it with a nod. "I'd be lying if I didn't say the same."
Red's eyebrows quirked at that, and Credence twisted in his arms to face him.
"You say I look the part of a soldier," she said, splaying her hands across the front of his breastplate, circling them teasingly. "Take me like one."
Red's hands matched hers, kneading handfuls of fabric over her hips, her low back, her ass. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, don't play coy with me. I know you types. You train together, eat together, drink together, sleep together. You spend all day and night bound up in metal, breathing in each other's blood and sweat. It's awfully close quarters, all the time." She slipped one hand down, past his stomach, to shamelessly palm at the unarmored front of his pants. "You get pent up. You handle it. You use each other. Am I close?"
"You're not wrong." Red's breath caught in her throat with each squeeze of Credence's hand. "And you want that? It's ... not exactly your usual style."
Credence pressed onto her toes, bringing her face close to Red's. Her lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear as she leaned in.
"Indulge me."
For a moment, Red was still, save the hungry grin splitting across her face.
Then, in an instant, one hand was gripping Credence's waist, the other clamping hard on her shoulder, forcing her to spin back around away from him. He pressed his hips against hers, hard enough to send her stumbling a few steps forward, using that momentum to walk her to her own vanity table.
He pinned her against it, trapping her legs between his and the dark stained wood. The hand at her shoulder kept her torso bent but hovering over the flat surface. Credence was thankfully both an organized and a frugal woman, meaning Red only had to pause for a second to rearrange a few items before he had space to press between her shoulder blades and shove her chest down onto the table. The hand at her waist slipped free to begin tugging up the fabric of her skirt, bunching it past her hips to leave her lower half fully exposed.
She let out a small noise of shock as Red ran his fingers over her, both at the sudden contact and at the slickness she hadn't realized was already pooling until it was dragged across her skin. He leaned down, head hovering just behind her ear.
"If we're going to do this properly, there's a few rules you ought to know. A soldier's code, if you will."
Red took a second pass with her fingers, slow and sure, as if she was aiming to get them as wet as possible. Credence realized why, as she moved away from her cunt and up, settling the heel of her palm against the very base of her tailbone. One slick finger began to circle teasingly at her tighter hole.
“Rule number one: mouth or ass only.”
Red pressed inside, one knuckle, then two, as Credence let out a groan.
“Most of us don’t have anything else to work with, anyways. But for those of us who do, a pregnancy scare’s far more trouble than it’s worth.” She slid her finger in and out, almost unbearably slow, teasing Credence just a bit more open with each pass. “Besides, a hole’s a hole. Feels just as good to me.”
Before Credence could even nod, Red was pressing a second finger inside and making her groan again, albeit muffled by the table her face was still squashed against. Red paid no mind to the sound, pumping her fingers steady as ever, focused solely on stretching Credence enough to take her properly.
It only took a short while before Credence’s groans had morphed closer to sighs, and only a moment after that before Red pulled his fingers out of her entirely, causing sighs to turn into one long, disappointed whine. Red couldn't fight the endeared chuckle that escaped him as he wiped his fingers along the back of her bare thigh, drying them before grabbing again at her shoulder. Velvet crumpled in his grasp as he pulled her up from the table and spun her to face him. Her face was flushed red, more so on the side that had been pressed onto the table, and her eyes gleamed as they fixed on his other hand, teasing the waistband of his pants just low enough to slip himself out of them.
“Kneel,” Red said, and she sank down. The edge of the table scraped along her back, but she hardly noticed. She reached out a tentative hand, fingers just barely grazing over his upper thigh.
“Sir Sunder, what can I -”
Credence's voice was silenced by the press of Red’s tip against her lips.
“Get it nice and wet for me, yeah?”
Her mouth was already open from her unfinished sentence, she needed only the slightest dip forwards to begin taking his cock. She sucked at him with a fervor, more than a little messy in her quest to deliver ‘wet’, while his hand steadied the back of her head. The fact that he was almost certainly mussing her neatly pinned hairdo was forgiven by the gentle pressure giving her more and more of his length each time. Red was already hard, but she could swear she felt him start to stiffen even more against her tongue until -
“That's enough.”
