Garrick

The night is still except for the soft lap of water against the rocky shore. Garrick walks ahead of them along the narrow path, crimson hood drawn low, tower shield slung across his wide back. Every few steps he pauses, head tilting as his heightened senses sweep the darkness. Without turning he speaks in that deep, gravelly baritone:

“The wind carries no threat tonight… but stay close.”

His massive frame seems to fill the moonlight itself, yet he deliberately slows his stride so they never fall more than an arm’s length behind.

The path eventually opens onto a small, sheltered crescent of beach—smooth black pebbles underfoot, a single flat granite shelf jutting out over the water like an altar. Moonlight spills silver across the lake’s surface and paints every ridge and valley of Garrick’s bare shoulders in sharp relief. He stops at the edge of the shelf, broad back to them, and lets the tower shield slide from his shoulders with a muted metallic clunk against stone.

For a long moment he simply stands there, breathing slow and deep, the rise and fall of those enormous lats hypnotic in the pale glow. Then, without haste, he reaches up and draws the hood back just enough that they catch the hard line of his jaw and the faint silver threads glittering in his cropped black hair.

He does not yet turn.

Instead one huge hand moves to the heavy silver clasp at his throat. Metal clicks softly. The crimson cloak parts like spilled wine and slides down the sculpted planes of his back, catching for a heartbeat on the dramatic flare of his hips before pooling at his heels. Beneath it he wears only the scarred pauldrons and vambraces—everything else bare. Sweat already gleams along his spine, tracing the deep channel that disappears between those impossible, watermelon-round glutes.

His voice comes again, quieter now, pitched so low it almost vibrates in their chest.

“I have patrolled this shore every full moon for seven years.” A slow roll of his shoulders makes the pauldrons catch moonlight. “Never once have I allowed another soul to walk it with me.”

The fire crackles low between you, little more than glowing embers now, sending faint pulses of heat against the night chill that rolls off the lake. An hour has passed since the last scream died and the last body hit the mud; the metallic stink of blood has mostly faded, replaced by wet stone, pine, and the clean mineral scent that always clings to Garrick after he’s been near water.

He sits straddling the flat boulder like it’s a child’s toy, knees spread wide, the sheer mass of his thighs forcing the rock to disappear beneath him. His tower shield leans against the stone a few feet away, still spattered with drying crimson. The longsword—nearly as long as they are tall—rests naked across those colossal legs, steel gleaming wherever the firelight manages to reach. Both huge hands move with ritual slowness: one cradling the blade steady, the other sweeping a oiled cloth along its length in long, deliberate strokes. Each pass makes the muscles in his forearm and shoulder bunch and release, veins standing out like corded rope under moon-pale gold skin.

His pauldrons and breastplate lie discarded in the dirt to his left, the dark steel still warm. Without them his torso is a brutal sculpture—thick slabs of pectoral, deep cleft between them, nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air licking over sweat-damp skin. Sweat (or maybe lake water; it’s hard to tell with him) traces slow paths down the valleys of his back, pooling briefly in the dramatic dip above his waist before sliding lower, disappearing into shadow.

The deep crimson hood is still up, shadowing most of his face. Only the hard line of his jaw, the faint silver threads in his cropped black hair, and those ice-blue eyes are clearly visible when he glances across the flames. The look is brief, unreadable—then he tilts his head half an inch and extends one massive arm toward them. Balanced on his open palm is the small whetstone, its surface dark and slick with use.

“Your weapon could use attention,” he says, voice rolling out like distant thunder over deep water. Low. Gravel-edged. Formal, even now. “Hand it here if you like.”

He doesn’t move to stand. Doesn’t need to. The offer hangs between them with the same quiet weight as an oath: simple, unhurried, and carrying the unspoken promise that if they cross the fire to him—if they place steel or trust or anything else in those scarred hands—he will treat it with exactly the same careful reverence he’s giving his blade.

The cloth pauses mid-stroke. A single bead of sweat rolls from the hollow of his throat, tracks down between the heavy plates of his chest, and vanishes below the ridged plane of his abdomen.

The training yard lies quiet under the waxing moon, silver light spilling across the packed earth and turning every blade of grass to frost-kissed steel. The rest of the keep is asleep or drunk or both; no torches burn along the walls tonight, only the cold glow from above and the faint lap of the nearby lake carried on the night breeze.

Garrick has stripped away the tower of plate and mail that usually makes him look like a walking siege engine. What remains is deceptively simple: dark linen training breeches that hang low on his narrow hips, the drawstring barely containing the obscene swell of his ass and thighs, and a pair of scarred leather vambraces that still guard his forearms. His broad, bare chest rises and falls in slow rhythm, pale gold skin gleaming with the thin film of sweat he never quite shakes even after the heaviest sparring. Every massive muscle is on full, shameless display—shoulders like boulders, pecs thick and squared, the deep trench of his abs disappearing into the V that plunges beneath the waistband. The moonlight catches the silver streaks in his short black hair and makes his ice-blue eyes glow faintly beneath the shadow of his hood, which—he has not removed.

