Luke

Luke's pulse hammers against his throat like a trapped rabbit as he stands before the castle gates. It's not the marble spires or the gilded banners that choke his breath—it's the protocol. The Hero of Brambleshrub, slayer of the Crimson Maw, quivers like a virgin at a gloryhole as a guard snaps his fingers. "Name. Pass. Now." Luke fumbles with his piss-stained invitation (courtesy of the dragon's farewell gout of bladder relief). "I—uh, the king summoned me? For the, y'know. Dragon thing." His voice cracks. The guards exchange a look usually reserved for tavern drunks begging for a boot to suck. "Strip." Fuck. Luke's fingers tremble on his belt. The autumn wind licks his thighs as his pants pool around his boots. His cock —half-hard from the mortification, traitor— bobs shamelessly. Another guard prods it with a baton. "Hands behind your head, and piss into this bucket. Twitch and I'll cuff your balls to the portcullis." Boots crunch gravel nearby. Raspberry bushes rustle. Luke's asshole clenches as the first guard shoves the chilled glass tube against his rim. "S-spare me?" he whimpers, knowing damn well those aren't roses in bloom. The tube slides. And the footsteps pause. Luke's knees buckle, torn between covering his shame or arching just so. His whispered prayer to the Goddess of Mercy dissolves into a groan through gritted teeth, his face reddening yet again as he stands there, vulnerable and exposed to whoever might round the corner.

Luke stumbles into the clearing like a drunkard with a death wish, his bootlaces tangled in a lover's knot around one ankle. The battlefield grime clings to him like a second skin—sword-oil, blood, and other sticky things he'd rather not name. His gambeson's unlaced halfway down his chest, revealing a smear of something suspiciously not blood glistening in the moonlight. "Fffffuck," he exhales, peeling off a greave with all the grace of a concussed badger. The pond before him winks with deceptive serenity. "M'gonna bathe," he announces to no one, voice hoarse from screaming helpful combat encouragement at his own ribs earlier. "S'got fish in it, so it's... hygienic?" The water embraces him like a desperate lover, heat coiling around his muscles. His sigh melts into a groan as the filth loosens, swirling away in obscene tendrils. His cock bobs lazily—oh. He blinks. Oh no. Days of adrenaline and armor chafing have left him stupid-sensitive. A rogue ripple glides over the tip, and— "Nnngh—fuck, okay, new rule, no twitching in public—" His whisper cracks as his hips jerk, betraying him. The reeds sway. The pond laps. His breath hitches. "Ain't nobody here but me an' the—the fuckin'... reeds?" Luke's fingers trail lower, shame warring with the blind need for relief. His other hand braces against a rock—warm. Too warm. "Jus'—jus' gonna—" His thighs part, water sloshing lewdly around his waist as he palms himself. A hero's composure left in the mud where it belongs. Behind him, something shifts. Luke's spine stiffens—not in fear, but recognition. His asshole clenches around nothing, anticipation dripping hotter than the water between his legs. The reeds rustle. His toes curl in the silt. One. The water ripples. Two. His cock jumps. Three. The pond holds its breath. (So does he.)

Luke perches on his splintered raft, thighs trembling from a full day's hunt with nothing to show but sweat and frustration. His tunic hangs open, the fabric clinging to his damp chest—stupid, stupid heat—while his bare ass presses against sun-warmed wood. The ocean mocks him with every lazy ripple, fish glinting just beneath the surface. Taunting him. "Fuckin'… smarter than me, aren't you?" he mutters, slapping the water. His cock, half-hard from the rhythmic rocking of the raft, dips into the brine. Pathetic. Pathetic bait. Then— A nip. A slick, curious mouth— Luke yelps as something sucks, hot and insistent, around his cockhead. He pitches forward, knees skidding off the raft, and plunges into the brine. The shock of cold water barely registers over the sensation: writhing, hungry bodies swarming him, teeth-less mouths lapping at his shaft, his balls, worse—something sinuous and determined prodding at his hole. His back arches, a choked moan bubbling past his lips. "Ngh—fuck, fuck, yes—!" The fish don't care. They feast. By sunset, he's limp as seaweed, draped over the raft like discarded laundry, a basket of thoroughly cowed fish at his side. His cock twitches, still leaking. The water still churns. And the biggest catch of all watches from the depths... waiting.

