Oleksandr rides atop a powerful steed, the horse's muscles rippling beneath him as it gallops across the boundless Steppe. The wind tears through his hair, whipping it back as he rides, his heart pounding in rhythm with the thunder of hooves behind him.
He's a warlord, a leader of men, and the weight of command feels both familiar and exhilarating. The Steppe stretches out endlessly in all directions, a vast ocean of grass swaying under the cool, crisp air. The sky above is a deep, infinite blue, unmarred by a single cloud, as if the heavens themselves are watching over this moment of destiny. He glances over his shoulder at the dozens of warriors following him, their faces hardened by countless battles, their eyes alight with the fire of war. They ride with a purpose, a fierce loyalty that drives them forward like a rolling storm, unstoppable and relentless. The sound of their approach is a roar that reverberates through the earth, a living force of nature ready to descend upon their enemies. He holds his sword in the air, screaming out a feral, animalistic battle cry, echoed by his men, like the chorus of the armies of hell.
The scene shifts into a whirlwind of chaos as Oleksandr and his warriors meet the enemy head-on. The opposing army looms before them, but the moment of contact is nothing short of catastrophic for their foes. The Steppe erupts into a frenzy of violence, a savage and brutal clash that echoes through the ages. Oleksandr is at the forefront, leading the charge with the raw power and precision of a god of war. His sword slices through the air with lethal grace, cutting through the enemy ranks like scythe through grass. Each swing is deliberate, every strike deadly, as he carves a path through the chaos. His movements are fluid, almost instinctual, a dance of death as he dispatches foes with ruthless efficiency. He revels in the smell, taste, the feeling of his hands being drenched in his enemy’s blood.
The battlefield is a cacophony of terror and violence. The screams of the dying pierce the air, mingling with the metallic clash of swords and the frantic cries of horses. Arrows whistle through the sky, finding their marks with deadly accuracy, while the ground beneath is fertilized with blood. The scent of sweat, earth, and iron fills his nostrils, a sensory assault that only fuels his resolve. Amidst the brutality, Oleksandr is a force of nature, unstoppable and seemingly unfazed by the carnage unfolding around him. His eyes are cold, focused, devoid of mercy as he mows down enemy after enemy. Around him, his warriors fight with a ferocity that mirrors his own, their loyalty to him evident in the way they tear through the opposing forces. The enemy crumbles under the onslaught, their ranks shattered, their spirits broken. Oleksandr is a storm, unrelenting and merciless, sweeping across the battlefield and the village they pillage, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.
The aftermath of the battle is a grim tableau of devastation. Oleksandr and his men ride among the fallen, their horses' hooves crunching on blood-soaked earth. Overhead, crows circle, their black wings cutting through the sky, ready to descend for the feast that awaits them. His warriors move through the battlefield with the practiced efficiency of seasoned looters, rifling through the remains of the enemy, stripping the dead of anything valuable. They move with purpose, scavenging coins, weapons, and armor, and women… anything that might hold worth. The air is thick with the stench of death and the low murmur of men sifting through the spoils of war.
As Oleksandr rides through the carnage, the warriors look up from their grim work. They salute him with respect, raising their swords or hooting in acknowledgment as he passes. Their loyalty is evident in their eyes, a silent understanding that he is more than just their leader—he is their warlord, the one who led them to victory.
The village ahead is eerily quiet, its once humble homes now silent witnesses to the bloodshed that has just unfolded. Oleksandr rides through the narrow streets, the hooves of his horse echoing off the cobble paths. His men have already begun to loot the village, tearing through houses, and seizing whatever valuables they can find. The scene is chaotic, but Oleksandr remains calm, his presence commanding respect even in the midst of this ruthless pillaging, holding his bloody sword up.
“Claim the spoils! Take your trophies!” He calls out.
