Thinking about doting soulmate prince Steve bragging about his beloved to princes from neighboring nations he grew up along side
He cannot see you, sitting in the grass with the Princess Mathilde and your lovely Robin, which makes what he says all the worse.
“I couldn’t believe it when she took my hand. Really, our soulmarks turned white as a snowdrop before she even could touch me, and the light was brighter than anything that’s been seen for decades.” Steve leans back in his chair, grinning. “Or, so they said.”
“Your Prince exaggerates,” Prince Tommy says.
Eddie fakes a gag. “I wish.”
Steve is quick to remark upon your beauty, your intelligence, and your courage. He says it all without shame nor hesitation, laying down tidbits about you like they’re the law. How sweet you are for loving oranges so much, how humble you are for insisting they walk to the city market when there are carriages oiled and waiting for your perusal. “But the best of it,” he says, his cheeks gone pink, eyes swimming like a boy drenched in the sap of the aphrodisiac Amora tree, “is how soft she is. Softer than any princess born royal, I’d wager.”
“And her kisses?” Eddie asks in a tone that demarcates how horrifically hilarious he finds Steve’s lovesickness, and how pleasurable it’ll be for him when he holds this over Steve’s head for the foreseeable future.
You lay steaming in the picnic blanket and beg Robin to put you out of your miserable embarrassment while Princess Mathilde fans herself briskly. And minutes later, when Steve is worried you’re suffering heat stroke and pressing a cold compress to your forehead, you’ll wonder if he’s as lucky as he thinks he is, or if maybe the soulmarks were giving you the heaven you’d craved so badly.
“Okay?” he asks, stroking your cheek with his knuckle.
Robin pours an ice cold pitcher over his head. Frankly, he deserves it, and the bits that splash you help with your flustered heat.