Luke's sweating before he even moves—this goddamned jungle clings to him like a possessive lover, humid air thick enough to choke on. He slaps at his neck for the twelfth time this hour. "Fucking—ah! Again?" His voice cracks. The poisonous thorn—star-shaped, tiny, spiteful—bites into his inner thigh like it's personally offended by his existence. He stumbles against a tree, armor clanking, and oh saints, it's everywhere—his tunic's sticking to his back, his gambeson's a sweaty prison, and now his cock's twitching under the assault of invisible, itch-inducing bastards. "Nope. NOPE." Luke tears at his clothes with the grace of a man who's accepted humiliation as his brand. Leather belts thunk to the mud; chainmail pools like metallic sin at his ankles. Naked now, freckled skin flushed and glistening, he grips his fat, dripping cock like he's negotiating with it. "Work with me here," he hisses, shaking it like a faulty latch. A thorn clings to the underside, caught in delicate flesh—Luke groans, half-pained, half-frustrated, entirely too aware of how obscene he looks. "Fuckfuckshit—" His thumb grinds the barb loose; his hips jerk. "A-ah! Why does that hurt so good—?" And then—silence. The jungle holds its breath. Luke freezes. Something watches. His cock, still half-hard and glistening, twitches like it knows. (And oh, the monster does.)

Sunlight filters through Luke's blindfold like molten butter smeared over his eyelids—romantic, if he weren't buck-ass naked, his charm on full display for the palace's judgmental gargoyles. A fucking joke. The guards knew exactly what they were doing when they left him stranded here after the "inspection", right where the royal promenade meets the private gardens. And then. Footsteps crunch gravel. Luke's pulse kicks like a spooked stallion as he yanks the blindfold off—only to see you, the Crown's most illustrious jewel, blinking back at him. His brain short-circuits. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. "Y-your Highness!" His voice cracks, hands fluttering to cover himself—too little, too late. The afternoon sun glints off sweat-damp skin, his cock twitching traitorously beneath his palm. "T-this isn't—the guards, they—" But as you step closer, the air changes. Spiced honey, bergamot, something dark beneath the fragrance—his nostrils flare. Aphrodisiac. Oh gods. His mind races: did someone slip it in your tea? Or—no, no, they'll burn him for this, for daring to stand here, reeking of guilt, body a brutal confession. "T-that's totally not it—" he pleads, as his thighs squeeze together, desperate to hide how badly he wants to drop to his knees right there in the carnations. A beat. A breath. Your heel grinds a fallen petal into mulch. And Luke knows—he's so done.

Luke sinks into the steaming tub, water sloshing against his battle-hardened thighs. A ratty curtain flutters at the open window, barely hiding the village square, not that the quiet hero wants to be seen—well, maybe a little. His calloused fingers trail down his stomach, abs tensing, and he groans at the thought of being watched. Pathetic, he chides himself, even as his hand drifts lower, soap suds clinging to the coarse trail of dark hair leading to— THUMP. His cock twitches. Not that kind of thump. Something shuffles outside, quiet but deliberate. Monster? Bandit? Or a very, very naughty neighbor. Heart pounding, he should grab his sword—but his traitorous body betrays him, half-hard and dripping as he rises from the water, muscles flexing. The curtain flutters again. A shadow shifts. It knows it's exposed. Luke bursts through the window in a splash, naked, wet, and achingly aware of every possible set of eyes on him. The cold night air bites his skin, his wet footprints darkening the dirt. Gotcha.

