i’m not messy, i’m busy

✧ i write for joe keery characters, not joe himself! this includes steve harrington, walter 'keys' mckey, travis 'teacake' meacham, and gator tillman.

✧ in my day to day life, i am a high school social studies teacher and i love it!

✧ my inbox is always open! i love to chat/talk about characters and scenarios, so come by any time.

✧ i will never post or engage with AI generated content.

✧ at the moment, the kinks/concepts that i have a hard line boundary for are incest, any form of ageplay, and ddlg/cgl. i will not be writing about or engaging with this, so please do not ask!

✧ i love any and all historical aus! especially knight/medieval and western :)

✧ i do not accept or tolerate any form of racism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, or misogyny.

✧ like it says in my bio, please do not engage or interact if you are under 18.

Deep breaths fill your nose with the smell of mountain thyme and the beginnings of petrichor, blowing in from the thick storm clouds on the horizon. They were still a ways away, allowing you a little more time to sit out with the sheep. You're stooped on a wooden crate, scratching tenderly at the chin and head of a sweet lamb, only a week old—born the day after your night with Sir Steven. She stands next to you on uncertain legs, tilting her head here and there to get the most satisfaction from your touch.

"Such a pretty girl," you coo at her softly, the smile on your face evident in your voice. Her head nudges your knee, and she bleats a little response. You like to imagine she's thanking you.

"A girl so sweet needs a name," you insist, looking out on the horizon as you ponder. The world she came into was one of possibility. You always had the belief that you could make something of yourself if you were only allowed, the encouragement from Sir Steven finally made this belief accessible. The final push needed to close the distance between yourself and a real future.

"Sigrid, maybe?" you suggest. "It means beautiful victory. I've had one of those of my own recently, I'd be rude not to share the wealth."

She bleats again.

"I like it, too," you giggle. The fast-moving clouds above you both let in occasional bursts of sunlight, glowing through her pink ears. As you start to gently brush the sides of her neck, once distant footsteps draw closer to you, combining with the subtle clink of a sheathed sword against a thin, steel leg brace. Steven. Your Steven, as he signs every note to you. Yours, he whispers against your neck every chance he gets lately. The afterglow of the days that followed your union has been blissful, and thrilling. You both sneak away at any chance you can to meet in secret corners. What were once shared glances across great rooms during obligations have turned into longing stares. He kisses you like a man starved. When you tell him this, he says it's because he is.

"New friend of yours?" he asks as he approaches, his hands landing on your shoulders. A kiss is pressed to the side of your head.

"Mhm," you reply, turning to look up at him. "I finally had enough time to meet her. This is Sigrid."

"I like it," he says, kneeling next to your crate. You catch a sharp inhale as his knees meet the ground, and you turn back to see a tense furrow in his brow.

"What's wrong?" You ask, your eyes going a little wide.

"It's really nothing," he insists. "One of the squires, Lucas, he's close to finishing training, and he got a little too into it when we were sparring yesterday. I'm alright."

You tilt your head as your eyes narrow slightly. Steven sighs before he pulls up the side of his shirt, revealing a large bruise on his ribs. It's big—about the size of your hand, and deep purple, with jagged edges that were just starting to turn bluish-green. It's clearly painful, given away by the stiffness and wincing any time he moves. Your hand reaches out to lift the shirt for him, hoping to alleviate any pain.

"A little too into it?" you repeat in disbelief. "Were you wearing armor?"

He pulls his lips into his mouth.

"Steven," you scold.

"No, but I never do when it's just training," he says dismissively. "I've been teaching them how to fight since they were 10, I forget how strong they are now. Guess I did my job a little too well."

"This looks painful," you say, frowning a little. "Please tell me you aren't training again today."

"No, I finished training an hour ago," he says, oblivious to what you're actually asking of him.

Your shoulders drop.

"You mean you got up and fought with that on your body?" You tenderly press your palm to the side of the bruise.

"The oldest ones are so close to finishing their training, I can't let them down," his voice is gentle. You know how deeply he cares for his initiates, how proud he feels watching them grow into real knights.

You remember watching the grass in front of the squires' quarters when you were 16, and Steven was 17. He was newly knighted, having sworn his loyalty to the keeping and protection of your family—you, in particular. He was the only one of the initiated knights who paid the squires any mind, running with them and offering chances to spar. Now that Steven was officially training them as a captain, he worked himself ragged to form them into chivalrous, talented fighters. Your face softens as you think of this, the low heat of frustration melting into admiration for his commitment to being a good example.

"They won't have a captain to train them if you keep fighting without armor," you say, moving your hand from his ribs to his cheek. "You're a good teacher, Steven, but they need you healthy. So do I." He smiles a little, his face relaxing.

"Wise girl," he mutters lovingly, placing his palm over yours, pressing your hand even closer to his face. You lean down to kiss the tip of his nose, his lips, his forehead, coaxing him to understand.

"I'll be good," he finally says after a face full of kisses.

"Thank you," you beam. "I'm your princess after all, it would be so unchivalrous of you to refuse." Steven lets out a warm laugh, laying his head on your clothed thigh. He sighs as his cheek makes contact with the velvet of your dress. Your fingers brush through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp and the back of his neck. You lean down to his ear.

"Come to my room tonight," you whisper.

"Don't I do that every night?" He teases, his voice muffled by the material of your skirt.

"I'll have something special," you hint. "It'll help with your war wound, too."

"Deal," he sighs, sitting up. "I'll see if I can get out of patrol a little early." As Steven starts to stand, the droplets of rain that were once halted in anticipation start to fall, making gentle pattering sounds against the roof of the sheep pen. Sigrid trots away, seeking the refuge of the roof and the warmth of her mother and siblings.

"I'll bring you back home," Steven says, grunting softly as he stands, and he offers a hand to you. You take it, trying to still carry the majority of your weight to avoid straining his injured side. Through the translucence of his linen shirt, you can still see the harsh purple starkly contrasted against his otherwise pale torso. It's clear that it hurts, and you hate that, but you can't help but love what it represents. Steven was many things. Cocky at times, stubborn as a mule, and impulsive, but loyal, shamelessly affectionate, and unfailingly generous.

"Are you taking the back or going in front?" His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and your head follows it up to where Sir Steven sits atop his horse, Nora. You give her a long stroke down her neck, her dark brown mane almost presenting maroon under the darkness of the storm clouds.

"I'll sit behind you," you say, grabbing the edge of the saddle to hoist yourself up before he can offer to lift you. After situating yourself, your arms wind around his middle, doing your best to avoid his bruise. You smile to yourself as you feel the soft curve of his stomach through his shirt. With a sigh, you press your cheek to his shoulder.

"I thought you liked sitting in front," he recalls, turning his head slightly to speak to you.

"I do," you say, briefly pressing your lips to his clothed shoulder blade. "But it's the middle of the day, and I would rather not give my mother more excuses to scold me for being unbecoming."

