#princess!reader

A warmth spreads from your chest, washing over your face and down your arms. You wonder if James can feel it tingling in your fingertips. “I’ll see you later?” you ask softly. 

James smiles. “Yeah, I’ve just got a couple of things to handle first. I’ll come find you, yeah? For dinner?” 

“Sounds great.” Your answering smile is irrepressible. He gives your hand a squeeze before letting go, slipping into his room. 

It’s difficult, not to collapse against the closed door with a sigh like a lovesick girl in a film. You’ve no doubt that to anyone watching you give the general impression anyway, huge smile still stuck to your face and hearts in your eyes. 

You hear Sirius’ voice from inside James’ room. You’re sure Remus is in there as well, his presence only less audible than Sirius’. You suspect they’re James’ couple of things to handle. You don’t mind; James likes to have at least some time alone with his friends each day, and you wouldn’t begrudge him it. It’s sweet. Honestly, it only endears you to James more that he has such close friends, friends which go all the way back to childhood and whom he clearly loves fiercely. You’re glad you’re getting to know them as well—not only because Remus and Sirius are nice to be around, but you don’t imagine it can be a bad thing to get along with your partner’s friends. Sirius seemed to have some trouble getting used to you, but you think you might be finally moving past that; if you’re lucky, you could all be quite happy once you and James are married. 

You meander the halls a bit on your way back to your room, still buzzing with a restless, giddy energy, a throat-squeezing feeling of possibility. It’s as you pass the open doorway of an office that you hear your name. 

“...see how he was holding her hand? It’s cruel.” 

You stop on the other side of the door. You don’t grow up in a palace without developing a healthy proclivity for eavesdropping; if people in Gryffindor are talking about you, you want to know what they’re saying. 

“They’re engaged.” That’s Lily’s voice, matter-of-fact. “Holding hands is part of the deal.”

“It is when it’s for the cameras.” You recognize Mary’s cadence now, too. 

“You know James. He’s touchy with everyone.” 

“Exactly, but she doesn’t know that,” Mary argues. She sounds the tiniest bit upset. “James can—I know he’s only being friendly, he doesn’t mean to, but he can flirt without having any idea he’s doing it. She’s going to get the wrong idea.” 

Your stomach quiets. You can’t tell if the butterflies you’ve been feeling all afternoon have frozen in place or fallen dead. 

“I know.” Lily’s voice is a murmur. “I know, but what do you want him to do? I’m sure he wants to tell her everything, but Remus and Sirius will know better than to trust her yet. She’s only been here a couple of weeks. If they tell her and she calls off the wedding, how would that look for Gryffindor? Or if she tells anyone else?” 

Mary sighs. 

“He’s the prince,” Lily says gently. “He has to consider the whole kingdom, and we can’t afford for this to get out. Not everyone is ready for…for…” 

“For their king to be in a gay polycule?” 

You choke on air. 

“It’s not like it would be the first time,” Mary offers.

“Allegedly,” Lily says, though there’s a hint of a smile in her tone. 

Mary scoffs. “Right, allegedly.” 

There’s a long pause. You hear the scrape of wood against the floor and imagine Lily scooting her chair closer to Mary, playing with the ends of the other girl’s hair. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It does feel…well, it’s not ideal. Maybe I can talk to James about being a little less…James.” 

Mary’s voice lowers. “I just feel bad for her. She left her home, her family didn’t even seem to hesitate about sending her away—forever—and now she’s an outsider in her own marriage.” 

The barb of their pity stabs through you. Lily murmurs something in response, but you don’t stick around to hear it. You’re done being gossiped about for the day. 

You’re moving so quickly, you walk past the hallway to your room twice before finding it. There’s something warm and sour curdling in your gut, and you’re—you don’t know what you are. Hurt, indignant, nauseous. You feel like an idiot. 

It all seems so transparent now. Horrifyingly, glaringly obvious. Remus’ hand on James’ knee when his bouncing was shaking the table. The private look on Sirius’ face when James fished a leaf out of his hair. How comfortable they all are with each other, touching and joking and speaking in a language you hoped—foolishly—you might one day crack. But it’s not meant to be shared with you. 

You’ve thought, once or twice, that James hasn’t seemed as nervous as you are when you spend time together. Not since that first day. You told yourself it was part of his personality—he’s a confident man, not the sort to trip over his own feet when he likes someone, you shouldn’t read into it—but now, of course, this makes sense. None of this is real to him. The performance is as much for you as it is for the cameras, meant to keep you happy and incurious. 

You would never have gone along with it if you’d known. It’s no wonder Sirius hasn’t been friendly to you; you’re encroaching on his relationship. On all of theirs. You’ve flirted with James in front of all of Remus and Sirius, planned dates, talked about your wedding. You wouldn’t have—god, you’re not trying to stand in the way of what they have. Even when you thought they were only friends, their love for each other was so obvious they couldn’t hope to mask it. You would never want to get in the way of that. You don’t want to do this to them.

But just as the acidic tang of guilt rises in your throat, another force shoves against it. You aren’t doing this to them. Every part you’ve played in this has been against your will. If you’d gone into this arrangement with your eyes open, you could have done things completely differently. Only you hadn’t been given that choice. 

You don’t think James hates you. Remus might not, either. But whatever progress you’ve made with each of them seems pointless now. The impression you had upon first entering Gryffindor has never felt more true. No one wants you here. They never did. 

You’re every bit the girl in a film now, laying on your bed letting tears slip down to wet the pillow. You register the cliche and do nothing about it. 

You don’t know what to do. You can’t go home. Riddle is at Peleria’s doorstep. Even if you could get the King and Queen to commit Gryffindor’s armies without going through with the marriage, Lily is right; it would look bad for both of you to call it off now. You have to marry James. It’s all that’s been asked of you. It’s all you can offer your family, your kingdom. You can’t go home. 

Gryffindor was supposed to be your new home. 

A soft knock on your door summons you from the smog of your self-pity. You sniffle, scrubbing mostly dried tears from under your eyes and checking your reflection in the mirror before saying, “Yes?” 

Remus pokes his head in. The sight of him makes your chest hurt—the slight uptilt to his mouth, the kindness of it. You wonder if this whole time, he’s only been kind to you out of sympathy. “Sirius is jealous that you and James got to spend all day in town,” he says. “He wants to go out for dinner. Are you ready?” 