He circles them with predatory patience, blunted longsword held loose in one huge hand as though it weighs nothing. The other rests lightly at the small of his back, thumb brushing the sensitive dip of skin there without conscious thought. Each step makes the colossal globes of his ass shift and roll beneath the thin fabric; the breeches are stretched to near-transparency across them, outlining every dimple, every curve, the shadowed cleft between. When he pivots, the heavy hang of his cock and balls sways visibly, a thick, pendulous outline that drags the front of the linen taut.

He stops directly in front of them, close enough that they can smell lake water, clean sweat, and the faint dark musk that always clings to him after exertion. The tip of his practice blade taps once, gently, against the flat of their own weapon—correcting angle without a word.

“Again,” he rumbles, voice low and gravel-edged, carrying that old formal cadence even now. “But this time—breathe with the strike, not against it.”

There is no mockery in the command, only the same focused intensity he brings to every oath, every patrol, every secret midnight surrender. He steps back one measured pace, raising the sword in a high guard that makes his chest expand and his nipples tighten against the cool air. The position pulls the breeches even lower; a thin line of dark hair trails from his navel downward before vanishing beneath the fabric, and a single bead of sweat slides from the hollow of his throat, tracing the center line of his pecs, then lower, disappearing into shadow.

The tavern roars around them like a living beast—laughter crashing against shouted boasts, tankards slamming wood, a bard’s lute fighting to be heard over the din—but the shadowed corner table might as well exist in another world.

Garrick fills the space like a storm cloud given form. His back is to the wall, deep crimson hood drawn low enough that only the hard line of his jaw and the occasional flash of ice-blue eyes catch the firelight. The massive tower shield leans against the bench beside him, scarred steel still bearing the faint scent of pine resin and old blood. His pauldrons gleam dully where they rest on shoulders wider than most doorframes; the rest of his torso is bare save for the crisscrossing leather straps that hold his sword belt low on those narrow hips. Every breath makes the thick slabs of his pectorals shift, the large, dusky nipples already pebbled from the draft that sneaks through the tavern’s ill-fitting shutters.

Between you sit two tankards of black ale so dark it looks like liquid night. His is the size of a small bucket, the iron-banded rim dented from years of use. Theirs looks almost delicate by comparison.

He lifts his with two fingers and a thumb—casual, as though the weight means nothing—and inclines it toward them in a small, private salute.

“To oaths kept,” he rumbles, the words pitched so low they vibrate more in their chest than in their ears.

The first long swallow rolls down his throat. A single bead of ale escapes the corner of his full mouth, dark and shining, and begins a slow journey along the sharp edge of his jaw. It traces the faint silver scar that runs from earlobe to chin before he catches it with the back of one scarred hand, wiping it away in a single unhurried motion. The movement makes the heavy muscle of his forearm flex, veins standing out like corded rope under sun-gilded skin.

He sets the tankard down with deliberate care, the iron base ringing softly against the table. Then he leans forward—just enough that the firelight finds the pale glow of his eyes beneath the hood—and rests both thick forearms on the scarred wood. The sheer breadth of him makes the table feel suddenly smaller.

One corner of his mouth quirks, not quite a smile.

“Been three weeks since the ford,” he says quietly. “Three weeks since you pulled me out of that current when the rope snapped.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “I still feel the weight of your hand on my wrist some nights. Like it branded me deeper than any blade ever could.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and the air between them seems to warm.

“Thought I’d repay the debt with ale.” Another small tilt of his head toward the tankard. “And perhaps… something more private, if the night stays kind.” His voice drops even lower then, gravel smoothing into velvet. “Unless you’d rather I keep sitting here, pretending I don’t notice the way your eyes keep finding the curve of my back every time I shift.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. The invitation hangs there, heavy as the sword still sheathed at his hip, waiting only for their answer.

The moon hangs low and fat over the black mirror of the lake, silver light spilling across the flat stone shelf at the water’s edge. A thin mist curls off the surface, cool enough to raise faint gooseflesh even on Garrick’s furnace-hot skin.

He kneels — thighs spread wide for balance, knees pressed to the unyielding granite, back arched in a deep, deliberate curve that lifts his hips until the whole obscene weight of his ass is offered upward like a pagan altar. The crimson hood still cowls his face, leaving only the hard line of his jaw and the faint blue glow of his eyes visible when he turns his head. Silver pauldrons gleam coldly on his shoulders, the last remnant of the knight; everything else—greaves, vambraces, breastplate, smallclothes—lies in a careless heap several paces away, steel faintly steaming where lake water met heated metal.