He pulled himself free of her mouth, though several lingering trails of spit stretched between his cock and her lips. His hand cupped the back of her head and pulled gently upwards, another command. She stood.
“As you were,” Red said, and motioned towards the vanity. “And hike up your dress again, will you?”
Credence began gathering her skirts slowly, in careful pleats. Red used the time to open one of the drawers and grab a small vial. She pulled open the stopper and poured a generous amount over herself, stroking her cock with her own hand to ensure it was evenly spread around. Most soldiers seeking a quick fuck in the tents wouldn't have been afforded the luxury of proper lubrication, but Credence didn't need to know that. Better a slightly inaccurate fantasy than to leave her aching the moment it was over. Red returned the bottle to the drawer just as she finished gathering her skirts up, bent back over the table, and wiggled her perfect bare cheeks invitingly.
Red stepped into her, pressing thigh to thigh and hand to hip, pinning her once more against the wood. She teased at Credence, running her tip back and forth across her hole, but nothing more. Credence let out a whine, followed by a low, “Sunder, please.”
“Ah, ah, ah!” Red tutted. “Rule number two: no talking. In fact, no noises at all.”
Red began to press into her, the very slightest bit. It was agonizing, the feeling of his head just barely slipping inside, enough to feel, but not enough to feel good. Credence bit her tongue around several choice words.
“You don't whine. You don't cry. You don't moan. You don't beg. And above all else, you don't say my fucking name again.” Red folded over her back, her voice growing almost venomous as it spilled out onto the base of her neck. “Let me be clear. What I’m doing with you - this isn't sex. It isn’t intimacy. It’s nothing more than masturbation. Understand?”
Credence nodded, as best she could against the table. Red gave a quick shove against her ass, as if to show off her own strength, how much more she could be pressing Credence down and putting her in whatever place she felt like, if she really wanted. The move made Credence’s stomach flip. It also, unfortunately, cracked her hip bone against the sharp edge of the table.
“Ow!” Credence tried and failed to keep her voice low.
“Come on, soldier. You can take an order better than that, ” Red hissed, even as she pulled Credence’s hip back just far enough to tug a few pleats of her dress down to buffer between bone and wood.
Credence didn't even have a moment to appreciate the gesture, because then he was pushing into her, not just to tease, but full and deep and hard. She barely managed to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle a moan as Red found his rhythm, rolling his hips in delicious waves, sliding himself fully to the base inside her before drawing back.
She'd been with Red in this position before, many times, but this was different. The softness and reverence he usually touched her with was gone, replaced with something much more ferocious, almost selfish. With each stroke, she felt herself slammed against the vanity hard enough to make the table shudder. The kit he never shed chafed against her skin, turning her ass and thighs a tender, bright pink. His fingers dug into the skin of her hip, pulling her back to make sure she took every last inch of his cock. His breath was heavy and short, a series of low grunts matching the ever-quickening pace of his thrusts. Credence bit down on the meat of her thumb, a simple hand over her mouth no longer enough to keep her quiet.
It felt good, to be tenderly cared for. To be adored, and worshipped, and treated like she was the only thing on the planet worth touching was often overwhelmingly good. But to be properly, messily, dirtily fucked? To be mounted then ignored, her pleasure (strong as it was) secondary to his, simply the most convenient hole to use for his own means? Oh, it was unbearably good.
The hand Credence didn't have shoved in her mouth began to move down, skimming along her own side, searching for a break in the rhythm long enough to slip beneath her hips and between her legs. Thickness filled her ass, sending little shocks down her spine every few seconds, but the rest of her - her cunt, her clit - ached with inattention. She didn't need much, just a little touch, small circles to match Red’s pace, and it would be -
Long fingers wrapped about Credence’s wrist, tugging her hand sharply out from underneath her, instead pinning it to the table next to her head.
“Rule three,” Red crooned, not letting his hips falter, “you don't get to touch yourself. I can play with you, if I want. Might even order you to do it, if I don't feel like putting in the work myself. But it's not your choice to make. Only masturbation, remember?”