“Um.” Your voice comes out rough, and you clear your throat. “I’m a bit tired, actually. You guys go ahead.” 

Remus’ almost-smile fades. “If you’re tired, we can eat here.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“Sirius doesn’t always have to get his way,” he says wryly. “It’ll be good for him.” 

“I think I’m just going to…” You give your pillow a lame pat. “...go to bed.” 

You don’t look out the window, at the sun hardly beginning to set; neither does Remus. His brows furrow, and you fuss with your comforter so as not to meet his eyes. Too clever, too discerning. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Hm?” 

“You sound a bit hoarse.” 

“Oh.” You press your lips into a smile. “I think it’s just the weather.” 

He makes a soft hum. “I’ll have someone bring you a tea. We’ll see you tomorrow, then?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, lying back down. “Thanks.” 

The door clicks shut behind him. A wave of feeling washes over you—silly, feeling abandoned when you’ve asked to be left behind. A couple more tears squeeze from your eyes nonetheless. They trace meandering paths down your face, the wetness cooling in their wake. 

You wonder if this is how your life will be. Going out in front of cameras with James, smiling, holding hands, then delivering him to his true partners so you can return to your room. Alone. This arrangement isn’t what you thought it was, but you can play the part. For Gryffindor and for Peleria, for James and Sirius and Remus, you can. 

Robby is having a conversation with Perlah. At least that is what the situation would appear to be from an external perspective (he really fucking hopes).

Her mouth is moving, words continuing to emerge from it in a steady, organized stream assembling themselves into little sentences that travel through the air in neat succession. And he has remained physically present for the duration of the exchange, occasionally nodding, even. By most definitions this would qualify as participating. 

The difficulty arises if anyone were to ask him what she has been saying.

If someone were to pause the moment and ask, Dr. Robby, what has Perlah been saying for the last four minutes. He would be forced to produce an answer that lived in the gray area between honesty and self-preservation. 

Because the truth is that he is listening in the same sense that a television left running in an empty room is being watched. The sound is there. The program continues. But nothing of meaningful substance is actually being received.

Because you are the devil.

His devil, specifically.

Equipped with great legs, an even nicer ass, a beautiful face to match, and a skirt that is short enough to sabotage every ounce of competence he has spent the last fifty-something years cultivating. 

And somehow he is the one left standing here acting as the devil’s advocate, delivering closing arguments in your favor.

Insisting, repeatedly and with increasingly questionable credibility, that you are harmless. Oblivious. Entirely unaware of the destruction you leave in your wake. Meanwhile the prosecution continues submitting new evidence every time you shift your weight forward onto the front of your shoes.

At present you are leaning over the nurses’ station chatting with Jack, having came here to bring him lunch, which you promptly forgot in the car, necessitating a full trip back outside to retrieve. You’re just being a good, dutiful sister, as you often are.

Save for the occasion you screw his much older best friend in the hospital garage after shifts.

Robby hadn’t known you were coming in today.

Had he known, he might have taken the necessary precautions. 

Mentally fortified himself. Adjusted his expectations for the day. Taken some sort of prophylactic measure against the disruption you introduce simply by existing within a thirty-foot radius.

The skirt, once again, is really not helping.

It has not helped since the moment he first saw it. And the angle you are currently standing at is doing even more damage, the backs of your supple bare thighs of full display.

Robby finds himself mildly astonished that he cannot quite see the pink lace you favor underneath it from this distance.

He knows you favor them because last night you were stretched across his kitchen counter, and that same pink lace had been the final, fragile piece of fabric separating him from a remarkably comprehensive understanding of every sound you are capable of making.

And you make quite a few, as it turns out. A collection. A symphony, really.

You make lovely noises. Lovelier faces.

Your head tipped back against the cabinet, his name in your mouth like something rare you’d been saving up all evening.

Christ.

He needs to get a grip.

Robby scrubs down his face and turns back to Perlah, who has apparently said something that ended in a question mark and is now waiting, with what he recognizes as rapidly diminishing patience, for an answer. 

He gives her one. 

It feels, to him, perfectly adequate. Perlah’s expression suggests it was not adequate at all. 

Unfortunately he cannot currently locate the portion of his personality that would normally care about that distinction, because he is suddenly becoming aware of where everyone else in the room is looking.

Langdon. Santos. Garcia. Fucking Ogilvie. 

All relatively subtle. 

Garcia considerably less so.

All trained with laser point focus on your backside.

Idiots, the lot of them.

He slips his hands into his pockets and says nothing, which is currently the most controlled and adult response available to him given both the circumstances and the uncomfortable sensation beginning to establish itself in the center of his chest.

It is not jealousy. He is not calling it jealously.

Situational awareness, maybe. A boss noticing all the variables within his environment. Because that’s his job, isn’t it? That’s a fair argument to make.

But it burns suspiciously like jealousy. A quick and pulsing flare in his stomach. His pulse climbing in a way he could easily attribute to sympathetic nervous system activation, catecholamines doing what catecholamines have always done when a body decides something in the vicinity represents a threat.

It is the same heightened awareness that neatly concludes his so-called conversation with Perlah and propels him across the hallway.

“Abbot.” He stops just short of the counter. “Nguyen’s tox panel come back yet?”

He doesn’t specify which Abbot.

You turn before Jack does. 

Your eyes land on him and your entire face lights up with such immediate, unfiltered pleasure that it derails the irritated line of thought he had been cultivating during the walk over here.

It is the reaction of someone who either lacks or has purposely discarded the internal mechanism most adults develop to regulate their enthusiasm.

He thinks it’s the former.

“Oh!” you say, the small delighted sound slipping out of you before you seem to realize it has. “Hi, Dr. Robby.”

“Hi.” His answering smile is brief and tight-lipped, the smile of a man keeping several different thoughts on a very short leash. “Didn’t know you’d be here today.”

He means it pleasantly. He means it with every intention of pleasantry. 

What he also means, beneath said pleasantry, in a more specific frequency meant exclusively for you, is a heads up would have been useful and that fucking microscopic shred of fabric you are currently calling a skirt is not, by any recognized standard of measurement, a skirt at all and possibly just why.

He braces an arm against the counter and shifts his weight, settling into place.

In doing so, he very conveniently positions himself between your ass and the rest of the department.

He briefly entertains the idea of flipping everyone off behind his back as well, but suspects that particular behavior might become difficult to defend if Gloria were to hear about it.

