you are so right anon. smut, wc: 600.

How long has this been going on? It must be hours, room drenched in the pungent scent of sex, skin shining due to the thin layer of sweat covering your bodies. The dim light from the centuries-old abat jour was the only source of light, but it was enough to see the contour of Michael’s lips, shaped in a cute ‘o’, and the pathetic clench of his abs, at every gentle stroke on his hard mast.

“Liebe-” You pick up the blonde gentle sigh. You know what it means, “move faster”, but you were never particularly good at following orders, let alone used to being ordered around.

You tighten your hold on the tip, eliciting a broken gasp from the man in front of you. Your chest presses to his back, lips dangerously close to his ear “Bad boys don’t get any rewards, you know it.” You chirp, his pre, drooling and tainting your soft hand, pooling at the base, staining the blonde curls always trimmed with care.

The blonde man bites his sore, abused lips, wonderful blue eyes squeezed shut as a lonely tear runs down his flushing cheek. You know what is coming, the begging, his marble mouth preparing to do what Michael hasn’t done in years to reach the peak of his desire.

And it would take the blink of an eye for Michael to turn around the situation, to push you against the mattress and fuck you to his heart's content. But he does not, strong hands rather gripping the soft silk sheet of his bed, than groping the plushness of your body. He satiates his craving for you by feeling your thighs closing down his hips when a softer and dripping with bliss moan escapes his lips, by feeling your chest pressing against his spine, and your scorching lips on his neck.

Michael never dares to move, because he is a good boy and listens to your orders.

“Please, please.” Michael turns to the side to lock his eyes with yours, deep blue almost hidden by his dilated pupils, tears now flowing freely down his face and neck. “I’ve been- ngh.” The phrase gets choked by a moan, prompted by a delicious twist of your fingers on his tip.

“You are right-” His lips search for his, locking in a kiss that is all spit and tongues. The rhythm of your hand speeds up. His thighs clench hard, muscles hard under the soft skin as the man tries to stay still, but cutely fails as his hips roll into your hand, each thrust more desperate. You break the kiss, a droll fall from the corner of his mouth, eyes almost squeezed shut with pleasure, long blonde lashes stuck together.

Yeah, all of this, thanks to you. The power imbalance makes a shiver lick down your spine, making you grind against your covers and soon, you bet, on something way more receptive.

“You are my good boy. Cum for me.” Michael squeezes his eyes shut, your low voice breaking the last ounce of control he has, and more importantly, showing you how good he is at following your orders.

His back arches, thick ropes of semen staining his abs as you slow your rhythm, making sure to draw out his orgasm. The man slaps your hand off, overstimulated to the point of discomfort. You don’t say anything, just moving towards the opposite edge of the bed, to let Michael lie down, blonde and blue strands rolling down your thighs, as you caress his face.

“I think…” Michael’s breath is still heavy, and his eyes are closed as he speaks, thick fingers brushing against his sore lips. “This good boy deserves a taste of his reward.” Michael looks up, index and forefinger shaped in a V on his open mouth, white teeth shining in malice, as his tongue licks the empty space between the two fingers.

You labored through the night to welcome this country’s future queen.

Through the ferocity of contractions, pains so excruciating no more experienced woman who had done the same thing six times over could have ever prepared you for no matter how hard she tried, the blood, the tears, the screams, you made it to the other side. 

Now, you rest and Dante, the man you love so dearly, has taken control of the room just as he used to on the battlefield.

The light of dawn filters in through parted curtains, the sun rising over the kingdom that this girl who is no larger than the length of his forearm will someday roar over. Her lungs are certainly going to be up for the job if her grand entrance into the world gave everyone a preview, similar to yours as you bellowed the cries of pain that broke the heart of the man pacing across the expanse of the large window that gives a stunning view of the courtyard.

For all the understandable fuss the two of you made, silence is what now rules in the quarters of the new parents. Not a midwife remains; the man who vowed himself your protector before he was granted the honor of being your husband sent any nurses that lingered away, wishing for privacy after your condition was confirmed to be stable and okay.

The ordeal of childbirth was illuminating for both of you in different ways. It reminded him just how strong you are and have always been despite the terror that ripped through him upon seeing you in such a state, a shock to the man who used to wade knee deep through blood and death, even administering much of it himself. 

He never wants to see hurt or suffering. It’s why he has periodically checked on you for hours, shifting from the chair by the bed to sitting on the other side of it cradling the littlest thing he’s ever held to pacing around to placing the baby in her bassinet and kneeling beside you, simply watching. 

How can he sleep when he has two things to look over now? 

Perhaps this has all been part of your plan since you decided you loved him, keeping him busy for the rest of his days even at his age. Shaking his head, amused, he looks down at the face of his daughter. He sees himself, most prominently in what appears to be blue eyes when they’re actually open, but he sees you in everything else. Nose, lips, and hair, she’s all you, the second coming of the kingdom’s delight.

Lucky girl.

“You put your mother through quite the fight, rosebud,” he mutters softly to the beautiful, soft thing in his arms.

From the ornate bed he hears a tired laugh, turning to see you propped halfway up with your hand cupping your face.

“Rosebud, eh? Sounds as though she already has you wrapped around that little finger.”

Your voice is raspy, unused for hours until now to the breathtaking sight before you – your daughter and her father bathed in the golden sunlight’s glow. The downy hair atop her head looks the same color as yours when the light shines on it, a crown to mirror the one she will someday wear.

Emotion overwhelms you yet you swallow, remembering that you are regal and unflappable even when faced with the magic of the new life that you created. 

“If her mother is the rose of the kingdom, would that not make her daughter the rosebud?” He retorts, returning to his post at the side of the bed. 

HELLO????? IN 2026???

Hello??? I totally forgot about this Naoise (golden boy). Now I can say I have all the 3 ssr