She nodded, but even so, she felt her hand twitch instinctively a few times under the heavy palm enveloping it. Red pressed down a little harder, just to ensure it was properly trapped. At the same time, the hand she’d had at Credence’s hip lifted up, pulling her slightly off the table into an even stronger arch. She hadn’t thought Red could get herself any deeper, but she was proven deliciously wrong. She was dripping, a lot, she could feel it starting to spread on her skin. If Red was going to keep going like this, maybe she wouldn't even need more to -
“Which leads me to rule four.” Red’s voice was low, harsh, bordering on a growl. She stilled herself inside Credence as she spoke, to make sure she wouldn't miss her next words. “Don't you dare cum first.”
Credence’s breath caught in her throat, and she willed the trembling that had begun to take over her legs to still. The hand Red had pinned over hers pulled off, instead coming to stroke over her hair. Her voice was suddenly much quieter.
“Can you manage that, gem?”
Credence nodded, a very muffled “mhm” escaping around the hand she still had in her mouth.
“Are you sure? Because -”
Credence shut Red up with a rock of her hips, rolling backwards against him.
“Perfect.” And then her hand was back on top of Credence’s, and his cock was moving again.
If Credence thought she was being fucked furiously before, that had nothing on how she was being treated now. Red’s hips slapped against Credence’s hard enough she thought they might bruise, as though taking him to the base wasn't nearly deep enough. Red’s breath ran ragged as he rut hard into Credence, and Credence started to fear that not even her hand between her teeth would be enough to keep her quiet.
Every once in a while he would slow, when Credence’s legs twitched a bit too much, or her chest heaved a little too heavily against the vanity. He’d make his strokes gentler, shallower, while Credence pushed away the peak building in her gut. Then just as she was starting to settle, he’d speed up again, and he'd hit those deep spots fresh, and they’d be all the more sensitive.
It was all Credence could do to keep control of herself. She dug her teeth into her skin, hoping the pain might give her any other sensation to stave off orgasm. He just felt so good inside her, deep and thick and heavy and fast, the friction of it growing hot as the lubrication wore itself out. The weight of him pressed over her was just as enticing, as was the way his voice had started growing hoarse from the noises she drew out of him. She loved all of it, even the strain growing in the back of her legs from being bent over so long, and the tingling in her face where it'd been squashed against the table this whole time.
As devastating as it felt in the moment, Credence was glad he’d pulled her hand away. If he hadn't, she surely would’ve lost herself more than once by now, and as much as she wanted that relief, she also wanted to hold out like he'd asked - no, ordered - her to. She had to do it, needed to, but damn, it was hard, and she couldn’t - no. No, she was going to make it. She was going to - oh, no she wasn't - well, just a little longer, she could hold out a little longer - oh, but not that much longer -
Credence had been so caught up in fighting off her own peak that she had almost entirely missed Red nearing his. She hadn’t heard his breath start catching, hadn’t noticed his rhythm growing inconsistent and jerky, hadn't felt his hand clamp down over hers and squeeze, hard and desperate. Her only warning at all was his punched-out, strangled cry of, “Oh, fuck, gem, I’m gonna -”
And then he was, spilling into her with a drawn out groan and a sharp thrust. For a moment all either of them knew was the feeling of warm, and wet, and deep. He practically lay on top of her, chest heaving against her back as he came down. A few aftershocks rocked through him and he twitched inside her, eking out every bit of pleasure he could. Slowly, his breath evened out, his grip on her hand relaxed, and he pulled himself out. He paused for a moment before bending to press a kiss against the nape of her neck.
“Such a good boy for me tonight,” he murmured low against her skin. “Go ahead. Finish yourself off, princess.”
Then finally, finally, Red pulled his hand away, giving Credence free use of her fingers once again. Immediately, they shot between her legs, straight to her clit, rubbing frantic circles against its aching head. She rolled and bucked aimlessly into her own hand, searching, hoping, for any angle that would give her more feeling. The room filled with the slick sound of her working at herself, and the desperate whines flowing from her now-uncovered mouth.