“Came to feed me.” Jack says it fondly. He refrains, very graciously, from mentioning the car. You look extremely grateful for that mercy. “And the tox panel —” He taps a few keys, bringing up the results on the computer. “Came back about half an hour ago. All negative.”

“Hm.” Robby studies the screen rather than the person standing beside him. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

“Means whatever’s going on isn’t pharmaceutical.” Jack frowns at the monitor. “Which opens up a whole other can of worms.”

“Okay.” You straighten up from the counter. “I’m going to go before this gets too medical-ish for me.” You hug Jack sideways. “Eat your lunch.” Then you turn, offering Robby a bright smile. “Good to see you, Dr. Robby.”

Your hand brushes beneath the counter as you step past him, your fingers pressing briefly against his leg, quick and subtle and gone so fast it almost feels like something he might have imagined.

He’s still not convinced.

“You too.” The response comes out through gritted teeth.

He gives it fifteen seconds. Counts them out in his head because anything less would look suspicious and he is, if nothing else, a man who understands the value of not looking suspicious.

Because this precarious situation you both balance can go south very quickly if people get suspicious.

At sixteen he steps back from the counter.

“I need to make a call.” 

It is technically addressed to Jack, though Robby is already moving away with the relaxed, neutral stride of a man whose next destination has nothing whatsoever to do with the hallway you just turned down.

He finds you just before the exit, the automatic doors still exhaling cold air from whoever walked out before you.

“Abbot.”

The specification is clear this time.

You pivot towards him once again, and the movement sends the skirt flaring outward in a light, careless circle that rises just enough to make his jaw tighten, muscle popping under flesh before he can stop it.

The reaction lasts half a second at most before he forcibly reins it back in.

“Oh good,” you say. “I was hoping you’d come chase me down. Makes me feel very important.”

His gaze flicks down and then returns to your face with visible effort.

“What were you thinking? Coming across here like that.” It comes out more accusatory than he intended for.

You look down at yourself with a frown, turning one foot slightly as if the answer might be written somewhere near your shoes.

“Like… walking?” you ask. “Because I did walk here, yes. That’s generally how hallways work.”

He thinks, immediately, that he’s made you self-conscious. 

You wouldn’t make an outward performance, that’s unlike you, but your left hand moves to fidget with the with the ring that sits of your right hand pinky. Your tell.

He hates himself for it. Briefly. Then not so briefly. Lately he seems to spend a disproportionate amount of time disliking the things that come out of his own mouth when you’re involved. 

He’s used to conversations being navigable terrain. Clearly marked roads, visible turns.

With you it feels like trying to cross a river by stepping stones and realizing, too late, that the distance between them is wider than it looked from the bank.

You probably just saw the outfit somewhere.

One of those endless places the internet produces now. Maybe from that app you tried to show him once. Tick… tack? Tik talk? 

You’d pressed your phone into his hand and waited while he squinted at the screen like it was written in another language, until eventually he had to put his glasses on and hold the phone halfway across the room to see anything at all.

You laughed at him for that. Entirely too much, actually. 

Or maybe it was from Pinterest. Another digital ecosystem he understands only conceptually. 

You thought the outfit looked fun or cute or something along those lines. That was almost certainly the entire decision-making process.

He knows this. 

And still his mouth, apparently operating without supervision, is already lining up the next sentence like it intends to spit venom anyway.

“Like,” he says, voice mild in a way that is not especially reassuring, “in an outfit that has half my staff forgetting how to do their jobs.”

Robby becomes aware of the flaw in the sentence the moment it leaves his mouth. There are, in fact, several flaws, most of them related to the fact that the statement sounds like something a chauvinistic man would say.

Unfortunately, the sentence has already been spoken, and Robby has never been particularly skilled at retreating once he has committed to a position.

He is stubborn like that.

You cross your arms.

Your lips push forward in a small, stubborn pout that he knows with an intimacy that comes from spending too much time studying your face at close range.

It is a very specific expression with a very specific solution.

The correct response, historically speaking, involves stepping closer and kissing it away before you can say anything else.

Unfortunately he is currently standing in a hospital hallway.

And behind him there is an entire collection of people who possess functioning eyes.

Wandering eyes. Curious eyes. Eyes that have already been drifting toward you all afternoon in ways he has been attempting, with mixed success, to ignore.

Everyone looking at something his mind and body and soul insists on categorizing as his.

Which you aren’t.

You very specifically aren’t. The arrangement you have with each other was built carefully around that exact premise. That you don’t belong to him in any capacity outside of very specific rooms and places and circumstances. 

All involving less clothing (if that’s possible) than what you’re wearing.

His brain, however, does not appear particularly interested in honoring those contractual terms at the moment.

“I mean… I’m not the one forgetting how to do my job. So that seems… unfair?”

“Life contains a number of unfair situations,” he says quickly. “They’re adults. I’m not excusing them. That still does not mean I am particularly pleased that you chose to walk into my ER dressed like that.”

You glance down at your outfit again.

“I thought it was cute,” you say after a moment. “Jack said it was cute.”

Robby opens his mouth.

This is, in retrospect, a tactical error, because it gives you exactly enough time to continue talking.

“I just don’t understand what the problem is,” you say, frowning now. “Why are you lecturing me like I — like I did something wrong? I wore a skirt. It’s a skirt.” You gesture down at it. “And you, for the record, have historically have been very enthusiastic about my skirts, so the sudden objection is a little confusing. Like the time you bent me over your —”

“That’s different,” he cuts in immediately.

The words leave his mouth with a sharpness that successfully stops the sentence mid-flight while he exerts a frankly heroic amount of restraint to avoid clapping a hand over your mouth before the remainder of that particular memory becomes public knowledge.

Your eyes narrow. “How?”

This is the point where the smarter version of Robby (the allegedly mature, emotionally regulated adult who has survived decades of complicated human interactions) would slow down and choose his words with extreme care.

That version of him would recognize immediately that there is no answer to that question that ends well for him. And the honest answer, which is because when we’re alone it belongs to me and right now it doesn’t, is both indefensible and incompatible.

He is, unfortunately, not currently being governed by that wiser version of himself.

If that version exists at all. He suspects it doesn’t.

“It just is.”

You stare at him.

“Great, that clears that up,” you say after a beat. “I’m going home.”