He makes a little hum of agreement as he gently tugs the reins toward the path back to the castle.

"Have you given any more thought to our idea?" Steve asks, and you swallow a little nervously. The idea of running away from home still intimidated you slightly. Although it was your best, and likely only chance at a life of your own, you would still be leaving everything you had ever known behind you, except Sir Steven. The thought of having to start again was frightening, eased only by the notion that you would finally have freedom. Still, the sadness about leaving your family, your beautiful home, having to start all over again with little awareness of the real world settled low in your heart, still dwarfed by the sadness that you felt at the idea of being sent off to marry and have babies with a stranger.

"It'll be easier after the feast for the winter solstice," you explain, recalling that you came to this conclusion on an especially restless night a few days ago. "Preparations happen for all of November, and Mother and Father will be breathing down my neck constantly that whole time."

"I was thinking the same, actually," he agrees. "Inn prices are usually lower in winter; we would have an easier time traveling." When he mentions this, your mind drifts dreamily to a soft, candlelit fantasy—you and Steven, cramped into a little bed in a tiny inn room. Maybe a little floaty from the mead you drank with dinner. He'd have his big arms wrapped around you, lazily exploring your body with his lips and his hands, pulling the softest, sweetest sounds from you as he guides your hips to-

"We're here." His voice pulls you back to the real world, and you shudder, suddenly aware again of how the chilly rain has soaked through your hair and dress sleeves. He's brought you to one of the more discreet entrances to your home, hidden in the garden where a small doorway lies unassumingly behind a trellis. Steven dismounts and offers a hand to help you down, and your shoes land with a soft 'squish' on the now damp grass. As his hand brushes away the damp strands that stick to your forehead, you feel yourself unconsciously lean into his touch.

"I'd steal you away right here and now if I could," he says in a low voice, a soft smile on his face.

"I'd let you," you sigh. "I'll see you tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies, glancing around for any unwelcome eyes that could be on you both before he takes your waist into his hands and kisses you. "I'll see you soon, angel." He lifts the trellis back, and you slip behind it, tiptoeing down the short hallway to the kitchen door. You push it open with an effortful huff, the hinges squeaking far louder than you would prefer and certainly announcing your arrival to whoever is inside. As you gingerly close the door and prepare to dash through the kitchen, someone emerges from the pantry.

"I don't know where you're actually supposed to be, but it's not here," the voice is snarky, with no actual meanness behind it, belonging to Dustin. You had known Dustin since he was an infant. Your mother and father enjoyed offering greetings to new families that settled in the village surrounding the castle. At five years old, you begged to join the steward who would be welcoming the most recent family. When you were finally given permission, you went to the village and entered the tiny house, surprised to see only a kind-faced woman with a tiny baby instead of a father and mother with a whole clan of children. You would come to learn that the woman, Claudia, was entirely wonderful. Devoted to raising a respectful young man, and talented with food and herbal medicine. When Dustin was 10, the captain at the time offered him a position in squire training. He was lovingly dismissed to kitchen work after spending most of his training time searching for insects and demonstrating his lack of collarbones to anyone who would watch. Dustin was smart, frighteningly so, and you were glad to call him a friend.

"This was the quickest way in from the rain," you quickly spit out the excuse, wringing out your sleeve onto the floor in a desperate attempt to qualify your excuse.

"Uh-huh," he muses, setting the crate of potatoes he was carrying onto the large wooden counter. "I've been looking to talk with you, actually. There's this opportunity that's sort of come my way, and I need a favor."

Your eyebrows furrow in curiosity, and you stride to stand across from him, on the other side of the counter.

"A favor?"

"Yes," he starts, taking a deep breath. "I've been exchanging letters with this cartographer a few towns over. I told him I was interested in maybe trying my hand at cartography and mapping smaller territories, and he told me he would be interested in taking on an apprentice. Only problem is, I need a written letter from someone in your family recommending me for it."

Your eyes widen, excited at the news that Dustin may finally have a challenge worthy of his intellect.

"What do you think?" he asks nervously. "Would you write the letter for me?" Dustin's hands nervously dig into the wood grain of the countertop. You don't need to think twice.

"I would be thrilled to recommend you, Dustin," you answer sincerely. His face breaks into a smile, and he doesn't waste a second before rounding the counter, wrapping you in a hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he says over and over, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You hug him back.

"You're so welcome," you reply, giving him a final pat on the back before releasing him. "Everyone knows your talent is wasted down here anyways. What does your mother think?"

"When I told her it was a day away on horseback, she sobbed so hard I thought she was going to fall over," he answers, wiping a little at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "But she knows I want more than being in a kitchen the rest of my life. I just wish I could take her with me."

"Maybe one day you will," you say, your voice wavering a little with emotion. "I'm happy to write your letter, just let me know when you need it, alright?"

"I will," Dustin says. You give him a final smile before you turn toward the door that leads upstairs.

"And I'll make sure you get extra dessert tonight! You've earned it!" He calls.

On your way to your room to change out of your still-soaked dress, a voice calls out from a laundry room in the hall.

"Your mother's been looking for you," a chambermaid warns as she wrings out a sheet into a washing pot.

"When is she not?" you sigh. You notice her struggle slightly as she hauls the heavy length of cloth over to a drying line, and you step onto the room, lifting up the sheet to help her smooth it.

"Thank you for the warning," you say, peering from the side of the sheet. "I'll be a little prepared now." She smiles before she returns to another round of washing, and you return to your room, eager to be in a clean dress. A deep green one speaks to you tonight, fitting for the rain that has developed into a raucous thunderstorm. After you change, you brush your hair, trying your best to sort out the tangles and unruliness that the rainwater had caused. You steel yourself for what was almost certainly going to be a long, unhappy conversation with your parents. The exhaustion of being stalled, underestimated, belittled, and dismissed for years had been bearing on your mind stronger than usual. Now that you had some idea of a future away from it all, your longing only strengthened. You thought about Dustin, too, how thrilled he seemed at the prospect of a life devoted to making something, helping people, and doing it on his terms. You were very pleased that one of your last acts as princess would be helping a young man with enormous potential achieve a dream.

You walk stiffly to the library in your parents' personal wing—shoulders back, head high, hands clasped one over the other in front of your body. As your hand grasps the door handle, you take a deep breath.

"Very kind of you to show," your father says from the land table, eyes not leaving the map in front of him. Your mother rests on a settee with a tense hand wrapped around a teacup.

"I was told you were looking for me," you say, prompting them to get to what it is they actually want to talk about.