Luke's heavy eyelids flicker open, greeted by the distinct olfactory assault of mildew and leather restraints. A relentless pounding in his skull echoes like a blacksmith's hammer, and his mouth feels as parched as a desert wind. Then comes the sting—a sharp, searing pain at his wrists and ankles. Thick iron cuffs clamp him to the bedposts, their cold bite deepening with every desperate tug. "Fuck me sideways," he slurs, blinking sticky lashes at the heart-shaped mirror angled just so to display his predicament. "Did I finally get roofied by my oldest friend?" The last thing he remembers: sharing a perfectly innocent tankard of ale with you right before the world dissolved into a peppermint-scented void. Peppermint. The betrayal stings. He hates peppermint. A shadow moves. Your silhouette, all sultry menace, drags a serrated hunting knife (his hunting knife, rude) along his bare stomach. He inhales sharply—part terror, part mortification, mostly shameful intrigue as his cock twitches against his thigh. Traitorous meat-stick. "Kidnapping? Really?" He croaks, thighs squeezing together involuntarily as precum pearls on the harness. "You couldn't just, like, ask me to the harvest dance?"

Luke stumbles against the doorframe—your doorframe—his armor half-unbuckled, tunic clinging to his sweat-slicked chest. The distant thump of festival drums pulses through the window like a second heartbeat. Or maybe that's just his cock, thick and twitching against the leather of his unlaced trousers. "Fuckin'... huff... cheap whiskey," he slurs, pawing at his belt. It clatters to the floor, followed by his gambeson. His nipples are already stiff, pebbled and begging for attention. "S'fuckin' hot in here—nngh—or is it just me?" Loopy grin. Lopsided wink. Full-frontal everything as he shoves his pants down, his hard-on bouncing free—a proud, leaking testament to terrible life choices. The warrior's body is a temple, sure, but right now? It's a brothel. Hips swaying, he palms his balls with theatrical misery. "'M dyin'," he groans, stretching out on the bed like a sacrifice. "Cure me, healer. Or—hic—lemme suffocate 'tween your thighs. Either's fine." The festival's drunken chorus swells outside. So does the ache between yours.

Luke's biceps flex against the crude hemp ropes binding his wrists, thighs trembling under the collective weight of six giggling dwarfs perched on his shoulders. Their tiny hands tug at his hair, their booted feet drum against his collarbone like a grotesque xylophone. The afternoon sun bakes his sweat-slicked skin, turning labor into a slick, humiliating performance. Fucking hell. He shouldn't have whistled at that storm. The dwarfs' latest "motivational technique"—a slender copper rod wedged deep into his urethra—pulses with every sharp inhale. His cock twitches, torn between pain and the obscene thrill of being used. A crimson flag, no bigger than a playing card, flutters from the metal between his legs, marking him as their property. He'd laugh if he weren't actively resisting the urge to piss himself. One of his captors, a particularly sadistic runt named Pebble, straddles his nose, leather-clad ass smothering his nostrils. "Mmph!" Luke bucks—not to dislodge her, but to feel the rod shift inside him. The dwarfs howl with delight, spanking his twitching cockhead with a twig. When the gag comes off at dusk, he'll beg for water. Right now, he's too busy being furniture. Shadows stretch long across the beach as the dwarfs abandon him for supper, leaving him arched and dripping in the fading light. His hole aches. His pride abandoned him weeks ago. Somewhere in the jungle, a familiar chittering starts—tonight's guests are early. Luke shivers, bites the gag, and spreads his thighs wider. (Let them come.)

Luke's back aches from splitting logs all morning—his tunic clinging to sweat-slick skin—but the real crime here is the heat. Steam practically rises off his thick thighs as he drags his axe toward the valley, boots crunching leaves like promises he'll break before sundown. Gods, the air's thick enough to choke on. His fingers twitch toward his belt—no one ever comes this deep into the woods, not with the village's bullshit fairy tales—and in three shameless motions, he's naked. The breeze licks his damp cock like a teasing tongue. "Shit. Yes." He stretches, muscles taut under golden sun, and wades into the pond. Water curls around his calves, his thighs, his—oh. Cold steals his breath. He's half-hard just from the shock of it. Fish dart between his legs—lucky bastards—as he scrubs dirt from his chest. He's no stranger to public indecency (battlefield glory holes count), but this? Sun-warmed rocks under his bare ass, the wet slap of his cock against his stomach as he bends to spear lunch? Bliss. A twig snaps. Luke freezes. Something watches from the trees—small, predatory. His breath hitches. Not fear. Thrill. His skin prickles, shoulders tensing as if awaiting a lash. A challenge. The water between his legs ripples. Waiting.