“Christ, that’s not  —”

But you’re already turning, already walking away before he can figure out what the rest of that sentence was supposed to be.

Which is a problem, because the unfinished sentence had been intended to stop you from doing exactly what you are currently doing.

So Robby stays where he is. Maybe one of the smartest decisions he’s made in the last five minutes. He’s sure you might have back handed him were he to follow you.

You might turn around just to back hand him now as he lists the several reasons why he shouldn’t stand here like an idiot and watch you walk away.

Chief among them being the skirt. The skirt he has spent the last ten minutes complaining about. The skirt he currently hates on principle. The skirt that, annoyingly, looks fucking incredible on you.

Would it be cliche of him to say he hates to see you go but loves to watch you leave?

He mutters something under his breath.

—

He gives you two hours. (Conveniently the exact amount of time he had left in his shift when you left.)

This is considerably more restrained than he usually manages when you’re concerned.

His first instinct was to call you immediately and get it over with.

Hear your voice, confirm you’re not as furious as he imagines you are, restore the natural order of things.

But you hate cold calls. You explained this once in a surprisingly passionate monologue about anxiety and boundaries, which he assumes is an exaggeration, because you have neither of those things. 

You are the opposite, in fact. Anxiety and boundaries fear you.

But nevertheless, calling you would not help. Calling you would annoy you. And the last thing he needs right now is to make things worse.

So he does the responsible thing and sends a text instead, thumbs hovering over the screen for a moment before he finally types: I handled that badly.

He puts the phone face down on his desk like that might somehow remove the temptation entirely, like if he can’t see it he might remember he’s a grown man with a fully functioning frontal lobe and not someone whose mood for the rest of the evening currently hinges on a three-inch screen.

Nothing.

Thirty minutes pass before he caves and sends another message

You’re right. You didn’t do anything wrong.

Still nothing.

I’m an asshole.

Silence.

At this point pride has clearly decided it will not be participating in tonight’s events, because his thumbs move again before he can talk himself out of it.

Can I come over?

Your response takes long enough that Robby has ample time to fully experience the consequences of his decisions. He’s a fucking idiot. An idiot with no dignity, no less.

Eventually the screen lights up.

Abbot #2

i’m in for the night.

It’s not a no. It isn’t a yes either, but it isn’t a no, and that small opening is apparently all the encouragement he needs.

I know. Can I come over?

The typing bubbles appear almost instantly.

Abbot #2

robby

The next word costs him something. It always does. You know that. You’ve known it for a long time, which is probably why it works, because you’re soft all the way through even when you attempt to pretend you’re not, and both of you understand that about you.

Please.

Abbot #2

fine

He's already reaching for his keys.

—

By the time Robby reaches your apartment he has already practiced three different speeches in his head, each one engineered somewhere between the hospital garage and your building like he’s preparing opening statements for a situation he would frankly prefer not to be involved in.

He could’ve avoided this entirely if it weren’t for the anger and frustration with the world that seems to perpetually take up residence in his throat, begging to be released and taken out on others.

He focuses on the speech.

Version one is calm and mature. Version two apologizes just enough to count without turning him into a pathetic middle-aged man showing up on your doorstep with emotional baggage. Version three is honest without accidentally inviting the kind of conversation that forces both of you to acknowledge what this thing actually is, which neither of you seems especially eager to do.

In theory, they’re excellent speeches.

In practice they do not survive the door opening, because the door opens and you’re still wearing the skirt. 

This will be more difficult than he accounted for.

And now, if anything, the skirt looks shorter than it did earlier, the hem resting a breath above the midpoint of your thighs and ending just below the place where your underwear should theoretically begin. 

His eyes do the automatic scan before he can stop them. 

“…Are you going to say something or are we doing like a silent staring activity?”

Robby blinks once. Right. Words. He did, in fact, come here with the intention of producing several of them. 

“Yes,” he says, mostly to buy himself time. “I did plan to say something.” Another pause arrives, uninvited, as the rest of his thoughts fail to assemble themselves into anything useful. Excellent. Great start. “Can I come in?”

You don’t answer. You just step back and pull the door open a little wider, which he decides counts as consent, so Robby walks past you into the apartment, already aware of the small betrayal happening in his peripheral awareness. 

His left hand lifts slightly. Reflex.

Normally he would touch you in passing and in private without thinking about it, some small absent gesture. Fingers at your waist, a hand against your back, the inside of your arm as he moves around you.

He had never thought of himself as a tactile person before you, which in hindsight might simply mean no one had ever made him notice the difference between contact and the lack of it. 

“Looks clean in here.”

You turn toward him immediately. “You say that like it’s usually not.”

He gives you a look because the alternative response would be lying, and for all his flaws, he generally prefers observable reality to polite fiction.

Your apartment is many things. Charming, for one. The old brick walls and the accent wall you painted last spring (personally, against all advice, because apparently you believe interior design should occasionally be a solo athletic event) still shows faint brush lines if someone were to actually examine it.

But the word clean isn’t the first word that comes to mind.

More like: cluttered.

You own an impressive number of things and your primary organizational strategy involves setting those things down wherever you happen to be standing when your brain abruptly moves on to the next idea.

Books sit half-read across multiple surfaces like abandoned conversations. Magazines accumulate in slow-growing stacks. Ceramic bowls migrate around the apartment with no consistent destination. 

And there is almost always at least one pair of shoes sitting in the middle of the floor like you stepped out of them mid-thought and never circled back.

“Well,” he says, glancing around once more, “those were your words, not mine.”

You roll your eyes and head for the couch, planting yourself down on the cushions and look at him like a judge granting the floor to a particularly unprepared witness. 

Well, you have the floor, your eyes say plainly enough.

So he lowers himself into the chair opposite of you, spreading his legs as he settles. He drags his palms down the front of his slacks in an attempt to disguise the fact that his hands are a little too warm.

You cross one leg over the other and his eyes follow the movement.

Your skirt lifts just enough to make the line of your thighs more visible than it should be, the suggestion of what’s beneath the fabric briefly possible if he leaned forward or changed his angle.

If he were a worse man than he already suspects he might be. 

He doesn’t. But he wants to.

He is a weak man, after all. And a weak man is not immune to the possibility of getting a peak of the perfect anatomy he knows resides under there.

Perfect anatomy that he has practically memorized at this point. With his fingers, with his mouth, with his cock.

He clears his throat. 