"Would you like to tell us where you were?" your mother asks, punctuating the question by setting her cup back on the saucer. The clanging porcelain grates against your ears. You consider lying for a moment, claim that you were reading in the gallery, or you felt unwell and decided to lie in bed until you were summoned for something. Usually you would, an excuse would roll off of your tongue as easily as the truth from the years and years of having to hide your true feelings or whereabouts. But today, a combination of your own will growing, Steven's affections, and Dustin's commitment to his own dreams has pushed you to try being truthful.

"I was out in the pastures," you say, the nervousness in your voice betraying you. "I finally had enough free time to walk over there, and I wanted to meet the new lamb." Your father scoffs, and you can see him roll his eyes when you glance his way. Your mother's posture stiffens, her lips pursing disapprovingly.

"You were unchaperoned, I assume?" She sounds more frustrated than disappointed.

"When I was walking there, yes," you explain. "But I'm 22, I don't need to be minded like a child everywhere I go."

"You are a child," your father reminds you, managing to sound bored and harsh simultaneously. You roll your shoulders again, trying to regain your footing in the argument.

"I was within the patrol boundaries, and Steven brought me back home," you justify, feeling your hands start to sweat a little.

"Sir Steven is a guard's captain, he has better things to do than rescue you from your own foolishness," your mother refutes.

"He's perfectly capable of doing his job and attending to my safety," your voice wavers again, and you inwardly cringe.

"You have a wedding to plan, which means you have far more important responsibilities," your father asserts from across the room. "I do not want to hear anymore about you running off through the woods to make friends with the sheep." Your jaw clenches unpleasantly.

"Yes, sir." The words taste ugly in your mouth as you say them.

"If we're finished discussing this frivolity, we have an obligation for you," your mother explains. "Lady Jane Ives of the southeast territory has recently come of age, and she is soon to become queen. You will represent the family at the coronation."

Your face softens at the mention of Lady Jane. Fond images of her shy smile and pretty, wavy brown hair drift into your mind. You would undoubtedly be happy to see her again, but your heart lurches a little at the thought of how young she is. The same age as Dustin, now expected to lead an entire territory. Regardless, you were relieved that this was why your mother and father were so insistent on seeing you today.

"When will this be?" you ask, hearing a lightness in your voice that wasn't there before.

"A month from tomorrow," your mother says. "You'll leave on the fifth of November, allowing you and Sir Steven at least two days to travel. You will be accommodated in the Ives Estate."

Two whole days alone with Steven, with no prying eyes to catch the gentle kisses he loves to press to the side of your face, the interlacing of your fingers. You feel a rush of warmth to your cheeks, thinking of how shamelessly you'll be allowed to love him for that brief little window.

"I'm looking forward to it," you express earnestly.

"You are?" Your father's voice is a little startled, and your mother looks equally confused as to why you don't appear dreadful about being sent away on official business.

"Lady Jane is a wonderful girl," you say, the circumstances actually allowing you to be honest. "I'm happy to be the one congratulating her on such an occasion."

Your parents look at each other, blinking a little in disbelief.

"We're glad to hear this." Your mother's tone has adjusted, almost entirely unaffected by the shock of your enthusiasm.

"You're dismissed," your father announces.

You smile big to yourself as you turn away from them, unable to contain your excitement.

In preparation for Sir Steven's arrival later in the evening, you ask for an especially hot bath to be prepared. After your bathwater is hauled, you go over to your little herbal cabinet, reaching for things that will help soothe the pain in his side. Grapefruit peels for relaxing him, mugwort for helping the bruise heal, a little rosemary to ease the muscles.

The knock on your door that comes a little before midnight has become the happiest sound of your life, and you nearly knock yourself off of your feet every time you hear it. You fling the door open and pull Steven inside, not even allowing yourself a chance to look at him before you throw your arms around his neck.

"My angel," he sighs, his arms wrapping around your back with equal emotion. Steven is always warm to the touch, and you smile as you feel his large hands roam your sides. As he cranes his head upward to look at your face, he gets a glimpse of the steaming washing basin, which fills the air with a pleasant aroma.

"Is that for me?" His voice is soft and a little surprised. Steven can't recall the last time he washed somewhere other than the river, let alone a hot bath filled with healing herbs. He had never truly been taken care of at all, now he was standing in the room of a beautiful girl who loved him, really loved him. Steven's hands cradle your waist and the back of your head, sealing you in an embrace that says more than any words he could try to form.

"Thank you," he breathes. "This bruise has been killing me all day."

"I wanted to help you if I could," you assure him, even giving a little shrug to seem casual. "And I have another surprise." You pad over to the cabinet again, pulling out a leather canteen.

"Dustin was nice enough to slip this to me after dinner," you explain. "He's been secretly making wine from every fruit we grow, this is blackberries."

"Kitchen Dustin? Dustin that I used to train?"

You nod.

"I miss him," Steven muses, giving the liquid a sniff. "Strange kid, but he was fun to teach. This smells pretty good, actually." He gives it a quick swig and grimaces slightly.

"Good and strong, I'd pour lightly," he says, passing the canteen. As you pour the wine into chalices, Steven opens the doors of your balcony to let in the sounds of the rain and gentle thunder. When he meets you at the washing basin, he kisses you, hands reaching for the ties of your dress without breaking contact with your lips. He tugs and the garment pools around your feet, goosebumps breaking out on your arms and legs at the coolness of the air. Steven's fingers skim up your sides, bracing the sides of your neck. A final kiss brushes your lips. He steps away for you to undress him, and you happily oblige. As you pull up his shirt, you're especially mindful of his left side. Your eyes land hungrily on his chest as he begins to step out of his trousers, gaze dipping lower as more of him is exposed to you.

"I know, take it in," he teases, softly kicking his clothes aside. You smile as you roll your eyes, feeling his hands on your upper arms.

"You're absurd," you insist, tilting your head as you look up at him. He kisses the tip of your nose.

"Absurdly in love," he croons, smiling.

You pull away to step into the bath first, lying back against the edge of it to leave Steven plenty of room. His fingers gently nudge your shoulder, cuing you to move forward so he can slide in behind you. You stay put.

"Let me hold you," you insist. Steven's face tightens a little, confused at the thought of being held in the way he typically holds you.

"You're hurt, Steven. Please."

The concerned ridge between your eyebrows and the sweetness of your voice make it impossible for him to refuse you—something he did not excel at already. His shoulders drop a little, signaling that you've won him over, and he steps into the basin in front of you, bracing the sides as he lowers his body into the water. You feel Steven shudder slightly at the warmth as he leans to lie back against your chest. His head lands against your shoulder, and you kiss his temple.

"Not so bad?" you mutter close to his ear, gently scratching the top of his shoulder.

"I'll survive," he sighs, snickering a little as he reaches for one of the chalices, set atop a table near the bath. He hands one to you before taking a cup for himself, and you take a tentative sip, wincing slightly at the flavor that floods your senses. It's sweet at first, then quickly becomes bitter and harsh as it hits the back of your tongue.