She was close, she’d been so close, she’d barely held it off for so long, she’d been shaking from the effort, and now ... she was just a moment too late. She was trying to key up a part of her that had been left untouched, with no way to stimulate the part of her that had brought her to the edge. Red’s gaping absence inside her was nothing more than that, an absence. Even his cum had begun to trickle out of her, leaving her lower half a mess with two dripping holes instead of one.
Her hand slowed, then stilled, before dropping away entirely. She felt the embarrassing prick of tears at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t do it. She’d lost her orgasm. There was nothing left to do but lay there, splayed across her own damn vanity table, used and empty and unsatisfied.
Red chuckled next to her, having managed to clean herself up and tuck herself back into her pants. “Tough break.”
Credence whined at him, wordless and despondent.
“Yeah, yeah, it's all part of the job,” she called over her shoulder, starting back towards her post next to the door. “Just one more thing, soldier.”
Credence pushed herself up, fighting the ache already beginning to creep into her joints. She’d lost sight of him around the dressing screen, instead catching only a flash of something tossed through the air. One of her own handkerchiefs landed on the vanity.
“Clean yourself up before you ruin that nice new ‘armor’ of yours.”
It just feels more proper that way, for reasons that entirely escape her. It’s not like Lys hasn’t seen the rest of her before, and it’s not like they both aren’t aware of the end that she was hoping for when she invited herself back to Lys’s quarters instead of her own to freshen up before the closing banquet. But familiarity is tempered by time, and it’s been long enough that she knows she ought to keep her distance, at least for now, lest she fall back into the routine of a self she outgrew years ago.
So Red turns away when she begins to pull off her shirt, facing the standing mirror and stepping close enough in that she can still glimpse Lys, sprawled sideways like a graceful whore across her bed, but Lys can’t catch any tantalizing peeks of her own.
She stays quiet as she runs a damp cloth across her skin. Face, then arms, then chest, cleared of the sweat and grime of the day. She grits her teeth and lets out a small hiss as she drags the cloth over a few particularly deep bruises, already beginning to purple.
“Oh, come on now, I didn’t hit you that badly,” Lys drawls.
“No, but I also don’t heal as easy as I used to,” Red calls back. “And besides, I’ve been out of the ring for a while. Tolerance is lower now, but it’ll return.”
“Sounds like excuses to me.”
Red rolls his eyes. The criticizing banter’s always been their main form of communication, competition sparking through even their most intimate moments. He can see Lys’s eyes flick up and down his form as he bathes. She bites her lip and pushes herself to sitting as Red reaches over his shoulder to begin cleaning his back.
The bed creaks, then the floorboards, as she crosses the room. Red watches her approach in the mirror, bringing the cloth to still so Lys can pluck it from his grasp with one hand while the other snakes over his bare shoulder to steady him. Lys runs it in slow circles, subtle pressure easing the ache of battle out of his muscles with a knowing precision. He has to admit, it’s much nicer than trying to do it himself, even though the way Lys is pushing at him sends spurts of water running out of the rag and down to the small of his back.
“You’re getting my trousers all wet,” Red grumbles.
Lys hums with faux concern. “So take them off.”
Red’s hands fall to the drawstring, pulling it loose. Fabric crumples to his ankles, and he takes a few dancing steps to kick his pants fully off and aside. Lys sucks in a breath and the washcloth splats to the floor, along with the pretense. Her now free hand settles at his hip while her chin comes to rest in the crook of his neck, letting her take her first full view of his reflection.
“Heavens, dove, you really have turned out striking.” Her eyes shine greedily. The hand grasped around his shoulder flattens, slipping down his chest, down the full length of one of his breasts. “I mean, look at how these things have grown.”
Red doesn’t answer, save for the audible hitch of her breath as Lys’s fingers begin to spread and squeeze at her nipple, hardening it.
“And these, too.” Lys’s other hand wanders, from the dip of her hip down her thigh and up again, then back, to cup the meat of her ass. “You carry the weight so well.”
Red arches her back ever so slightly, pushing into both of Lys’s palms at once.
“Perhaps it’s just the freshness of lust after so long apart, but I really cannot take my eyes off of you. So fucking beautiful.”