“I’d like to clarify,” he says after a moment, palms moving from his thighs to the arms of the chair, “that my intention earlier was not to make you feel bad.”

“I know,” you say immediately, and the sound of it comes out a little softer, a little whinier than you probably intended, which unfortunately lands in Robby’s brain like a lit match tossed into dry brush. It takes him a second to drag his attention back to the conversation instead of the completely separate thought that he would very much like to solve that particular tone by fucking it out of you. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

Sometimes he wishes you’d give more of a fight. You’re just so good. And young. And impressionable.

And a wise woman once told him he was very pressionable.

There’s a pause while you keep thinking, and because you possess one of the most transparent faces he has ever encountered, every thought passing across it like subtitles.

“You just — you get this tone.” You wave a hand in his direction, specifically toward his mouth. “Like. You know. The tone.”

As if this is a universally acknowledged phenomenon. As if there is a documented Tone he should be familiar with. Which, fine, he is familiar with. 

He looks at you for a moment. Then, with great and terrible patience: “Poor thing.”

Your arm is up before he’s even finished the second word.

“Yes. That. Right there.” Fully extended, finger pointed directly at him like you’ve just located the exact source of the problem.

“I’m just —”

“You’re doing the face. And the voice, Robby, it’s a whole —” you circle your hand at him, “You get so — what’s the word — I couldn’t think of it for like two weeks, I asked my friend, she didn’t know, I ended up just Googling it —”

“You Googled how to describe me.”

“Self-righteous,” you continue, ignoring him. “And condescending.”

“Look at you,” he says, the faintest hint of amusement slipping into his voice. “Doing your research. ‘M proud of you.”

Something flashes across your face before you can stop it, that tiny involuntary almost-smile that always appears when he manages to get under your skin in the exact way he intended.

You do well with praise, he’s learned.

You catch yourself a second too late and point at him again like you’re trying to reclaim the momentum of the argument, but the energy has already shifted, the accusation losing some of its bite.

“Don’t.” You lean forward, eyes narrowing. “Don’t be nice right now, I’m mad at you —”

“Are you?”

“I’m — yes.” The finger wavers. “I was.”

“But you’re not now,” he says eventually. “Too sweet to stay that way for long.” His gaze stays steady on yours. “Aren’t you, baby?”

“I’m not too sweet,” you protest immediately, genuinely affronted by the suggestion in a way that only reinforces his point. “I can stay mad. I can be really, really mad. And I can be just as mean as you when I want to be.”

The reality is very contradicting.

Then he stands. He moves the edge of the couch and reaches down, sliding two fingers beneath your chin and tipping your face upward.

You go with it so easily, completely without resistance.

“You want to be mean like me?” The faintest curve touches the corner of his mouth. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t be mean like me if someone handed you a manual.”

His gaze drops briefly as a small flash of pink tongue slips out to wet your lips.

“You don’t have a cruel bone in your body and I have —” he pauses, forcing himself to look back up at your eyes instead of the mouth that’s distracting him, “ — significantly more than that.”

“That’s not something to be proud of,” you say quietly.

“No,” he agrees simply. “It isn’t.”

His thumb drags slowly across your bottom lip, collecting the trace of moisture your tongue left behind.

He feels the suck intake of breath on the rough pad of his finger.

“But you like that about me,” he says. “Don’t you?”

“Why do you say that?” 

He doesn’t even feel an answer is necessary given your voice suddenly comes out soft, almost dreamy.

Your pupils are blown, adding to the wide and helpless and completely undefended thing you do, as if the idea of protecting yourself against him has simply never occurred to you.

Robby feels his pants tighten and does not risk shifting his stance.

“Because you have spent your entire life surrounded by people who are entirely uncomplicated in how they feel about you. And you are kind to all of them. You love all of them. But that’s not what keeps your attention, is it? You like that I don’t make it easy. You like that I'm mean because it means you have to earn something from me. And you —” his thumb moves, just barely, “— you like earning things.”

Your eyes are almost completely black now, head cocking slightly to lean into his touch. He doesn’t think you’re even conscious of it.

“That is — that is a lot of information about me. And I don’t think it’s fair that you can just — say that, like you’ve had it figured out for a long time and you’ve just been waiting —” You stop. “Have you had that figured out for a long time?”

Longer than would be astute of him. But there’s no particular benefit in saying that out loud.

So he says instead, “Can’t give away all my secrets.”

His hand leaves your chin slowly, fingers trailing along the line of your jaw before catching the loose strand of hair at your temple and tucking it back behind your ear with a care that feels suspiciously gentle for someone who was just admitting to being cruel. 

He watches your thighs press together. 

“Let me make up for my bad behavior,” he says.

There’s a thread of desperation in it that he doesn’t bother disguising.

“You’re still behaving badly.”

“Yes,” he agrees, without any particular remorse. “Are you going to stop me from making it up to you or are you just pointing out the problem?”

“I don’t know,” you say, tilting your head like you’re attempting something that might qualify as coyness. “I’m not sure anything could actually make up for it.”

The line might carry more credibility if your teeth weren’t caught in your bottom lip right now, worrying the skin there in slow, thoughtful pulls.

Or if your eyes hadn’t made a very quick and very telling detour down to his thighs before finding their way back up to his face like nothing happened.

Or if your bare foot weren’t moving in that slow, absent drag along the length of your calf, the one you do whenever you’re trying to look relaxed and are, in fact, extremely not relaxed. 

So he moves.

He drops down in front of you in one smooth motion that leaves no room for misinterpretation, because there’s really no graceful way to narrate what he’s doing. 

He’s on his knees. In front of you.

Which is not a position Robby occupies for anyone. Has never occupied for anyone. But here he is anyway, settling there like the decision made itself. 

His hands come to rest lightly on your knees. Goosebumps pebble under his calloused hands.

“At least let me try.”

Robby watches the last pieces of the act fall away, the careful indifference dissolving into something much more honest in the way your shoulders relax and your eyes stop pretending they’re not paying attention to him. 

“Robby.”

“Let me try,” he says again.

You hesitate for a second and then give a small nod. 

That’s all it takes. Robby breathes out through his nose and dips his head forward, turning slightly until his mouth presses against the inside of your leg just below your knee.

He can feel his own pulse everywhere, can feel the saliva pooling at the back of his throat.

If there was a version of him capable of embarrassment in front of you, this would probably qualify.

Because how humbling is it to be so insatiable for one single person?