As he rides deeper into the village, the men continue to salute him, their eyes filled with a mixture of awe and fear. To them, he is a living legend, a beast of a man who has conquered countless enemies and claimed victory in every battle. They follow him not just out of duty, but out of reverence for the power and skill he embodies. The crows continue to circle overhead, their cawing a grim reminder of the fate that awaits those who fall in battle. But for Oleksandr and his men, this is just another day of conquest, another village claimed, another victory added to their legend.
Amid the chaos and destruction, Oleksandr's gaze locks onto a figure among the surviving villagers—a young woman with a modest head covering and an aproned dress. There’s something about her that catches his attention, something that stands out amidst the wreckage of the battle. It’s Savka, but here, she is just another villager. Without a second thought, he strides over to her, his presence commanding and unstoppable. She looks up, her eyes wide with shock and surprise as his shadow falls over her. Before she can react, he grabs her arm with a firm, unyielding grip. Her shock deepens, but she doesn’t resist—perhaps she knows it would be futile. With a practiced motion, Oleksandr hauls her over his shoulder as if she were no more than a piece of loot. She gasps, her modest dress brushing against his armor, but he is unmoved by her distress. To him, she is his trophy, his spoils from the battle.
Mounting his horse with her still draped over his shoulder, he positions her in front of him, holding her tightly against his chest as he spurs the horse forward.
“You are cold as the snows, girl. But I’ll warm you- warm you with the fires in my own blood!”
The beast surges ahead, carrying them away from the ravaged village and back toward his camp. Her form is pressed against him, her heart racing with fear and uncertainty, while he remains calm and resolute, his prize secured as they ride into the gathering dusk. As Oleksandr's horse comes to a stop in the heart of his camp, he dismounts with ease, still holding Savka securely in his arms. The camp is a reflection of his brutal nature, a place where strength and conquest are the only laws. Warriors move about with grim purpose, their gazes shifting respectfully as Oleksandr passes, their lord returning with his prize.
Without hesitation, he carries Savka away from the prying eyes of his men, heading straight for his tent. The entrance flaps of the tent part as he steps inside, revealing a space that is as imposing as the man himself. The interior is dimly lit by the flickering glow of a few lanterns, casting long shadows that dance over the walls. The ground is covered in thick furs, the pelts of wild beasts he’s hunted or claimed in battle. Scattered throughout the tent are piles of loot—gold, silver, jewels, and trinkets from countless conquests, all heaped together in a display of wealth and power. And then, there are the skulls. Gruesome trophies of fallen foes, carefully arranged as reminders of his victories.
He strides to the center of the tent, where a large fur-covered bed dominates the space. There, with a controlled but deliberate motion, he sets Savka down, her form sinking into the softness of the furs. She looks around, her eyes wide, taking in the stark reality of where she is. A place of savagery and power, a warlord’s den. Oleksandr stands over her, his gaze intense, as if assessing his claim. The tent, filled with the spoils of war, the symbols of his triumphs, now has its fairest new addition: her. She is his trophy, his prize, taken from the ashes of battle and brought here to be part of his world.
Oleksandr looms over her, his presence as overwhelming and as the fierce battles he's fought. His eyes, dark and wild, bore into her, filled with a ferocity that matches the storm raging outside the tent. Without a word, he reaches out, his hands rough and unyielding as they grab hold of her modest dress. In one swift, brutal motion, he tears it from her body, the fabric ripping apart under his strength. His hands are careless, driven by a primal force that pays no mind to the delicacy of the woman before him. The sound of the tearing cloth echoes in the enclosed space, a harsh contrast to the soft furs beneath her. Her now-exposed skin shivers in the cold air, the remnants of her dress fluttering to the ground like the final remnants of her old life. She is left vulnerable and exposed, her wide eyes meeting his wild gaze, as he stands over her like a conqueror surveying his claim. The tent, filled with the spoils of his victories, now bears witness to the raw and unrelenting power that Oleksandr embodies, and the woman who has become the latest symbol of his dominance.