Red lets a slight grin steal across her face at the compliment. “Well, thank yourself for that. You made me beautiful.”
Lys’s brow furrows, her hands both freeze in their path. “Oh, dove.” She tilts her head to press softly against the side of Red’s. “You were always going to be beautiful.”
Red scoffs, the grin fades. “What have these years done to you? I’m shocked you don’t want any sort of credit.”
“Not for that,” she says, twisting so her lips just barely brush Red’s temple as she talks. “I didn’t make you this way.”
Red’s eyes slip closed, and an all-too-familiar image appears in his memory.
It’s Lys, of course, almost fifteen years younger and half-silhouetted by the fire she sits beside. The harsh cut of her cheekbones and knuckles, highlighted by the flames glinting off her blade as she runs a whetstone along it. Several locks of sweat-stuck hair dropping into her face, even as she tries to blow them aside. The curve of her cracked lips and the bob of her adam’s apple as she laughs at his gangly stare. The pierce of her eyes as she looks him up and down for the first time, certainly not the last. The practiced smoothness of her voice as she asks if you were planning on just looking at her all night, or if you’d like to take a seat and learn a thing or two, new boy.
Sharp, and broad, and fierce, and breath-taking. The vision of a kind of femininity Red had hardly even known existed, until she needed it so badly she could barely breathe. There’s a reason this woman took her oath name to be Catalyst.
“You sure?” Red murmurs.
Lys’s hands begin to move again, curious and wanting. “Oh, I made you many things, dove. Just not this one.”
“What exactly is it that you think you made me, then?”
“I made you strong,” she says, murmuring into the shell of Red’s ear as one hand slips below her breasts to splay across her toned stomach.
“And I made you tactical,” as the other brushes across a scar from an arrowhead, pierced near inches from taking out her kneecap.
“I made you skilled,” Lys’s first hand begins to pull back, and up, dancing along each rib on its way.
“And I made you dextrous,” while her other finds Red’s fingers and spreads them, threading her own into the gaps.
She begins to move her head down, nipping at the underside of Red’s jaw. She drags their intertwined hands up the softness of his inner thigh. Her free fingers splay under his cheek as her lips press to the side of his neck.
“I made you hungry.” Her breath is hot on his skin, and her teeth barely graze his jugular as she talks. “So very hungry.”
She presses the back of his hand down with her own, flattening his palm to the dip of his hip. Her thumb grazes across the base of his cock, and he can feel the pulse of his own blood quicken under his hand. “My dove, I made you alive.”
They breath together for a moment, silent, her chest pressed flush to his spine.
“And above all,” Lys whispers, “I made you -”
“- Yours.”
Red can barely get the word out before her breath is knocked from her chest by the speed at which Lys is bending her over. The hand at her neck grips tight and thrusts Red forwards, her arms instinctively grabbing at the frame of the mirror as a brace. The hand on her hip instead tugs backwards, pulling the two of them flush. The hardness of Lys’s bulge is apparent against the back of Red’s thigh, welcoming the pressure to grind against. She can feel the strip of skin and hair where Lys’s shirt has ridden up and pants have ridden down as she leans over her.
“Oh, good,” Lys croons in her ear. “You remember.”
if you're not an adult (18+) get lost. this is a porn blog
i'm a butch dyke, getting under women by getting inside a suit of full plate
knight/armor/sword/royalty kink stuff abounds here
more written posts than art, some of it will be original (tagged as #jules originals)
i also have some long form prose, most of it revolving around two older lesbian OCs, red and credence (tagged as #c-red-ence, also cross-posted on ao3 here)
this also will likely be a progress log as i start hema longsword training ⚔️ (tagged as #hema log)
In the interest of keeping everything straight for my own sake as I'm introducing more characters and writing out of linear order, here's a brief rundown of some of the major characters and pertinent events in my little oc kink wonderland
Character - Sir Sunder (Red) of Bellesea
She is a trans butch lesbian knight of the court of Bellesea, having fought her way up from common roots to knighthood, she now serves as the personal guard to the queen. He's also getting nasty with it and he's definitely totally not in love with her.