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says softly, against lush skin.

You smell wonderful. You always smell wonderful.

Above him, you make a small sound, barely audible, and Robby takes it as encouragement whether you intended it that way or not.

His cock stirs at the it, very susceptible to those lovely noises you make.

His mouth moves higher along the inside of your leg, pressing another kiss there, then another, advancing upward in small increments, following the path towards God’s greatest gift.

You are warm.

It dissolves under his mouth in familiar waves. He finds himself stalled by the simple fact that his brain does not have a word for the way your skin feels or the way it tastes.

Clinical language can explain the structure of skin in exhausting detail. Sebaceous glands, lipid barriers, surface pH.

But none of that vocabulary has any interest in describing the experience of it, none of it explains why pressing his lips to you feels less like contact and more like a trespass into something he should probably apologize for afterward.

For the sacrality of it, perhaps.

His current theory, admittedly not one he would ever publish anywhere, is that your sweetness (that you are currently denying) isn’t behavioral at all. It’s physiological. Systemic. It runs through you at a cellular level and eventually works its way outward until it reaches the surface of your skin because there’s nowhere else for it to go.

“You’re welcome,” you squeak. “Wait —” He can hear the wince in your voice before he even looks up. “That’s — I don’t know why I said that. I just meant —”

The rest of the sentence dissolves into nervous rambling that never quite finishes assembling itself, and Robby doesn’t interrupt it with words. 

Instead he reaches up, pushing your skirt higher with both hands, the fabric gathering beneath his palms as he slides them underneath it and moves upward along your thighs. 

And then he stops. The rambling you produce stops too.

Christ.

There’s nothing there. No lace, no soft cotton, no barrier of any kind between his hands and bare skin all the way up to your waist. 

His palms settle on your hips and remain there, suddenly very, very still. 

Robby draws in a careful breath through his nose.

“Please,” he says, and his voice has dropped somewhere unsteady, hands tightening on your hips by one degree, “tell me you did not come to the hospital like this."

“What? No.” The answer comes out almost offended, like the suggestion itself is mildly ridiculous, and then you giggle, this soft little sound that moves straight through his bloodstream like it has a direct path there. “I took them off when I said you could come over.” The explanation is delivered with the simple clarity of someone describing something obvious, something that should require no additional context. “I figured — you know.”

He pulls your ass forward, dragging you to the edge of the couch in one controlled movement that still manages to force a startled squeak out of you. 

His nose brushes the inside of your thigh. 

He’s making a very valiant effort not to allow his fingers to press in hard enough to leave marks on flesh that yields so easily beneath his hands.

It’s not a particularly successful effort. 

“So this was the plan,” he says quietly, his mouth moving against you, tickling the skin there. You shiver. “Get me all worked up. Have me sitting there worrying about you, texting you, coming over here ready to grovel.” His nose drags a little higher along your thigh as he exhales. “And the whole time you were just…” He pauses briefly. “... waiting for me.” Another breath fills the small space between you, yours noticeably shallower now. “You playing games with me, sweetheart?”

You avoid the question entirely. Instead a small embarrassed sound slips out of you and your hands slide back along the couch until your fingers curl into the cushions like you suddenly require structural support.

“You make it sound so dirty,” you mumble.

Robby pulls back just enough to see your face properly

“You are dirty,” he says mildly. “Just a little bit, aren’t you?”

“‘M not —”

“Maybe,” he continues, his grip on your hips relaxing as though he’s genuinely reconsidering his involvement in this situation. As if it were ever a question. “I don’t actually need to make it up to you afterall. Call it even?”

Your fingers dive into his hair and grab, pulling him forward again with a strength that bypasses any polite conversational structure you were trying to maintain, your hips chasing him instinctively.

“No — please, I’m sorry —”

He laughs.

“You fold so easy, honey” he murmurs, his lips now brushing against your cunt without quite landing. “What happened to being just as mean as me? Holding your grudges. All of that.”

You say his name again and it comes out tangled between a question and a plea and several other things he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t recognize.

Robby decides that’s answer enough and lowers his mouth on you.

He takes his time.

The pace of his mouth against you is slow and steady, patient in a way that is less about kindness and more about control, because the rest of the evening has slipped out of his hands and this small piece of it has not.

You’re already soaked beneath his tongue before he’s done anything worth crediting.

This is no surprise to him. You always are. The wet warmth of your pussy spreads across his beard, coating him completely. 

He picks up pace only when you make him. 

When your hips jut forward and take the decision out of his hands, when the coos falling from your parted lips start running together into something less subdued, your fingers tightening in his hair and pulling without any clear intention behind it, just need, just the blind animal fact of warning more and not being able to stop your body from saying so.

You taste so fucking sweet.

He needs a better word for you. A more precise word. But sweet is what keeps arriving and sweet is what it is.

Sweet is the one that keeps arriving anyway. Sweet in the way early spring smells when the air is warm after rain. Sweet without effort. Sweet without intention.

If he were a more poetic man he might try to articulate that properly. Instead he keeps his mouth where it is and focuses on the work.

“‘S so good —” you mumble, the words barely forming, barely recognizable as language. “It’s — Robby, it’s —” a breath slips out of you, loose and unsteady, “— ‘m sorry, by the way, about — about earlier, I didn’t — I was being —”

It falls apart on your tongue (and on his).

Robby pulls back, slickness dripping down his face as he replaces the stimulation with one finger. Your gummy walls nearly suck him in, tightening as if you plan to push him right back out.

He won’t allow that.

“Funny,” he says. “I was under the impression I came here to apologize to you.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. Then: “Yeah.” 

That nearly makes him laugh. The sound stays trapped behind his teeth.

“Yeah,” he repeats, curling his finger once while his eyes stay fixed on your face, watching the way your lips part again. Such a pretty face, you have. Prettiest ones he’s ever seen. “You’re not thinking clearly right now, are you?” The words are observational more than teasing. His thumb moves slowly over your swollen, aching clit. Your breath breaks. “That good, baby?”

“You already know,” you murmur, “you already know it is, don’t do that.”

“You’re right,” he says, and the apology and action arrive at the same time, his mouth moving again as if the words barely slowed him at all, humming against your sopping cunt. “I’m sorry, honey. Going to keep saying it until you come for me.”

He is not sorry. The opposite, actually.