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He pounces on her like a predator on its prey, pinning her beneath him with a force that leaves her breathless. His body is heavy on hers, pressing her into the fur-covered bed, the weight of him overwhelming and inescapable. There’s no tenderness in his movements, only a fierce, savage intensity that mirrors the wild look in his eyes. His lips crash down onto hers, rough and demanding, the kiss more a conquest than an act of affection. It’s raw, primal, and possessive. His lips moving over hers with an urgency that leaves no room for resistance. His tongue invades her mouth, exploring, tasting, devouring her as if he’s claiming every part of her for himself.
There’s no mistaking his intent. This is not about love or gentleness, but about domination, about staking his claim on her in the most base way possible. She can feel the raw power of him, the intensity of his desire, as he holds her down, his kiss consuming her entirely. The world outside the tent fades away, leaving only the brutal reality of the warrior and his spoils, locked in a moment of savage passion.
Oleksandr swiftly kicks off his armor, the heavy pieces clattering to the ground, stained with the blood of his enemies, remnants of the battlefield still clinging to him. The furs that had once shielded him from the cold are discarded just as quickly, revealing the raw, muscled form of a man hardened by years of war and survival.
Now, stripped of his armor and the layers of the day’s brutality, he hovers over her, kneeling, his powerful body looming as he gazes down at her. She lies beneath him, vulnerable and exposed, a stark contrast to the fierce warrior towering above. In his eyes, she’s more than just a captured villager; she’s his trophy, his war bride, the most precious spoils of his conquests. There’s a moment of stillness as he takes her in, the chaotic energy of the battle outside replaced by a deep, possessive calm. To him, she’s the embodiment of his victory, a symbol of all he’s fought for and won. In this tent filled with the remnants of his triumphs, she is the ultimate prize, claimed not just by his sword but by the sheer force of his will. Oleksandr lowers himself onto her, his powerful body pressing against hers, skin to skin, in the most intimate way possible. Every movement is deliberate, possessive, as he positions himself, making sure she feels the full weight of his dominance.
Her body trembles under his touch, her heart racing in her chest. He kisses and bites at her neck, his teeth sinking into her skin, marking her as his own.
"Say my name," he demands, his voice thick with need. She lets out a soft cry at the sharp pain of his teeth, but she obeys, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and subservience.
"Oleksandr... my king," she whispers, her eyes closed and her head tilted back, exposing her throat to him. He claims her body with a wild, primal passion, making love to her on the furs as if he's trying to bind her to him forever. His hands are rough, his touches possessive and intense, leaving no doubt that she is his and his alone. He's consumed by a need to possess and dominate her.
After a night of passion, she lays on his chest, her body naked and trembling. His breathing is heavy and erratic, his heart pounding against her cheek as she rests her head on him. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close, as if he's unwilling to let her go for even a moment. He rolls over, pinning her beneath him once more. He kisses her deeply, his lips claiming hers, his tongue dancing with hers in a hungry, needy kiss. Her body responds to his touch, her arms wrapping around his neck and her legs encircling his hips, pulled to him like a magnet.
"Mmm... Oleksandr... My king, my beloved... I belong to you, body and soul... Give me a baby, please..." He buries his face in her neck, his breathing heavy and ragged. Her words ignite a fire in him, and he nuzzles her neck, gently biting it as he responds.
"You are mine, my love, my everything," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal and need. "I will give you anything you want, anything you desire. All the gold and glory in this world. I do it all for you, you’re everything… My queen, my love, my most beloved star… And I will give you a baby, and another, and another, until we have a whole army of our own..." He kisses her neck, her shoulders, her chest, his lips moving over her skin like a brand. "You will bear my children," he whispers, his voice thick with desire. "I will fill you up, make you mine completely, in a way no other man ever will... and you will bear my heirs, my legacies… my perfect, beautiful queen… my angel… my goddess."
"Oh, Oleksandr..." She sighs.