"This is certainly a Dustin experiment," you say, bringing the cup to your lips, chasing for another hit of its initial sweetness.

"He's nothing if not resourceful," Steven says after a tense swallow. After nursing the cups for a little while, listening idly to the soft rustle of the rain outside, they both empty, and you set them aside once more. You brush the hair off of his forehead, the strands going wavy from the water. His face nestles into the space between your neck and shoulder, where he begins to lazily kiss the damp skin. Your head tilts back, sighing as the feeling of wine in your veins makes itself known to you.

"I have some good news," you say, giggling at the feeling of his lips on your neck.

"Mm?" The vibration of the sound against you pulls another fit of quiet laughter from you, and he kisses a little harder in the hopes of pulling even more.

"A month from now, I'm going to a coronation in the southeast territory," you explain.

"The Ives land?"

"Mhmm," you reply, nodding a little. "My parents are sending me in their place to keep up the relationship with their traders. They want you to be my escort."

You feel him smile against your neck, his own soft giggling resonating against your collarbone. The wine must be hitting him, too.

"The southeast territory, that's at least a two-day ride," Steven ponders aloud. "I'll have you all to myself that long?"

"All yours," you reply, resting a hand against his chest.

"You were right when you said you had good news," he mumbles, resting a hand on top of yours. "It's perfect, like a trial for our big plan." You hadn't really thought of it this way, but he was right. Your mother and father would be deep in the planning of solstice festivities, and you would get a glimpse of the long days of traveling that would be constant until the day you and Steven settle somewhere permanently.

"I'm excited to get a little fresh air," you muse, your voice a little airy from the tipsiness.

"It's only done me good," Steven replies, scratching tenderly at the back of your hand. You look down at him and smile, suddenly filled with the urge to kiss the twin moles on his cheek. You kiss there, gradually moving your lips to the corner of his mouth, and finally to his lips, as he had done when he first kissed you. He accepts your kiss happily, reaching for your hip under the water. Your tongue presses against the seam of his lips, and he parts them, encouraging you to lick into his mouth. He nips slightly at your bottom lip, coaxing a whimper from you. When his own tongue begins to slide against yours, you dip your hand lower, grasping gently at the softness of his tummy before lowering further, cupping your hand around his half-hard cock.

"Fuck, honey," he moans against your lips, pressing his hips up, eager for more friction against his length. "You don't have to if you don't want to, I'm happy just to be here with you."

"I want to," you insist. "Please, you're so good to me. Let me make you feel good, let me show you how much I love you." Steven laughs a little as his face tucks against your neck, reveling in the taste of your skin, subtly salty from sweat.

"You're too sweet to me," he mutters into your neck. "I love you more than anything, angel." Your hand wraps around his cock, fully erect and flushed a deep pink you can see, even through the water. You squeeze a little around the base, and his hips twitch obediently.

"I love you," you say, lips brushing against his—a mere tease of a kiss. His mouth chases after yours as you give the first real stroke, hand moving up and down his cock from base to tip.

"Cruel woman," he whines. "You know what you do to me, this is just mean." You giggle a little. Still, sympathetic to his desperation, you begin to pump your hand again, fucking his cock slowly with your fist. The continued motion develops a rhythm that Steven begins to match with his hips, grinding up as your hand strokes down. His little whimpers break into full moans, and he presses his face against your shoulder harder to stifle them. You don't have the advantage of your bed canopy to muffle the noise.

"God, I adore you," he moans, pressing his lips to the skin beneath your ear.

"So big in my hand, Steven," you say, practically a moan, considering how all of his noises and the fullness of him in your hand were causing your core to stir wildly. He thrusts into your hand harder.

"Perfect fuckin' hand," he groans. "Most perfect girl in the world and you want me, fuck." You can feel him getting closer to the edge, his hips starting to lose rhythm. You focus your movements on his pretty tip, working and stroking.

"I-fuck, angel, you're so beautiful, mm-you have me, in any way you could have me, I'm yours. All I've wanted is to be close to you, I begged the stars for you, God I-"

Steven's hand grasps at your thigh, aching for anything to hold onto as a big rope of cum lands on his tummy, accompanied by angelic pants and moans falling from his mouth. Smaller spurts follow as you slow your hand, helping him through the last swells of pleasure. You kiss his sweaty temple, then reach for a drying cloth on the table. You swipe it firmly against his stomach, wiping away the largest strokes of cum as it rises and lowers with his labored breaths. You set the cloth aside and rest your hand against his chest again.

"I asked the stars for you, too," you admit, your thumb stroking back and forth against his chest hair. Steven's eyes soften as they look up and into yours, his pupils almost swallowing the hazel around them entirely.

"Do you remember when that awful duke from the mountains kept pestering me during the Midsummer feast?" you recall. "You were only 12, you weren't even a knight yet. This duke was twice your size, he could have gotten you put away with the snap of his fingers, but you put yourself between us anyway. Told him to step away from me, that what he was doing was wrong. That night, after the party, I stood on that balcony and asked the stars to keep you in my life forever."

Steven smiles as he listens, proud to have softened such a harsh memory for you.

"What about you?"

"The first time I asked?"

You nod.

"Well, I've loved you for as long as I can remember," he confesses, uncharacteristically shy. "But I asked for the first time a week before I was knighted. Everyone in the castle went down to the village for the King's Parade, and you were sitting on this big, fancy wagon with your mother and father. You caught this boy smacking a doll out of his sister's hand, and without thinking, you leapt out of your seat, away from your parents, and you picked up this little girl's doll and handed it back to her, You were in this frilly dress, and the bottom of it got dirty when you were kneeling down talking to her, and you didn't care less. She was so happy to meet you, so excited to have this beautiful, smart girl to look up to. When everything was over that day, I snuck out to look at the sky. I asked for you to choose me to knight when my training was over. That you would want me by your side."

"They granted your wish, huh?" you say softly, stroking tenderly at his cheek with your fingertips.

"Yours, too," he counters, his voice sincere. "Unless you say the word, I'm not going anywhere."

You smile sleepily, gazing into his pretty eyes. The future was so wide, just out of reach, but still ensnared by heavy tangles of uncertainty. Despite this, Sir Steven lies against you unapologetic in the certainty of his love for you. You kiss his lips gently before you speak again.

"I like you right here."

The softness of the clover and moss under your hands is the only thing keeping your mind centered to the earth, the only thing reminding you that you're in your own body, lying on the riverbank on the edge of the castle grounds. You can't exactly recall how long you've been here. The sun was starting to dip lower, but not quite set. Truthfully, you couldn't be less interested in the time. After the meeting that caused you to seek out the peace of the riverbank, your worry about being scolded for disappearing was replaced with a deep, stomach-churning sense of dread.