Especially when he notices how pliant you’ve gone, grinding against him in desperate circles, hands moving from his hair to the couch to his shoulders.

Your legs are draped over those same shoulders, ankles keeping him trapped right where he is. As if he’d ever consider leaving.

He’s messier this time, tongue dragging long, languid strokes from back to front, nose bumping your clit every other pass. You reward him with tiny mewls everytime.

His hand moves to press down on your stomach and you fight him at first, little whimpers escaping as you say something he can’t quite hear over the blood rushing and flowing to his ears.

He’s so fucking hard right now. Doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard. Though he thinks that often when he’s with you.

It hurts a little, has been for long enough that the pain has become just another ambient fact.

He’s been ignoring it, or trying to, which is a different thing, trying being the operative word because his body has stopped taking direction from the more disciplined parts of him and has been nearly humping against the couch cushion like a teenager.

Pathetic.

He groans as he makes quick work of pulling your thighs flush to his face.

If he were to pass away now, he’d die a happy man.

Though Jack might not be.

“I can’t —” the word tears out of you, “— I can’t, it’s too much, it’s — Robby, please, I’m — it’s so —” the babbling just continuous now, a current of half-finished things, your hips rolling and stuttering and rolling again. 

He can feel how close you are. Wants to take it so badly. Wants to feel you on his tongue.

His mouth pulls away once more, just to replace it with two, thicker fingers, moving his lips to your clit and sucking. He’s gentle at first, then harsher, your whole body arching off the couch to meet the rhythm of his thrusts.

He pumps his fingers faster, deeper, and then twists his wrist on the next strike. A specific angle only he knows, that he has known long enough that knowing it has transformed into muscle memory. Something now engrained into his ring and middle finger.

He feels you squeeze around him hard.

“Yes,” you whine, “— yes, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Your thighs lock around his head, replacing his hearing with a muffled white noise as your hands move to fist his hair.

He feels you come around his fingers, the noise you produce a broken sob as he works you through every last second, siphoning every last drop of pleasure he can, until you stop trembling and go heavy against the couch.

He kisses each thigh softly, working his fingers out slowly. You hiss at the loss. 

Eventually your thighs unclamp from around his head.

He sits back on his heels and looks up at you. You look down at him. 

Your hair is completely wrecked, half falling out of whatever arrangement it started the evening in, and your skirt is still bunched up high around your hips in a way that suggests you have made no meaningful attempt to recover it. 

Your expression has an unfocused quality to it, the pleasantly evacuated look of someone whose brain has temporarily stepped out of the room. 

He makes quick work of kissing you, allowing you to taste yourself through him.

When he pulls back you say, very gently “Hi.” 

“Hi.”

There’s a pause while you seem to gather a thought from somewhere far away. 

“So,” you say eventually, “I think that was a pretty good apology.”

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “High praise.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, tugging your skirt back down with approximately thirty percent of the coordination you normally possess. “Like, top five apologies I’ve ever received, probably.”

“Top five.”

“Maybe top three,” you add. “I’d have to consult the full rankings.”

“I appreciate the transparency,” he says finally. “Very helpful feedback.” His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Do I get notes for improvement, or are we just celebrating the current ranking?”

You perk up instantly. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked.” Your eyes flick toward your bedroom in the casual way someone might glance at the weather before returning to him. “Because I was actually thinking,” you say thoughtfully, “that maybe the apology process could continue… in another location.”

Your gaze lowers then, landing on the clear line of his erection in his pants before drifting back up to his face. 

“You know,” you add lightly, “for thoroughness.”

“Well,” he says, standing and reaching for you, “we wouldn’t want to leave the apology unfinished. I have a lot of making up to do.”

He blames the skirt.

The kingdom had always been yours, ever since the day of your birth. After two failed pregnancies, you were the miracle that broke headlines, the whole world loved you from the day you were brought into the world.

'Future Queen has finally arrived!'

'The new heir has finally graced us... it's a GIRL??'

'Will the King and Queen have another heir? Will the Princess be able to handle such responsibility?'

Growing up, you had grown used to the misogyny, grown used to the reporters and headlines claiming that a woman wouldn't be able to run the ship as tightly as your father had. Throughout your whole childhood you had learned the ropes, sitting in on meetings with your father, learning how he runs the kingdom with an iron fist. Despite your clear disagreement, you remained silent, being taught women are to be seen, not heard.

Your mother, who had no backbone whatsoever, always reminded you to keep quiet and look pretty. Especially when you questioned your father, which never ended well. By the time you were 16 you gave up on trying to change his mind, letting him be delusional in thinking you would sit there and take it quietly.

Of course when you became Queen you would never let these things slide... but for know you would wait.

"Never strike while the iron's hot. Let it sit, simmer, heat up. The waiting game is a game you will never lose if you have patience." That was your father's motto, and you learned from the best, right?

The summer you turned 18 was when your father hired Sevika... and you couldn't stop watching her. The youngest Knight in the Palace, only 21 years old and she already out-performed every other man there. The King respected her efficiency and strength, ordering her to guard you at all times. Though he very clearly was harder on her, pulling her up and punishing her for mistakes that if any other Knight had made, they would not see punishment.

Your father never openly admitted he didn't like her, though it was obvious he didn't, but he did appreciate efficiency, and that's what Sevika gave day in day out, which was why she was still around. Though Sevika was like you in some ways, not hiding her attraction to women in the slightest- what she did hide however was *which* specfic lady she was attracted too.

All over the Palace you hid drawings and sketches of her, behind photo frames or in vases that hadn't been touched in years. She was so protective over you, always advocating for your independence and sticking up for you, despite the punishments she got for it.

Sevika saw the fire burning in your eyes, she admired it. She yearned to be by your side, to be the one supporting each decision you made. Of course she was yours already -technically- as your Knight. Though she yearned to be more, to be the one you love, the one you come to with problems, the one who got to lay in bed with you in the dead of night where you could hide away together from the world.

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"You will marry, Princess. If you have not chosen a Prince before you turn 20 I will pick for you. Do not push me." Right now, on the night of your 18th birthday, you sat opposite your father to argue and stand up for your own wants and desires in life.

"Why must you insist I marry a Prince? There are plenty good people out there!" Natrually your arms folded in defiance- an un-ladylike gesture which earned a scoff from your father. He expected the same level of obedience from you as your mother gave him- you loved her but she was a weak woman, letting these men walk all over her, hiding her true personality. Back in the day, you heard she was quite a firecracker herself, its why your father fell for her... only you assume he liked breaking her down, not embracing her true nature.