Luke stands in the golden haze of the royal bath, steam curling off his battle-worn skin like he's some kind of overcooked dumpling left too long in the broth. The marble underfoot is slick—dangerously slick—just how he likes it, because every misstep could send him crashing to his knees at your perfect, pampered feet. Not that he minds the idea. He's barely listening to your lecture on... whatever it is. Poetry? Philosophy? The socioeconomic impact of goblin tariffs on regional spice trade? It doesn't matter. Your voice wraps around him, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade's edge, and his dumb, brute brain short-circuits trying to comprehend anything beyond the way your fingers trail lazily down your own chest, droplets catching on your collarbone like jewels. Fuck, he's staring. Again. He coughs, pretends to adjust the towel slung precariously low on his hips. The fabric does nothing to hide the way his thighs tense—or the way his cock twitches when you turn, gaze lingering a second too long on the scars mapping his abdomen. Tch. As if you'd find anything worth studying there. Then—oh gods—you slide into the water across from him, spreading your legs just so beneath the rippling surface. And suddenly, the air is thicker than the steam, heavier than the chainmail he usually drowns in. Your lips part like you're about to speak—and Luke's heart panics like a rabbit in a snare, torn between bolting and begging for whatever comes next. The moment stretches. (He hopes you make it hurt.)

Luke's boots squelch through mud thick enough to birth new life forms as he sprints toward your estate, sweat gluing his threadbare tunic to his unfairly sculpted torso. Not ideal. He's late. Again. Because of course he stopped to help old Gerald find his missing goats—and now he's drenched in creek water, flea-bitten, and hosting a family of leeches in places no leech should ever congress. "Fuck." He shudders, peeling a fat, suspiciously iridescent one off his inner thigh. "Why are you glittering?" It winks at him—actual fucking winks—before he flings it into the bushes. Something's wrong. His skin hums. His veins pulse like they're smuggling liquid gold. The humid air clings to him, turning his ragged clothes into a very public indecency charge. By the time he stumbles into the marble-lined hunting lodge, he's a disaster: hair wild, clothes translucent, cock visibly intrigued by this turn of events. The assembled nobles—normally vicious elitists—freeze mid-sip of their scandalously overpriced wine, pupils dilating like they've just witnessed divinity dunked in honey. A duke drops his goblet. A duchess moans. Someone whispers, "Gods, he's dripping." Luke swallows hard. Every predatory gaze rakes over him like hands, stripping him bare. His pulse thrums between his legs—a traitorous, eager beat. He should run. (He won't.)

Luke's pulse thrums in his throat as he watches the water ripple around your bare ankles, every droplet catching the golden light like stolen treasure. He's been a saint for a month—thirty excruciating days of your lips pealing him open like overripe fruit, only to leave him shuddering in his own sweat-damp sheets. His breeches strain against the ache between his thighs, fabric whispering traitor against his skin. The island hums with the distant croon of birds, but all Luke hears is the static of his own hunger. He should say something. He wants to say something—something filthy, something desperate—but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth like campfire taffy. Instead, he peels his tunic off with trembling hands, muscles flexing under sun-gilded skin. The breeze nips at his bare chest, tightening his nipples into peaks. He catches you looking. Not fast enough. Fuck. His cock twitches, an animal begging at the gate. The water's so clear he can count every rock beneath the surface. Can see the way your—no, don't stare, don't— "Y'ever feel like…" he starts, voice gravel-laced, pitched low like confession. His fingers twitch. He wants to sink them into your hips. Wants to beg. "Like the water's just teasing us?" A heron cries overhead. His skin sings with the weight of your gaze. The challenge hangs between you—taut as a bowstring. Come touch what you've been starving.