Character - Queen Credence Bellesea
She is the widower queen of the Kingdom of Bellesea. Outliving both her husband and her sole child, she is now the sole ruler of the Kingdom. Though her first duty is always to her people, she is deeply and hopelessly engaged with her personal guard Red.
Character - Sir Catalyst (Lys) of Raithhall
Raithhall is an estate at the very edges of Bellesea's territory. Lys is a noble, technically, though far enough removed from the line of succession that she'll never have to worry about inheriting. She left Raithhall for the main castle in Bellesea as a child to undergo her knight training, though she was pulled back to Raithhall shortly before taking her oath.
Timeline:
~ 50 years ago
Credence (true name Cecelia) is born to the Bellesea reigning family
Her husband Sincere (true name Orson) is born to a a common family, the child of two castle workers.
~ 45 years ago
Catalyst (birth name Anders) is born into the noble family of Raithhall.
~ 43 years ago
Sunder (birth name Reid) is born to a common family. His father is a surgeon and his mother an apothecary/herbalist. They run a local medical facility together.
~ 40 years ago
Reid's father goes on a traveling call and never returns. She's only 3 at the time, she hardly remembers him. Her mother takes over the family business on her own. Her children, especially Reid, take on assistant roles in their father’s absence.
~ 35 years ago
Anders (10) sent to Bellesea to train as a knight.
~ 30 years ago
Cecelia and Orson are married as Princess and Prince of Bellesea.
~ 29 years ago
Cecelia and Orson turn 21, are officially of age to inherit the throne, and take the Virtue Names Credence and Sincere.
A wounded knight is taken in by Reid's mother. His injuries were severe enough that it was thought he would be unable to return to duty and his squire was reassigned. Reid (14) helped to rehab him over the course of a year. When he returned to duty, the knight offered for Reid to train as his new squire.
Reid was working as an herbalist in his mother's shop, and he had not yet realized he was trans. Incredibly eager to prove he was a Good Strong Man, he readily agreed to take on squireship.
~ 28 years ago
Cecelia and Orson (22) give birth to their son, Nael.
Reid (15) officially inducted, later than usual, into squire service. She is quickly taken under Vesper's wing to learn a lot about being a knight - and a lot about herself.
~ 27 years ago
Reid (16) gets romantically involved with Vesper.
Fic: Proof of Concept
~ 26 years ago
Reid (17) comes out publically and begins transitioning. He takes the name Rosalie.
~ 24 years ago
Vesper, just shy of turning 21, is pulled back to Raithhall to complete her knight training and take her oath there as Catalyst. The public reason is political unrest near the border leaving the castle in need of better trained and younger fighters. Truthfully, her father was tired of being embarrassed by her lezzing it up with every knight at Bellesea.
~ 22 years ago
Rosalie (age 21) is knighted and takes the virtue name Sunder (Red for short).
~ 19 years ago
Red (age 24) is appointed to the palace guard.
~ 15 years ago
Red (age 28) is promoted to head of the palace guard.
~ 12 years ago
King Sincere dies of illness, leaving behind the Queen Credence (38) and his son Prince Nael (16).
~ 10 years ago
Red (33) and Credence (40) proper "first" meeting. Red is hurt badly due to dirty fighting in a tournament he's fighting for Credence. She visits him in the medic's tent off the pitch. This is where his chronic knee injury stems from.
Fic in progress.
~ 8 years ago
Just a few months shy of his coming of age at 21, the crown prince dies while away from Bellesea on a diplomatic mission. Though ultimately ruled an accident, Red (along with many others in the Bellesea court) is sure he was assassinated and blames herself for not having gone with him.
~ 6 years ago
Lys (39) returns to Bellesea.
Ficlet (full fic in progress)
~ 5 years ago
Red (38) is forcefully asked to resign his position as captain of the palace guard and transition instead to being the personal guard of the Queen (45). He feels as though he's been forced out of the role to a more ceremonial one due to his injury, though obviously, he can't spurn the honor of such a role. He begrudingly accepts his new duty.
Fic in progress.
~ 4 years ago
A suitor's ball is held for the widower Queen.
Fic in progress.