You had been forced into meetings with suitors since you were eighteen. All were eager before actually meeting with you—extremely interested in both your beauty and the access to power and resources that a union with you family would enable. This interest waned after the conversation, as they assumed a princess as pretty and adored as you would speak excitedly about wedding planning and children, not poetry and astronomy. You were all the things a girl of your status should not be—courageous, sincere, intelligent.

At last, in your twenty-second year, a prince in a much further kingdom decided that the resources your family had access to were worth a marriage void not just of romance, but friendship. In six months, you would meet the prince the day you marry him, move into a private residence within their grounds, show the face of an adoring wife to the public, produce heirs (hopefully mostly boys), and don't complain. You knew nothing about this prince, other than he was in his early thirties, he came from a family known for farming and animal husbandry, and that his parents were long tired of being responsible for him.

"We are just so happy that he will finally have other people to mill about with," his mother said with a too-tight smile.

As you think of this, you sling an arm over your eyes, blocking out the dwindling sunlight. You do your best to place your focus on your surroundings—the gentle, persistent rushing of the river at your side, the pillowy moss and tufts of clover under your hands, the smell of damp earth and wild hyacinth. You place this focus a little too well, your darkened vision and preoccupied ears missing the shuffle of leather boots on the ground approaching.

"You alive down there?" A boyish, charismatic voice says above you. "Because I'm in big trouble if you're not."

You tear your arm away from your face, finally taking in the view above you. Steven. Sir Steven to the court and the rest of your family, but you two had been so close since childhood, the first time you called him "Sir Steven" after his official knighting, it felt as foreign as a different language.

"Much to your delight and my chagrin, yes," you say sitting up on your elbows. "I am alive."

"Alive and grouchy," he teases, having a seat next to you. He takes two apples out of the satchel at his side and offers you one. With a sheepish smile, you accept. "What's wrong? You're usually more optimistic than this."

"I'm getting married," you sigh. "To some stranger from the farming lands far west."

His eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together slightly, and you realize this is a rare occasion where Steven is lost for words. He's been quiet like this before—when his mentor Sir James didn't return from the war when Steven was still a squire, when his first and most beloved horse fell sick and needed to retire to a pasture, and now. You feel a little surprised that this news hurts him as much as the other heartaches.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice catching strangely around the sadness. You can't bring yourself to look at him yet. You nod as you take a big bite of your apple.

"I was perfectly content to stay here," you say bitterly, laying down again. "I assumed after four years of hundreds of suitors and no marriage, rumors about my lack of wifely disposition would spread far enough that no one would ever try again." Steven chuckles softly at this.

"It really is a shame," he says. "You would have made such a good old witch." You shove him lightly and he relaxes onto his back. When he turns his head, the tip of his nose brushes your bicep. His warm hands reach out and take hold of one of yours, now chilly from the hours of mid-autumn breeze. For the first time all day, you take an actual breath.

"The land's nice at least. I've done some scouting out there," he explains, fidgeting with your fingers. "Lots of animals, I know you'll like that."

This was certainly true. In fact, your first meeting with Steven happened for this very reason. You were seven and he was eight, with sandy brown hair and arms and knees already covered in scrapes from dueling with the other squires for fun. You were on night three of sleeping on the ground of the sheep pasture after your father informed you that he would be sending your favorite lamb away. Younger Steven gently shook you awake by the arm.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that you need to come home," he said, parroting his instructions. "He said he isn't selling the lamb but that you can't do this anymore because it makes him look bad." He escorted you back home, and you had been attached at the hip ever since.

"It's a stupid thing to be upset about," you remark. "I was always going to end up married, and almost certainly to a stranger. I have no right to be disappointed."

"Of course you're disappointed," he replies sternly, tracing the lines of your palm with the pad of his thumb. "Anyone would be upset about being shipped off to a stranger."

His words cause your stomach to churn all over again, and you squeeze your eyes shut. His words sting, only because of how painfully true they are. In your twenty second year, and you had seen so little of the world. Now, you finally have your chance to see more, and entirely on someone else's terms. You had a grand castle for a home, a brave and handsome knight that swore to stand between you and anything that could bring you harm, a ridiculous wardrobe of expensive clothes, but nothing that truly belonged to you. You try to fall back into your body again, letting only your surroundings into your thoughts. The flow of the river. The plush of the ground. The smell of the crisp air. A tender kiss to the inside of your wrist pulls your mind back.

"Sorry," Steven says softly. "You just… went somewhere."

"It's alright," you reply, barely louder than a whisper.

A strong gust of wind rustles the leaves in the trees above you and blows a fresh cloud of hyacinth-scented air your way. Steven's thumb ghosts over your ring finger, soon to be adorned by a jewel, priceless to your future husband and meaningless to you. It breaks your heart how easily your family gave you to someone else. Your body, your dreams for yourself, your very sense of self, now belonged to a man you've never met. You would miss everything. The air around the castle, that smelled of hyacinths and pine. Your library, filled with books on astronomy, alchemy, poetry, music. Your big, overstuffed, goose feather canopy bed. The hallways of your home, where you would run around and hide in corners with Steven when you were little. Steven. God, you would miss him. The way his body felt in your arms when you rode behind him on horseback, and the little looks you would share across the room during parties and feasts. The ridiculous way he would smirk for the crowd after winning a joust.

A calloused finger runs the length of your nose.

"You keep going away," Steven says, sitting up to look down at you. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"I just feel silly," you say. "I'm angry. I want to take everything I love about this place, and wrap my arms around it, and squeeze as hard as I can."

"I wish you could," He says, moving a lock of hair away from your eyes.

"I wish I had any control over my life," you say. "I mean, the first time I ever kiss someone is going to be when I meet this total stranger on my wedding day."

His eyebrows creep up.

"Are you serious?"

"There hasn't exactly been a line of people eager to, Steven," you grumble. "Besides, I'm not even allowed to go for a walk by myself. I don't get many chances to be kissed."

"But it's not right."

"Nothing about this is right," you say. "But it's always how my life was going to be."

"That's exactly right, it's your life," he responds, his eyes going a little glossy. You sigh.

"This is how things are," you say, sitting up. "I don't like it. Of course I would like to actually know the first man I kiss."

You look down at your lap, gazing wistfully at a little cluster of daisies growing out of the ground by your knee. Steven is also deep in thought next to you, waging the proposal he's about to make until he speaks.

"I'll do it."

The words cut through the air, fizzling like red-hot iron suddenly plunged into cold water. You laugh a little in disbelief.

"Do what?" Your voice is reedy and shocked, unfamiliar to your ears.

"I'll kiss you," he says casually. "Only if you want me to, I mean, this whole conversation has been about you not having any choice. So, if you would let me, I'll kiss you."

His eyes are shiny, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close you are to him. You can see all of his pretty moles and freckles, the tiny scars that dot his face and neck from years of combat, the bit of chest hair that peeks out from under his shirt and leather tunic. He's handsome in a way that feels unfair.