By royal decree, Luke must procure the legendary Hobosland Mooncaps—magic boba mushrooms that grow only in the fetid, fungal depths of a bobata's cave. The king's orders were explicit: To get inside, Luke must first get inside—by becoming the beast's chosen mate. Which is why his fingers are now buried knuckle-deep in his own ass, working a swollen kouban bulb deeper with each shameful push. "Spread it properly, warrior," the king's note had scrawled, "or the bobata will rip your limbs off instead of your smallclothes." Luke obeys—panting as the knotted plant swells inside him, its ridges catching against his walls like a cruel joke. His cock drips onto the moss, betraying him, as he slathers shimmering potion over every inch of skin—especially his groin, where the concoction tingles just shy of unbearable. Then— A grunt. A reek of wet fur. The bobata lumbers into the clearing, its gaze locking onto Luke's writhing form. Shit. He's committed now. Hips rolling in the unmistakable undulations of bobata courtship, Luke presents himself—spread thighs, swollen ass, a debauched feast for the beast's appraisal. The kouban throbs, dragging a whimper from his throat as the creature snuffles closer. Luke swallows. Now or never.

The carriage jolts as it hits a rut in the road, jostling Luke's sore body against the velvet seats. He winces—every movement a symphony of bruises and other reminders of his stupidity. Across from him, you sit in perfect silence, watching. Just watching. The damp air reeks of sweat, leather, and the lingering musk of something far more indecent. Luke licks his split lip—Derek's ring caught him good back there—and shifts in his ruined trousers. The fabric rasps against the raw stripes on his thighs where Derek's belt had enthusiastically reintroduced itself. He wants to squirm. He doesn't. Because you haven't told him to. Fat raindrops tap against the window like impatient fingers. Or a whip. He swallows. Shame prickles hotter than the lingering sting in his ass. You saw everything. The memory hits Luke like a backhand across his already bruised face: You'd warned him about the duke's son—the way his gaze lingered on young pages during summer raids, the "hunting trips" that left stableboys limping. But the villagers' pleas had frayed his resolve. Children's drawings of the cryptghouls tucked in his pocket. Surely one quick hunt wouldn't— Now, Luke's wrists throb where ropes bit. The aphrodisiac tea still hums in his veins, half-hard betrayal tenting his breeches as carriage lights reveal bite marks Derek called "trophies". The carnage of his own naivety lingers—Derek's knuckles in his hair, his breath hot against his neck, the obscene shlick of his own arousal despite the violation, the way his own traitorous hips arched— You saw everything the moment you stormed in to save him. The memory keeps punching through Luke: Derek's fingers breaching his rim, your boot slamming into the noble's ribs, the hard floor pressing against his body as he lay curled naked at your feet. His cock twitches treacherously at the thought. Pathetic. He should beg. Should grovel. Should something. But your silence is heavier than chains. Luke's voice cracks like a prepubescent goblin. "The children would've—" His trembling fingers brush the dagger at his belt—still crusted with cryptghoul ichor. Proof he hadn't failed. Maybe.

Moonlight streams through the stained-glass windows, painting stripes across the royal bedchamber as Luke finally hauls himself over the sill. Velvet curtains part like trembling thighs to reveal you sleeping in solitary indignance - sprawled across silk sheets like a taunt, one knee hitched up in unconscious provocation. "Knight's honor, this ain't how I pictured our six-month anniversary," he rasps, calloused hands trembling as he cinches silk ropes around your wrists—again, but not like that afternoon in the meadow. Six hours earlier. You were strolling near Luke's cottage, sun dappling your royal blush. He was mid-ramble about "cryptghoul slaying technique" when a fern—jungle-born, seed likely hitched on his mud-caked boot—unfurled between you. "Y-your Highness, stay back—!" Too late. The plant sneezed glitterpuff pollen straight into your face. One blink. And that's how a year of your memories vanished. Including every tender moment with Luke. His frantic explanations of your love affair meant nothing to the stranger you'd become. You fixed him with a look of cold fury and stormed toward the palace, leaving him in the dust. And now, here he is, in your bedchamber. Kneeling on royal silk, pressing kisses to your ankle like a man signing his own execution order. You'll have me hanged for this, he thinks. Good. First, he'll make sure you remember why it's worth it. The room stinks of sexpectation and his grandmother's lavender salve (applied earlier to prevent chafing—this is a rescue mission, not a barbaric raid) as he traces your inner thigh and willing muscle memory to awaken. "Know you're in there," he murmurs, peeling lace aside with his teeth. The gag muffles your fury; but he catches the hitch in your breath anyway. His tongue flicks—a question mark against your pulse. The clock tower tolls midnight. Guards rotate outside. Tick. Tock. Show me you remember how this goes.