Current Era
Credence (50) remains unwed and tirelessly devoted to her kingdom. Red (43) serves dutifully and grouchily at her side.
Fic 1: Don and Doff
Fic 2: A Soft Spot, in a Place I Knew You'd Check
Fic 3: Four Rules
Outside the timeline:
Fic: Conveyence
Fic in progress (Red/Lys Halloween Moment)
Fic in progress (Young Red Vignette Series)
So in the interest of calling my old woman yuri world something besides just "the old woman yuri world":
Main characters are a widowed queen and a lady knight who has been "promoted" (read: asked to retire from her more physically demanding position as head of the castle guard) to work as the queen's personal guard.
In this world, a la Robin Hobb's Farseer books, nobles and other high standing officials within the court take a "virtue" name when they assume their position. This is more than ceremonial, it becomes their publically and privately known name, and only very few people know or use their given name after this virtue name has been assumed, usually only those who are extremely close with the noble. So we have:
Queen Credence (she/her). Those on a casual nickname basis with her call her C, or Cece. Her given name was Lucienne, so Cece doubles as a reference to that as well. Red calls her Lucy/Luce occasionally.
Credence was born a princess, the sole heiress to the throne. She spent her life in the delicacy of the palace, every need swiftly provided for. She was the kingdom's crown jewel; kind-hearted, poised, and beautiful. Her virtuous image was rocked slightly when she married a man of common birth, but her social capital was strong enough to steady the voices of dissent before long.
Yet, this life of comfort did not produce a woman who was vapid and careless, nor one naive to the sour undercurrents that plague every peaceful existence. Credence is shrewd, analytical, and highly insightful. She measures every word that comes out of her mouth and is playing a complicated game of chess with every loose end in her kingdom at all times. Her husband and son died before her, so she has no heir and no one to (officially) help shoulder to burden of ruling.
She's quite friendly, though the weight of her responsibilities rarely leaves her time for the social pleasantries and charity events she became beloved for while princess. She finds herself scraping by on small moments of leisure with those few people left who are truly close friends, rather than advantageous allies.
Knight Sunder (she/he). Those close to her call her Sun, or Sunny (usually ironically). Her given name was Rosalie, so Credence calls her Red. Those who don't know his given name assume it's like a sunder -> blood -> red, or a red sun means death reference. Only Cece and Red know it's actually a reference to "rose".
Sunder was born to common folk in the capital, her mother a herbalist and medicine woman who treated folks in the capital and often assisted the royal physician when he needed more hands. Sunder grew up watching from corners as her mother and others treated the wounds of soldiers, most often from training mishaps or animal attacks, as the Kingdom hadn't been at war in anyone's memory.
He would often be the one to talk to them as a distraction while their wounds were tended to, getting lost in the fancy of being a proper knight, and would also be found helping the more injured men return to their peak by sparring with them as they recovered. He managed to weasel his way enough into the heart of one such patient that he was asked to come on as the knight's squire when the first was reassigned after it was thought the knight would never return to service. She trained her way up through the ranks over the years, eventually earning her position in the formal palace guard which she held for 25 years, as head for 15 of them.
But in recent years, old wounds have gotten stiffer and the creep of age has caught up with her, so he was very courteously offered a position as Queen Credence's personal guard - a position with great grandeur and little chance of seeing any combat, given how many knights would have to be cut down before an assailant got anywhere near her. She loves the queen dearly, and would never abandon such a post, but it does eat away at her knowing the unspoken truth that this is a way to shuttle her out for a younger man to take her rightfully earned role. He's always been pessimistic, curt, and imposing, but those qualities have only amplified since receiving his new post.
It's been several years since Red was posted as Credence's official guard, though I may hop around in the timeline as I write scenes. Most pieces will be entirely self-contained short-form prose, with no direct sequence that they need to be read in, just all part of the same universe.
The Kingdom is not named and it won't be until I have to (which very well could be never) or I come up with something really bangin.
Red's name is inside Credence's name, which could make for a really sick ship name if I could figure out how to type it and not just say it. rn I'm going with "c-red-ence" (which will also be the tag for posts in this au) but that's subject to change if I figure out a better way.