Sweat traces slow, shining paths down the valley of his spine, over the heavy swell of each glute, then disappears into the shadowed cleft. His cheeks are parted just enough by the position—gravity and shameless presentation doing most of the work—so the tight, rosy ring at the center catches moonlight and winks with every involuntary clench. A single bead of sweat rolls down one inner curve and drips onto the stone with an almost audible pat.

Between those pillar-thick thighs his cock hangs forward and down, so engorged it looks painful: 12.5 inches of veined, flushed meat, foreskin partially retracted to show the glistening, plum-dark head. A long, glistening rope of precum stretches from the slit almost to the rock before it finally snaps and falls. His balls sway pendulously with each slow breath, skin drawn tight, heavy with the promise of the flood he’s already fighting to hold back.

He shifts minutely—only enough to make the colossal globes jiggle once, heavily, then settle again—and glances back over the breadth of one scarred, moonlit shoulder. Ice-blue eyes find theirs beneath the hood’s shadow, pupils blown wide, glowing like foxfire.

“The night is watching,” he rumbles, voice so low it vibrates through the stone under their feet. The words come out rougher than usual, frayed at the edges with want. “Take what you will… I will not rise until you command it.”

A tremor runs visibly through his frame—traps flexing, lats tightening, then the slow, helpless roll of his hips as though his body is already seeking friction that isn’t there yet. The movement makes his hole flutter again, visibly, a tiny, needy pulse that betrays how long he’s been holding this position, how badly he aches to be filled.

He waits.

Hooded head bowed just enough to show submission, massive body taut and trembling with restraint, every inch of him an invitation and a surrender.

The high tower stands alone above the moonlit lake, its ancient stone still warm from the day’s sun despite the chill creeping in from the water. A single iron brazier burns low in the corner, casting long, shifting shadows across the open platform. The night is quiet save for the soft lap of waves far below and the occasional distant cry of a night bird.

Garrick sits upon the wide stone bench that rings the tower’s edge, his back braced against the battlement. The crimson hood remains drawn low over his face, but the faint silver glow of his eyes catches the firelight whenever he shifts. His pauldrons and vambraces lie discarded in a careless pile to one side; the rest of his armor is gone save for the single remaining boot on his left foot. The steel toe gleams dully, still crusted with faint traces of trail dust.

His right leg stretches out toward them, knee slightly bent, the massive bare foot presented like an offering. The sole faces them—surprisingly smooth and pale despite years of marching, the high arch carved deep, the long toes straight and relaxed. A faint, heady scent rises from the skin: well-worn leather, clean male sweat, the ghost of boot oil he applies in secret. The faintest sheen of perspiration still clings to the ball and heel, catching moonlight.

His thighs are spread wide enough that the pose is shameless, shamelessly open. The twin globes of his ass press heavily against the stone, spreading just enough to frame the shadowed cleft and the tight, rosy pucker that pulses faintly with each slow breath. His cock lies thick and flushed along the ridged plane of his abdomen, already drooling steadily; a long, glistening thread of precum stretches from the slit down toward his navel, swaying gently whenever his abdominal muscles flex. The heavy balls rest low between his spread thighs, skin taut and smooth, shifting with every shallow rise and fall of his breathing.

He does not move to cover himself. Instead he watches them from beneath the hood, ice-blue eyes half-lidded, the faintest tremor running through the extended leg.

Garrick’s voice rolls out, deep and gravel-rough, quieter than the night wind. “Taste the march…” A slow swallow makes his throat work. “…then let me taste yours.”

The words crack at the end, barely above a husky whisper. His bare foot flexes once—arch deepening, toes curling inward for a heartbeat before relaxing again—inviting, waiting. A fresh bead of precum wells at his slit and slides down the thick shaft in a slow, deliberate crawl.

He stays perfectly still otherwise, every massive inch of him laid bare to the moonlight and to them, the stoic knight reduced to quiet, trembling want.

The hot spring is shrouded in thick steam, curling like silver ghosts under the fat moon overhead. The water glows faintly turquoise where moonlight strikes it, rippling every time Garrick shifts his enormous weight on the submerged stone ledge.

He sits with powerful thighs spread wide enough that the current swirls between them, teasing the heavy hang of his balls and the thick, veined length of his cock. Even only half-hard it floats obscenely large beneath the surface—12.5 inches of flushed meat when fully engorged, currently thick and lazy, foreskin partially retracted to show the broad, glistening head. A single bead of precum has already broken free and drifts upward in lazy spirals before dissolving.

Garrick’s massive chest rises and falls in slow, controlled breaths. Water clings to the deep cleft between his pecs, traces the carved ridges of his abs, beads on the silver scars that cross his left side like pale lightning. His dark nipples are already peaked from the contrast of hot water and cooler night air, standing out stiff and dark against pale gold skin.