"That's not funny," you say in disbelief.

"I'm not trying to be," he replies sincerely. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but you deserve to have a little life of your own before you get married."

"I want to," you blurt out before you can really consider his offer. You feel your face grow warm.

"You're sure?" He asks, moving himself closer to be in front of you instead of at your side. "Like I said, this is all for you. I only want this if you do."

You nod. "I'm sure." He smiles and exhales with a little laugh, evidently pleased. Steven reaches for your hand again, drawing it close before he presses a kiss to the center of your palm. Your breath hitches and the warmth in your face starts to grow.

"Thank you," he says softly, lowering your hand.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask nervously.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says, shifting to be even closer. "Just follow my lead, it's not scary at all."

You nod, trying to exert a little more confidence. It doesn't necessarily work.

"Where do I put my hands?" you whisper. He laughs slightly, entirely because he is so endeared.

"My shoulders, or my face," he offers. "Whatever feels good to you."

You hesitate for a moment before you lift your hands, letting them lay flat on his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders. You give them a slight, experimental squeeze.

"Good, that's good," he says sweetly. He lifts his hands to return the touch, a hand floating above your waist.

"Can I?"

"Please," you breathe out.

Steven's warm palm rests firmly on your waist, the other hand coming to cup your cheek. Despite the callouses and hard lines from years of handling reins and swords, his touch is impossibly gentle. Even in someone else's hold, you've never felt so free.

"Close your eyes," he says in a low voice. You do. His thumb gently brushes your cheekbone for a moment before you feel his face come closer to yours. His hand lowers a little for him to tenderly swipe your upper lip. "Soft," he whispers to himself. You feel his lips ghost against the corner of your mouth, and he gently kisses.

After what feels like an eternity, Steven finally, and so sweetly, presses his lips to yours. His hands moves to cup the back of your neck, causing the warmth in your face spreads through your whole body like wildfire. He can taste the sweetness of the apple lingering in your mouth, and he presses a little harder, eager for more of it. A small noise emits from your throat and you feel him smile against your mouth. When he pulls away for you to take a breath, you chase his lips, gathering the leather at his shoulders in your hands and you kiss him again. The hand at your face moves to your waist, and he fully wraps his arms around it. When you finally pull away, you're both wide-eyed and breathless, still holding onto each other desperately.

"I-" you try to speak. "Thank you." He smiles big and releases you a little, a hand gently rubbing up and down your side.

"You're very welcome," he says, still smiling. "I hope you feel a little more…lived, I guess."

You felt extremely lived. Alive like you had never been before, like the kiss was the last click of the lock on the door that was your life. A whole new fire blossomed in your chest, a fire that longed to read every book, run as fast as you could, make friends, ride horses, fight with swords, laugh loudly, bleed, cry, kiss, make love. Your desire to live a life wholly your own fully eclipsed the resignation to your fate, like it was never there to begin with. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him again. He kisses you back before he gently retreats.

"What was that for?" He asks, laughing a little. "Getting in all the kissing you can before you leave?"

"I'm sorry," you say, a little shy. "Just felt really good."

"Don't be sorry," he assures you. "I enjoyed myself, too."

Similar to Steven's own thoughts turning before he offered to kiss you, an idea forms in your head. Evidently, it shows on your face.

"You're back in your head," he says quietly. "C'mon, you shouldn't be lingering on those thoughts if they make you upset."

"I'm alright," you assure him. "Thinking about something else entirely, actually."

"You are?" He asks, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. "And what are you thinking about?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to suggest what you're thinking of.

"Kissing isn't the only thing I was going to have to do for the first time when I get married," you explain. "His parents kept going on and on about how excited they were for grandchildren, so he'll probably also be expecting me to…consummate the marriage."

Steven's expression shifts from confusion to realization, the tilt in his head disappearing as he sits up straighter.

"You mean…" he trails off.

"Yes, I mean," you say. "It's like you said, I only want to if you want to. But I trust you."

"You trust me with your… maidenhood," he says, the word tensely tumbling out of his mouth.

"Please don't say it like that," you whine, your head falling to rest on his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulders. "But you're sure you want it to be with me? I mean, you deserve to do this with someone you trust, but you're smart and beautiful, and I'm… me."

"That's exactly why I want it to be you," you insist. "My whole life, you're the only one that doesn't treat me like an ignorant child. You care, you want me to be myself. That's the sort of person I want to give it to."

Steven's brow furrows, turning the idea over in his mind.

"I won't force you, that would just be me passing along the cruelty I've been given," you say, lightly squeezing his hand. "But if you would like to, it's what I want."

He returns the squeeze.

"When do you want to?" Steven asks.

"Is tonight too soon?" You suggest shyly, looking down at the grass again.

"Tonight?" His voice nearly cracks from the surprise. "You've just been kissed for the first time, don't you think this is a little fast?"

"Trust me," you say. "I know what I want. I know I'm ready."

He sighs.

"I trust you," he promises. "I'll come to your room after shift change, a little before midnight." Your heart jumps a little and your face grows warm again as you nod. You brings your hands to his face, feeling the slight stubble and heat on his cheeks.

"Thank you," you whisper, then you lean in to give him a quick, sweet kiss goodbye that he happily reciprocates. "I need to go, I'm already in so much trouble for being out here by myself."

"I know," he replies. "I'll see you tonight, angel."

The waiting is agonizing. Having to sit through dinner as your parents happily chirp about finalizing your engagement only made the fire in your chest burn harder. Each scrape of utensil against plate chipped away at your sanity. After you finished eating hastily, you were given permission to be excused. You all but flew out of your seat in the dining room and ran clumsily through the halls and up the stairs to your chamber. After your washing basin is filled with hot water, you go absolutely overboard—dumping an entire small jug of lavender oil, most of a bottle of rose water, haphazard handfuls of chamomile flowers and orange peel. You scrub obsessively at every inch of yourself, lathering yourself in a thick layer of sweet smelling foam. Your hands rake through your hair meticulously, fixing and de-tangling everything into place. After drying off, you debate between putting a nightgown on and getting dressed in one of your finer things. As your hands reach for a chemise and deep green overdress, you remember who it is you're getting dressed for. Steven. Your Steven, that has never asked anything of you. One of the only people you don't have to perform for. You pull out a nightgown and slip it over your head.

Even with the admittedly excessive preparation, there was still another hour until midnight. You paced a little, attempted to read by the fireplace, fluffed and arranged your bed, paced again, and retreated to the balcony for some fresh air to soothe the rapidness of your thoughts. As you close and lock the balcony doors, you hear three subtle knocks on the entrance to your room. You rush over, unable to suppress your eagerness. The door opens to reveal Sir Steven, entirely stripped of armor. He wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and undone at the chest. His legs, which were always covered in either plates or leather braces, wear only simple trousers. His hair is a little more in place than usual, and he's smiling from ear to ear. He gingerly closes the door behind him and locks it, before he wraps you in his strong arms.

