always the princefucker, never the prince

But I did find a large dog muzzle for 2 bucks at a secondhand store. And I did buy it. And it fit weirdly well.

Beyond the tapestries that hide them, the sounds of the ball echo down the corridor. All those people, dressed in their finery, eager to sell their children off in hopes of a royal match. But here, now, the Prince belongs to him alone. Only he gets to see his Prince like this, desperate, wanting, begging.

The cunning Prince, the Prince with the silver tongue, the merciless Prince; he is as much a weapon as any the Knight wields on the battlefield, a living blade of the kingdom, but for the Knight he comes undone. Here, he clenches and keens softly. Here, he pleads for what only his Knight can grant him.

That's right. Come a little closer. The pull feels good, doesn't it? It'll feel even better if you slip just beneath the canopy's edge. It's alright. You can just stand here, just inside the treeline, and let yourself feel it for a while. You're not an idiot, after all; you know better than to chase after mysterious sweet feelings that emanate from the depths of the woods.

You'll feel restless before long, but in the nicest way. You can pace in safe little circles to channel that energy. That couldn't do any harm. Perhaps each circle will be slightly larger than the last; what of it? Perhaps you'll find yourself pausing at the furthest reach you dare commit yourself to and staring deep into the woods, clenching your thighs and parting your lips. Perhaps you will find you have a little more daring than you thought, after all. Enough for one more step. Oh. Perhaps just one more... Oh.

You'll be a whimpering mess by the time you reach the tiny brook. You'll jump it and fall your hands and knees on the other side, hard and sopping, but not letting yourself be distracted by your own aching flesh. You're stronger than that. You'll keep crawling deeper into the forest, seeking the gentle promises that you can't name or picture and can't live without.

You'll feel dizzy, breathless, hear yourself start to moan aloud; and you'll keep crawling. You'll cry out and crunch fallen leaves into your fists and shudder as the first release rocks you; and you'll keep crawling. You'll feel the whispered promise of more, so much more, tugging, tugging at your chest and your nethers; and you'll keep crawling.

Each burst of ecstasy will grip you harder. You'll have to stop crawling for torturous seconds at a time as pleasure siezes your limbs and wracks your body. They will start coming closer together, each building on the last, until you can barely crawl forward three paces between each long, groaning pause. Your brows will remain ever lifted, eyes closed, mouth gaping obscenely. Your limbs will tremble like leaves in a storm, until one of them finally gives out and you tumble sideways into the litter. Everything between your legs will be twitching in ecstasy as you go down.

And there you'll stay, writhing and grunting and sobbing for joy. Your hands will find their way to your burning heat, but you'll be too far gone for the coordination needed to remove your garments, or even to reach inside them. You'll paw at yourself clumsily through your sodden clothing and occasionally open your eyes to stare up at the distant green canopy in a stricken daze, before closing them again as the next release shudders through you.

There will be nothing more but this. You will belong to the forest and it will feed on you until you are so depleted and exhausted your heart gives out, and even that final seizure will feel like the most wonderful thing that ever happened to you.

Doesn't that sound nice, dear traveler? Come closer. Come closer. Just for a moment.

"It's rotten work."

dainty little booksmart prince with a skill for speaking rendered thoughtless and struggling to form words at the hands of a sly, sharp fighter prince who teases all the perfectly timed witticisms and smart politicking out of their head in favor of making them a flustered mess who can hardly use their words to express how badly they need his touch and attention. they break in their private library under the weight of his honesty and genuine interest, delivered to them under unending teasing. Strong, warm hands, and soft, amused eyes roaming over the skin exposed by their neat royal uniform coming unbuttoned. fucking in that library until their royal highness' neediness is finally satiated, melting into the arms of their royal lover, wordless, thoughtless, disarmed.

their prince kisses them sweetly, praises their honesty and beauty, cleans them up (putting them back together after being so throughroughly disassembled) and walks them back to their chambers for... further discussion and debate. So much they have yet to talk about, you see.

but then,

the same fighter prince now lulled to insatiability, loyalty, and lust, on his knees for his prince, sword, and shield discarded. forgotten. vulnerable and soft, under the spell of the very words he sought out and dismantled. he flushes, leaning into the touch of his fellow prince as they languidly cup his cheek— sitting neatly on their future throne, lips curling into a delicate but smug and self-satisfied smile. they almost tower above him like this, their presence so regal and dignified, and the need to please them fills that little fighter's head, now so dizzy and clouded from the arousal. who can blame him? his prince has been whispering the most vile, dirty little sentences into his ear the whole day. he breaks and begs to please, and how can they say no? he's so sweet, so adorable, so vulnerable and raw, there is no armor to hide behind and no royal code to adhere to, only base instinct and unfiltered pleasure. they let him eat them out on their throne, cumming into his mouth as he looks up at them with raw desire, so desperate to please, loyal, defenseless, and disarmed.