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Between Passion and Poetry

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From the Desk of L.H.G.

To H.R.M. King Khalid of Almyra, or Whom It May Concern;


The renovation of the Duke’s holding in Derdriu is completed at last. As it is traditionally the seat of a Riegan, perhaps you might know of an interested party.

Of course it is of no consequence to me should it stay empty. I am quite content in Gloucester, where the weather is a good deal less fickle.



His Grace

Duke Gloucester


— ☀ —


My Beloved—


You’re cross with me, aren’t you? Have you no pity for your darling love, wasting away without you at his side? Today I snuck off to take a nap in the gardens and made my bed beneath the rosebushes, so that when I closed my eyes I could pretend you were near. When I was (inevitably) pricked by errant thorns, I was reminded of your sharp, disapproving tongue.

If only you would put it to better use and soothe me with it instead.

Which brings me to your pressing business: I am quite fond of tradition. It would be remiss of me to leave a thing of such beauty empty, wouldn’t it? What do you think, my love? Would you like it filled? Tell me what would please you, hm?


Yours faithfully,

Your Claude


— ☀ —


Your Dignified Majesty,


You know what would please me.

I have made a home for you. Fill it as you wish.



His Grace

Duke Gloucester


— ☀ —


Darling Commander,


I would never dream of teasing you, as a man of my station is above such things. Moreover, I couldn’t possibly counter you when you give me stern notice— not when we’re so far apart, and I can’t distract you with a clever word or a kiss, perhaps on the softest part of your throat, the spot that makes you melt like warm chocolate in my hands.

Yet you have given me clear instructions, and I’m left with no choice but to speak plainly. I will fill this letter with my thoughts as I dream of filling you, every night and even some days. When my mind wanders, it always finds its way to you.

I know how fond you are of the silk sheets in your beloved Gloucester, and as much as I enjoy seeing you spread out upon them, chest heaving and cock dripping— I can’t help but think that the Qakamir cotton of my royal suite would suit you better. It is decadent, as you prefer: red like your roses, soft like the pales of your thighs. You should visit, and deliver your verdict personally. Your fair skin may not fare as well in the Almyran sun, though; so lest you match the color of the sheets, we will simply have to confine you to the luxury of the palace, to my room, to my bed.

I’m sure I can come up with any number of things to keep you occupied.


Languishing in ideas (so, so many ideas),

Your Devoted Husband


— ☀ —


Lorenz, Master of Propriety,


I know I’ve only just sent a letter, and decorum requires that I wait for a response before overwhelming you with another. After hours upon hours of careful, meticulous deliberation, I’ve come to the conclusion that to wait would be more of a disservice to you than my bold ignorance of letterary etiquette. If you are not used to my lackluster manners by now, I daresay that is a failing of yours, not mine.

Enclosed is a book of poems I found for you in the bazaar. If you like it, know that I picked it out, personally, with your taste in mind. If you do not, blame it on Cyril—who did not pull me away from the stall in time to prevent my purchase—and my weakness for colorful illustrations.


Thinking of you,

Khalid, Lavisher of Gifts



— ☀ —




Your literary expertise is far more shocking that your “letterary,” if you must know. I can imagine my taste you had in mind, given the obscene drawings that accompanied what would have otherwise been a volume of very romantic, sophisticated verses.

I would read between the lines, but you—and the artist—saved me the extra work.


With longing,



— ☀ —


O Merciless Tease,


Considerate of me, wouldn’t you say? I can hardly make my intentions—or my hunger—more obvious. You, on the other hand, my elusive love, remain as inscrutable as ever. Isn’t it cruel to play with your heart’s heart, when I would gladly let you consume it?

Nothing is more terrible than when we’re apart and I can’t look at you to know at once what you’re thinking, what you want. You are a puzzle—one I’ll probably never solve—but the greater pleasure is when I decipher two pieces that seamlessly fit together; a heady rush, like when I am inside you and we are one.

Without you, I am denied all of life’s sweetest pleasures. Can nothing move you to indulge me?


Constant and true,

Your Humbled Admirer


— ☀ —


Dear King of Dramatics,


I had thought myself the one most terribly wronged by our separation, but as always you have taken the utmost enthusiasm in proving me wrong. Perhaps my frustration has found a better outlet than yours, if just a single short missive from me throws you into a fit of hysterics.

Make no mistake, I am still displeased by your extended absence. But I will be clear: it is because my days are duller without you, and my nights cold and empty. No other smile can warm me the same, nor can any other cock.

Before you whip yourself up into a jealous lather, no, I have not tried to find pleasure with another; at least, not in any sense for you to concern yourself. The toy I commissioned in the weeks you’ve been away is hardly anything for a king to envy. I stretch myself open, wishing they were your fingers. I work oil inside me, wishing it was your tongue. I stuff myself with a stiff cock, wishing it were as thick and hot as yours. But nothing compares to the molten rush of when you cum inside me, even when I take my own spend and try to push it into my raw, desperate hole.

It is your mouth I ache for the most, I think. I have blinked away tears after spilling all over myself, not from pleasure, but from the want of your soft murmurs and silly pet names. Your tongue is not silver, but gold, for the blinding power it holds over me must have been stolen straight from the sun.

It is pathetic, really, how my lips grieve for want of yours. Words feel pointless when you are not here to ignore them. What good is a mouth, if not to steal the breath from your lungs?

I hope you think of my mouth as much as I am beset by yours. It is wet and waiting for you, if only you would come home to claim it.



Your Majesty’s Modest Servant


— ☀ —


My Vicious Siren,


Your cruelty knows no bounds. The only comfort I can find is equal to the number of times I spend in my hand. Your lewd musings have me at a loss. Your sweet nothings have left a chasm in my chest. If Almyra should perish and I with it, the blame lies squarely at your feet.


Hopelessly seduced,

Your Miserable Prey


— ☀ —


My Blossoming Rose,


How lucky I am for my pen to still be able to shape words after every thought has been relentlessly wrung from my head. I confess I am more distracted now than ever, every thought of politics and policy melting away until all I can picture is the stretch of your throat, desperate and docile under the clench of my fist, as you cry out my name. As predicted, the splay of your ivory limbs on the Qakamir crimson of my bed has left an impression upon me, tempting like a pomegranate sliced open and hollowed out, then soaked in rich cream.

Nothing can curb the wandering of my mind, for you have robbed me of all maps and sense of direction. Every task unearths a memory, no matter how mundane; I will spill ink on my fingers, and as it seeps into my skin and the page, I have to bite my tongue lest I get lost in the memory of my cum spilling out around my knuckles, buried deep in your pretty hole.

You have outsmarted me this time, I think. How am I supposed to stay here without you when you have reminded me so vividly of the pleasures of having you near?

My fingers have lost your scent, my tongue your taste. Please say you’ll return to my arms again soon? It's for the good of both Almyra and Fódlan— I swear.


Don’t make me beg,

Your Forlorn Fool


— ☀ —




Do not get used to such amenities. If you simply cannot do your work, perhaps it is time for you to come home.

I will ensure that it is worth the effort.