"Missed you," he says softly against the side of your head.

"It's been five hours," you tease, despite the feeling being mutual.

"Felt like fifty," he replies, pulling away a little to cup your face and press a kiss to your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. You giggle at the sensation as the tip of his nose drags softly over your cheekbone.

"You're sure you're ready?" he asks, taking your face into his hands. Yours find the front of his shirt, and you gently tug.

"I'm ready," you assure him.

Steven takes your hand and leads you over to your bed, pulling back the canopy for you both to crawl in. He takes in the the softness of the mattress, your thick bedcovers, feather pillows, all luxuries he never would have dreamed to indulge in. The orange candlelight bounces softly off of his features.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pulling you close. "We're going nice and slow, alright? You can tell me you don't want this anymore any time you want." You nod, smiling sheepishly. He starts with soft, slow kisses pressed to your mouth, his hands wandering your waist and the expanse of your back. His tongue barely traces of the seam of your lips, deepening the kiss.

"Can I lay you down?" he asks softly, and you nod. He gently lowers your head onto your pillows, trying to shift so his weight would be grounding on top of you and not overwhelming. His lips are on yours again, then they shift to the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, and finally onto your neck. You gasp a little, the feeling unfamiliar and thrilling. Soft kisses pepper across your throat and collarbone, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth. Steven lifts his head up, frowning a little when he sees that you're embarrassed. His thumb gently tugs at your bottom lip, and he gives it a sweet kiss.

"You don't need to hide anything, angel," He says softly, gently rubbing your upper arm. "I want you to feel everything, you deserve that." His lips find your neck again.

"I know you would make the prettiest sounds if you let yourself," he murmurs into your collarbone and you shudder, letting out a voiced sigh.

"Knew it," Steven says, smiling as his reaches for the ties at the front of your nightgown. His big dark eyes blink up at you, silently asking for permission and you nod. You feel the pull of the cotton ties loosening, as your nightgown reveals your sternum and the very top of your breasts. His thumb brushes over the soft skin, and he plants a kiss on the right, then the left. He slowly tugs the fabric down further, leaving all of your chest on display for him. Your nipples pebble from the sudden, cool air.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers, his words full of longing and reverence. You feel his warm, big palm come up and gently squeeze, feeling the suppleness of your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple with intention and you whimper, too caught in the feeling of his touch to muffle yourself. He kisses the top of your left breast again, then trails his lips down to your nipple. Carefully, he pulls it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the peak as he applies the slightest pressure with his teeth. Your hand reaches into his hair involuntarily.

"S-Steven," you moan. "I- it feels…God…" He pulls off of your breast with a quiet 'pop' and pulls himself to kiss your lips again, breathless and needy.

"You're perfect," he mumbles against your lips. Steven grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts, exposing his torso. You had seen Sir Steven shirtless before, especially during the hot summer months, when training outside is unbearable in heavy armor, but this was different. His shoulders were broad, dotted with delicate spots that trailed down his arms. You reach for him, your palms making contact with the dark hair that covers the broadest plains of it. A pretty line of finer hair extends from the bottom of his navel to the top of his trousers. You feel your mouth water a little as you feel the warmth of him under your palm, the strength of his heartbeat. He takes the hands on your chest and brings them to his lips.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, lowering your hands to his chest again. Woman. Everyone else in your life saw you as a little girl, a maiden, and you would be until you had your first child. Your access to womanhood was behind the door of motherhood—to most people around you, they were one in the same. Not to Sir Steven. To him, your maturity, your intelligence, the way you understood yourself; these were the things that determined what you were. Your eyelids flutter a little, and you reach for a shoulder to pull him down again. His chest hair brushes against the nakedness of your own breasts, and you sigh at the sensation. A hand trails downward and grasps the fabric covering your thighs. He looks at you before he pulls upward.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, with a kiss to your cheek. "Just let yourself feel it, sweetheart."

"I trust you," you say, cradling his cheek. He turns his face to kiss your palm. Your nightgown moves up your thighs and your legs start to cross on instinct until his big hand coaxes them open again.

"You're beautiful," he reminds you. "Every part."

Fingers skim up your thigh, tenderly grasping the flesh until the pad of his thumb slowly swipes from your cunt to your clit, smearing the wetness that had accumulated there. You mewl, burying your face in his shoulder. You had touched yourself before, but the way you felt in Steven's hands was something entirely different. He rubs slow circles, tenderly stroking your hair off your face with his other hand.

"I need more," you whine into his neck, eager to chase the feeling. He obliges your words, lowering his hand to press two fingers at the opening of your pussy. They press in slowly, and the stretch stings before it quickly melts into goodness. Fullness. His thumb continues its attention on your clit, causing your back to lift off the mattress for a moment.

"Feels good?" He looks down at you with eager eyes.

"It feels wonderful," you say, your voice breathy and light. His fingers pump in and out, in and out until you've fully relaxed in his hold again and you no longer need adjustment. Steven thinks for a moment before he removes his hand. He brings the hand that was inside of you to his mouth, and sucks at the fingers that were pleasuring you. A low moan vibrates around his hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and your tummy starts to swim, seeing him so shameless. Steven leaves your side and shuffles down, pressing a kiss to your knee before he fully lowers himself, chest flush with the mattress. You feel more kisses trail up your thighs.

"What are you-"

"Just trust me."

The next thing you fill is his lips on your clit, sweet and brief before he gives an experimental lick. The sensation shoots up your body, straight to your tummy.

"Please," you moan out, unsure of what it is you're exactly asking for. Steven flattens his tongue, dragging a long lick from your hole back up to your clit, and he gently suckles at it. His tongue flicks back and forth across the sensitive bud and your hands rake into his hair again, tugging a little at the strands.

"Pull as hard as you need, angel," he says looking up only for a moment before going back, arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs to keep them spread. He sucks and licks and kisses at your pussy, and you feel a hand leave your thigh.

"So sweet," he whines against your cunt.

Fingers press against your entrance again and push in, curling slightly to reach the most sensitive spot. The gentle waves of pleasure in your belly churn harder and faster. You can feel yourself gushing against Steven's hand and face, too caught up in pleasure to be self conscious about. The heat in your stomach isn't entirely unfamiliar, but the sensation of him so shamelessly adoring you, making you feel good—it gave the heat an entirely new presence in your body. You feel beautiful. Powerful. Loved.

"I think I'm close," you mumble, your mouth struggling around the words as more cries of pleasure rise in your throat.