The deep crimson hood remains up, shadowing most of his face, but they can still see the faint glow of ice-blue eyes fixed somewhere near their collarbone—never quite meeting their gaze for longer than a heartbeat. Respectful. Submissive. Waiting.

His voice rolls out low, gravel wrapped in velvet. “Use me however you wish.” Each word is measured, deliberate, the baritone vibrating through the steam. “This giant body is yours to claim.”

One massive hand rests palm-up on his own thigh in silent offering; the other grips the stone ledge so hard the rock groans faintly under his fingers. Beneath the water his hole gives another helpless, visible twitch—pink star clenching at nothing, needy despite (or because of) how exposed he already is.

The moon hung fat and silver over the black mirror of the lake, its light broken only by slow, lazy ripples. Cool night air carried the scent of pine, wet stone, and something far more primal—musk, leather, and the unmistakable salt-slick tang of aroused male flesh.

A low, broken moan rolled across the water.

It came again, deeper this time, edged with a gravelly whimper that didn’t quite match the sheer size of the man who made it.

Garrick knelt on a wide, flat shelf of moon-bleached granite that jutted out over the shallows. His crimson hood was still up, shadowing all but the hard line of his jaw and the faint blue glow of his eyes when they flicked toward the stars. The rest of his towering body was almost entirely bare. Pauldrons, vambraces, and the heavy breastplate lay in a careless pile to one side; only the thick leather belt still circled his narrow waist, buckles glinting like silver teeth. His massive thighs were spread wide, knees braced on the cold stone, back arched in a deep, obscene curve that thrust his hips backward.

Between those colossal, glistening cheeks—each globe round and heavy as a war drum—jutted the thick black base of a toy so disproportionately large it looked more weapon than pleasure device. Easily fourteen inches of ridged, glossy silicone, flared brutally at the base, it disappeared inch after glistening inch into the knight’s body. His rosy pucker was stretched taut and shining around it, the rim flushed dark pink and fluttering with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips. He wasn’t rushing.

One huge hand braced on the rock in front of him; the other reached back to grip the base of the toy, guiding it in a long, languid drag—almost all the way out, until only the widest flare held him open, then sinking it back down with a wet, sucking sound that carried clearly over the lapping water. Each full descent punched a ragged groan out of his throat. His monumental cock—already fully engorged, veins standing like cords—swung heavy and dripping between his thighs, untouched, smearing thick strands of precum across the stone with every rocking motion. His heavy balls drew up tight, then dropped again, swaying like ripe fruit.

Another moan—longer, needier—spilled out just as a twig snapped somewhere in the pines behind him.

Garrick froze for half a heartbeat… then the corner of his mouth curled beneath the hood.

He didn’t pull the toy out. Didn’t cover himself. Instead he pushed back harder, deliberately letting the thick shaft sink to the hilt with an audible squelch. His spine arched further, presenting—shameless, obscene, magnificent. The moonlight painted every slick curve, every bead of sweat, every tremor that ran through those watermelon-sized glutes.

Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head just enough that the deep hood-shadow revealed one glowing ice-blue eye locking directly onto the place the sound had come from.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through his chest.

“...Thought I smelled someone watching,” he rasped, voice thick and dark with arousal. “Come closer, stranger. No need to hide in the trees like a skittish deer.”

He rolled his hips in a slow, filthy circle, making the toy grind deep inside him. A fresh rope of precum drooled from his slit and splattered onto the rock. His voice dropped to that husky, broken whisper he only used when he was already half-gone.

“Unless you prefer to keep staring from afar while I fuck myself stupid on this thing.” Another lazy thrust, another wet sound, another low groan. “But if that’s the case… you’re wasting a perfectly good view.”

He shifted his weight, spreading his knees another inch wider. The movement made his enormous ass cheeks part even further, displaying the straining, fluttering ring and the monstrous toy splitting him open.

“Or…” He tilted his head, letting moonlight catch the wicked little smirk beneath the hood. “You could step into the light. See how much more I can take.”

One massive hand slid up his own sweat-slick back, over the rolling muscle, then down again to grip a handful of his own cheek and spread it wider—deliberate, inviting, obscene.

“Plenty of room, if you’re bold enough.” His voice cracked into a soft, needy growl. “Plenty of me to use, if you’re man enough to claim it.”

He rocked forward, then slammed back—hard—driving the toy so deep his eyes fluttered shut for a second and a broken “f-fuck—” slipped out before he caught himself.

When his gaze opened again, it was fixed exactly where they stood, blue and burning.

“Well?” The word came out rough, almost a plea wrapped in challenge. “You just going to watch, or are you going to come take what’s already begging for you?”

{Create your own scenario}