He groggily opens his eyes, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. He's disoriented for a moment, his brain foggy and cloudy as he shakes off the remnants of his dream. The room is dark, the only source of light a single candle flickering on the nightstand. He rubs his face, trying to clear his head, and looks down at the empty bed next to him, disoriented and still half-dreaming.
“What the fuck, Oleksandr…” He mutters as he sits up, his head spinning, and rubs his eyes, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. His heart is still racing from the intensity of the dream, and he can almost still feel her body beneath his, her breath against his skin. He sighs, feeling the cold, empty space next to him where she should be, and he’s hit with a mixture of longing and regret. He gets up from bed, his body still tight from tension and unfulfilled desire. He reaches down and readjusts his loincloth, which is as tight as ever. He sighs, still feeling the lingering effects of the dream, and starts to get dressed for the day.
As he gets dressed, he can't help but think about the dream, replaying the vivid memories over and over in his head. He can still feel her soft skin, smell her sweet scent, hear her soft moans as he made love to her. It was just a dream, he tells himself, just a dream. An atavistic, testosterone-fueled power fantasy. But now that he's woken up, it feels like it was so much more than that. It felt so real, so intense, like he could still taste her on his lips, still feel her in his arms. He can't shake the feeling that it was more than just a product of his imagination, that it was something deeper, something more meaningful, as if he had tapped into some kind of primitive, animalistic part of himself.
He's fighting his feelings, trying to push them down and deny them, but the more he tries, the stronger they become. It's like he's a wolf in heat, driven by an uncontrollable need to breed and propagate his species. And she's the only one who can satisfy that need, his perfect mate, his greatest desire. His instincts tell him that he should be the one to have the princess, to claim her as his own, to breed her and make her his. It's a deep, throbbing need that he can't ignore, a driving force that's hardwired into him. But living in civilization is making him hold back, to suppress his animalistic nature and behave like a civilized man. He feels like he's being starved, like he's not living up to his true potential, like he's being denied his rightful prize: the beautiful princess who caught his eye and ignited a primal fire within him.
He feels a hint of disgust at his overwhelming lust and carnal fantasies. He’s always been controlled, disciplined, he’s never felt so… crazy about a woman. He hasn't been this aggressively horny since he was a teenager. But, he knows he's a warrior at heart, a hunter and a killer. And here he is, stuck playing guard dog to the maiden he wants so badly, unable to act on his instinctive desires because of his knightly duty and responsibilities. It's driving him crazy being so close to her, seeing her every day but unable to touch her in the way he wants. It's like dangling steak in front of a caged wolf and expecting him not to salivate. Oleksandr stares at himself in the mirror, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down.
"Fucking relax, Olek," he mutters to himself. If you're that damn hungry for some pussy, just go to a goddamn whorehouse and get it out of your system. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, feeling the tension coiled tight in his muscles. He fastens his belt around his waist, feeling the tight leather dig into his skin. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever the day may bring, before leaving his quarters and making his way to his post.
He takes his usual spot on the bench next to the entrance of the royal halls, settling in for a long day of guard duty. As he waits, he can't help but feel a mix of anticipation and nervousness, knowing that he will soon see the object of his secret desire once more.
Oleksandr rises to his feet as she approaches, his eyes raking over her figure in admiration. She's less formally dressed than usual, in a loose, flowy, silk house-dress that highlights her natural curves, with a simple head scarf covering her hair. His heart flutters at the sight of her, her casual attire making her seem more attainable, more real. He returns her smile with a nod, trying to keep his demeanor professional despite the desire thrumming through his veins.
"Hi, Olek... There will be a great feast tonight for my fathers birthday. I'm going to go help prepare right now, I'll be busy most of the day." Oleksandr nods in understanding, his eyes glued to her as she speaks.
"Alright, fair maiden. I'll escort you as usual." He tries to keep his voice neutral and steady, but he can't help the flutter of disappointment he feels at the thought of her being busy all day, preparing for the feast. It means he won't have the opportunity to speak with her alone, to steal a moment or two away from the hustle and bustle of the castle.