"Let go, angel," he replies, briefly replacing his tongue with his fingers. "This is all yours. All for you." The second he's finished speaking, his tongue is back on you. The coil in your tummy winds and builds until it finally snaps, sending shock waves of real, relaxed pleasure throughout every inch of you. Steven tongue slows, working you through the intensity after your orgasm. Pulling away from you entirely would just be cruel. Once he hears your breaths even out, he presses a final kiss to your clit before bringing himself back up to you. His mouth presses against yours tenderly, licking into it a little. He's right, you think. Sweet.

"How do you feel?" he asks, cupping your cheek.

"Amazing," you sigh, trying to catch your breath before pressing a kiss to his palm this time. "You're so good to me."

"You deserve it," he replies with a smile. "You deserve everything."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your hand against his heart, pounding strongly. As you kiss him, your hand travels from his chest, down the softness of his stomach to his pelvis. You hesitate before you gently press your palm against his clothed cock. He bucks into you involuntarily, eager for stimulation.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans. "You just sounded so pretty, and you're so beautiful, and I-"

"It's alright," you giggle, hand on the swell of his tummy. "I"m actually flattered."

He laughs, giving you a kiss.

"I want to touch you," you say. "Can I?"

"Oh God, please," he breathes out.

You lower your hand again, gently cupping at the bulge in his trousers. You haven't seen anything yet, but you can feel that he's huge. His breath hitches as you tenderly squeeze and palm at him a little. He grinds back against you ever-so-slightly, pressing a long kiss to your lips.

"I'm ready," you pull away to tell him. When your hand closes around the waist of his trousers, you can feel smooth skin and coarse hair. He nods and you pull the tie, releasing his pants from around his hips. Steven sits back on his heels and takes hold of your nightgown again, pulling it up and over your head. He eases himself out of his trousers, leaving both of you entirely bare before each other for the first time.

"You're unbelievable," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You look back at him with glossy, wanting eyes, gaze moving from the broadness of his torso to his now naked lower half. You never imagined a man's cock to be pretty. You had seen vague, unappealing drawings before in some health journals, but Steven's couldn't be more different. Long, and curved upward towards his stomach. He's thick, too—when you wrap your hand around, the tips of your middle finger and thumb barely meet. Your hand moves up and down, giving tentative strokes to feel the warmth and thickness of him. He groans above you, desperately grasping at the tops of your thighs. Steven lowers himself to kiss you, causing his cock to prod at your clit and you moan into his mouth. He wraps a hand around himself, gently stroking up and down your cunt with the tip. When he shallowly nudges the tip inside of you, you whine. This was an entirely new stretch, feeling fullness in a way you never had before, even on his thick fingers.

"I know, angel," he says against your neck. "I know, just breathe. I'll be so gentle. I've got you."

You nod, trying to best to take in a deep breath as he pushes in a little further, about halfway. His hand gently rubs at the side of your hip and your thigh, soothing you and bringing you back to your body. Another hand gently rests flat on your tummy, the warmth of it helping to soothe the subtle sting that lingers.

"I want more," you say after another deep breath. "I want to feel you, all of you." He gives a final swipe of his thumb over your tummy, then he pushes all the way in. You gasp as a whole new rush of warmth flows through you. You had never felt so full before, so wanted before.

"Gripping me so much," he mumbles lowering his face to your neck to press a soft, open mouthed kiss to it. "You're doing so well, angel. Taking me so good." Your arms wind around his shoulders, desperate for any closeness you can get. He thrusts shallowly, giving you a taste of how it feels for him to move inside of you. The rocking of his hips and press of his cock against your walls is intoxicating, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

"More?" He asks, rubbing at your side again. You give him a lazy smile and nod. He pulls out, leaving a little less than half his cock inside of you before pushing in again. The pad of his thumb finds your clit, and the last lingering sting dissipates into pure warmth, pulsing gentle and strong in your belly. When he pulls out again, you feel your pussy empty entirely. He doesn't give you the chance to whine at the emptiness before pushing in again, nestling his face against your neck.

"Feels so full," you pant, raking down his back with your fingernails. "God, Steven, n-need you so bad."

"You have me, lovely," he says through heavy breaths, lifting his head up to look into your eyes as he thrusts. "I'm yours. Yours always. I don't care what shit-hole corner of the world they send you to, there's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't belong to you."

His words pierce straight to your heart, instantly sending a mist of tears to your eyes.

"I swore myself to you," he says, rocking into you slowly. "I swore I'd never let anything hurt you. I plan on keeping that promise."

You pull him down to kiss you, trying to convey everything you feel into the kiss. Longing, gratitude, need.

"I love you," you say against his lips. He smiles wide, his shoulders shaking with happy laughter and he presses his forehead to your sternum for a moment.

"I love you," he replies, moving his hips again. "As long as I've known anything, I've known that. Fuck, I love you so much."

He thrusts into you with renewed purpose, the motion of pelvis continuing to pulse pleasure throughout your body. A familiar feeling arises in your tummy again, and you drag hand up from his back to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your cunt pulses around him and he moans, sensing your approaching orgasm.

"Come on, angel," he says tenderly. "Fall apart for me, I'm right here." The sweetness of his words combined with the grind of his hips into yours is all it takes to send you over the edge again. The fluttering feeling in your body bursts again, filling you with a fuzzy euphoria.

"Feels so good," you sigh, grinding your heels against the mattress, desperate for something ground you.

He gives you a final, long kiss before pulling out, starting to stroke himself above you.

"So perfect," he says through gritted teeth. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you wanted me to do this. I'm the luckiest fucking bastard alive."

He grabs at one of your hands with his free one, interlacing the fingers. After a few more strokes up and down his cock, he finishes, painting the soft skin of your tummy with creamy white cum. His chest rises and falls in panting breaths until they eventually slow, and he leans down to kiss your lips.

"I love you," Steven says again, kissing your forehead. "You were perfect." He stands from the bed and searches around the room until he locates a basket of handkerchiefs. When he returns, he wipes your tummy clean. He lays back against the mattress, pulling you into his side. Your arms wind around him instantly, relishing in the closeness. He presses a long kiss to your sweaty hairline.

"I'm getting you out of here," he says after a short silence.

"What?"

"I don't know what I have to do, but they're not sending you away like that," his voice is firm and final. "I meant what I said. As long as you'll have me, I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. This choice they made for you, it hurts doesn't it?"

"It does," you whisper.

"Then it's my job to stop it," he insists. "I'll figure something out."

His hand gently strokes up and down your bare back, lulling you to rest. You know he'll be gone when you wake in the morning, out on the early morning watch near the castle walls. You know that as the months leading up to your wedding go by, you'll only be under more scrutiny and pressure. For now, you let the tender stroking up and down your back soothe those thoughts away. You trust him to figure this out with you. Sir Steven has yet to break a promise.

author's note: thank you for reading!! This is my first effortful attempt at writing smut and I hope I at all succeeded. Knight!Steve has always been so near and dear to my heart, and I absolutely want to write more about him and you (because you're literally a princess)