Ah to be a dumb twink prince with a harem (reverse harem? Idk) of hot men.
The calm experienced royal advisor who keeps an eye on me and helps me figure out all the political royal stuff that I don’t understand. He finds my ignorance cute, he admires the way I try my hardest to figure out what certain things really mean so I can make my own decisions when I’m king. He rewards me by bending me over my own thrown when no one else is around and fucking me into oblivion, pulling my hair so my back arches enough for him to whisper praises in my ear.
The bright eyed stable boy who’s hands go a little too far up my inner thigh when he helps me get onto my horse, who’s grip lingers on my hips when he helps me off. He takes me on midnight rides and points out every constellation he knows. He still calls me sir and your majesty when I ride him, calloused hands gripping my hips enough to leave behind a lovely little bruise.
The quiet gentle servant boy who helps me reach books that I can’t grab in the library. He helps me get dressed in the morning when I can’t reach the buttons that trail down my back. He reads books to me when I suck his dick under one of the library tables in the very back, he gets whiny and flustered and runs his hands through my hair and apologies when he cums in my mouth even though I always want him to.
The talkative cook who makes me all my favorite pastries for breakfast. He brings me meals and snacks and always sits with me when I ask him to stay. He tells me about the food and how it’s made, he smells like fresh bread and lavender scones. He spends hours fucking me, going slow, making sure everything he does is perfect, savoring every moan and plea he can pull from me. Melting my brain with pleasure until I can’t even think enough to form words, until I’ve lost every concept of time, until all I know is the pleasure he brings me.
The rival prince who’s visiting for the good of our two nations. He makes sure I know he doesn’t like me, that no matter how many dinners we are forced to have together and how many times I write him silly little poems for him he will never like me. He spends his days training for combat while I watch him from my spot in the garden, he would hate for me to know he’s purposefully trying to show off, acutely aware that my gaze is trained on him. His nights are spent forcing my face into the plush pillows of his bed, sucking dark hickeys into my skin, pounding into me so hard I cant walk properly in the morning. He loves nothing more then the long desperate scratch marks I leave down his back, then the sounds I make when I’m absolutely blissed out on his dick. He holds me afterwards, making sure I’m ok, kissing the tears off of my cheeks, grinning as he looks at me in his clothes, a mess in his sheets.
My fateful knight who does everything he possibly can to keep me safe. Yet he still sneaks into my room every night to look over me, to run his strong hands over the soft skin of my stomach that was exposed by the night shirt I wear that’s purposefully too big for me. He’s jealous of all the others for getting to use me in the way he wants to but he’s too nervous to ever tell me about it so instead he watches, he tries to work up the courage to do more, to wake me up and absolutely ruin me but he never can. Instead he stands there at night, cock in hand, fantasizing about me.
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