You wouldn't let him do the same to you.

"Stop acting so childish, you're an adult now. And you will marry in the next two years and bear his children. I forbid you wasting your prime fertile years arguing with me." There it was, the fertile argument. After struggling to conceive with his own wife, he insisted you bear multiple heirs 'just in case'.

It was the only leverage you had over your father, and both of you knew it. The only problem with your father was that he saw you all wrong. Quiet and obedient, mistaking your independence for lingering childish behaviour. Over the next two years he would learn you don't always get what you wish for... even if as King you demand it.

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"My Lady, your father has requested your presence at the ball this evening. Your lady in waiting will arrive shortly to help you get ready." Sevika stood at the door of your Chambers, awaiting permission to enter. With a subtle nod gesture for her to come in. She does, closing the door softly behind her, laughing as you jump into her arms, she easily catches you, her strong arms holding you with ease.

"To find a Prince, I presume?" You roll your eyes, lifting her helmet off to see her beautiful face. Hard shadows covering her strong jaw, dark grey eyes fixated on you, lips twitching into a sad smile.

"Yes, I believe the ball is merely and excuse to find you a husband." Walking over to you bed she sits, placing you on her thighs gently as her hands roam your lower back- she knows you have issues with your spine from all the tight corsets you're forced to wear. "I'd much rather court you."

There you go again. Sevika sighs, burying her face into your neck. "We can't, princess. We both know that." She only lifts her head to meet your eyes as you cup her cheeks, forcing her eyes on yours.

"Then at least kiss me. As princess I demand it." Sevika squeezes your hips, in warning and affection. Her smirk matches yours as her lips barely brush agaisnt yours, claiming them so gently you'd miss it if you weren't completely touch starved.

"Who am I to deny the Royal Princess anything?" With that you press your lips to hers again, harder this time. Sevika was used to you taking what you wanted from her- not that she minded one bit. In heart and soul she was yours... even if the laws or nobody else accepted it.

The kiss grows warmer, wetter, hotter as your hips slowly start to rock agaisnt hers, the thin fabric of your nightdress hiking higher up your thighs. Sevika's calloused fingertips drag along the smooth, soft skin of your thighs as they disappear underneath, she can only barely grab the plump flesh of your thighs before your lady in waiting enters unannounced.

Though she's not shocked, nor surprised. This little fling between you and Sevika was only known by the three people currently in the room. "Your Highness." She greets politely, without looking back you can hear the amusement in her voice. Begrudgingly you break the kiss, licking your now swollen lips clean of shared passion.

The two of you share a look, one that's sad yet full of heat. "I'll see you at the ball? My handsome Knight." You smile, pressing a loud, exaggerated kiss to her cheek before you climb off her lap. Sevika stands, smoothing out her uniform, replacing her gorgeous face with thatstupid helmet.

"I wouldn't miss it, Princess." She courtesies dramatically, bowing down before exiting the room leaving you and your lady waiting, Aria, alone.

As you turn to face Aria, she's already smirking, fanning herself with a giggle. "You would be the hottest Royal couple this country ever saw. If only your father would budge." You take a seat as she drags you over to your vanity, brush in hand ready to style your hair.

"He will. I have a plan." The smile on your face was rare- because it was real. Dangerous. Aria's hands falter only for a second before resuming the gentle movements of brushing through your locks.

"Let me guess, I'm not in on this plan and neither is anybody else? You always were a spitfire, I should've known."

"I'm executing my plan tonight, no more fancy, lavish balls. No more chatting to simple minded men... he will have to listen to me, or he'll lose everything."

Aria sighs again as she pins your hair up with those pins you hate, they always pull far too tight. "Be careful with him. He's a powerful man, he won't take defiance lightly, you know this ma'am."

As she works on your hair you powder your face, acting like the perfect, obedient princess he's 'trained' you to be. Though you wouldn't keep the act up much longer, you were sick and tired of being treat like a mere object instead of a human... and above all else?

You loved Sevika, with every fiber of your being, so much you would risk being stripped of your title and kicked out of the Royal family. "Does Sevika know what you're planning?"

"No. I can't have her try to talk me out of it. She loves me enough to let me go, even though that's the last thing I want." Aria strokes your hair as you sigh sadly, understanding the connection you two have.

"She wants you to be happy, secure. But you're never going to be truly happy without her, are you?" The shake of your head is all the answer she needs. Aria had watched you grow up the past 19 years, did your hair every morning, drew you baths each evening, and she'd seen the fire in your eyes. It never left, you were strong, capable, not at all the helpless, obedient woman your father wanted -no needed- you to be.

You were his heir, he had to have control over you. The only problem was the 'control' he currently has is simply and illusion. He's never had power over you, not truly...

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This grand ball was as dreadful as any other. Thousands and thousands spent on food, drinks, live bands. All to have you meet Prince's from over the globe to pick and chose which one you wanted to marry like it was a catalogue. As if these men didn't have ambitions of their own.

Truthfully you only got along with Prince George the twelfth, and that's because you could tell the man was gay from a mile away- your gaydar was impeccable. He kept eyeing the Duke Of England like he was a snack ready to be ravished... the same way you kept stealing glances at a certain Knoght in the corner.

Sevika's self control was incredible, she had to watch these slimey men wrap their hands around your waist and dance with you, as if you weren't already claimed. After every shared dance your father would steal you away, hammering you with questions, asking if that Price was the one.

Atthe first opportunity you slip out of the ballroom, taking off your heels as you approach one of the quieter makeshift bars in the Grand Hall. "Tequila, double." You sigh and sit on the stool, taking the weight off your ankles... it was almost orgasmic.

"A princess doesn't usually drink tequila." You spin your stool with a smile, your eyes meeting Sevika's. Of course she followed you, it was her job, hopefully only she noticed you'd slipped out for a minute.

"And princesses usually don't kiss their Knights either..." you whisper quietly to avoid getting caught or heard. Sevika takes a glance atthe bartender- who hadn't heard or was very good at pretending he hadn't.

"Take your shot and then we'll head back inside before your father sends out the cavalries to look for you." The tequila burns deliciously down your throat as Sevika kneels to slip on the uncomfortable heels back onto your feet, though she gives your ankles a soothing rub before helping you stand. As she does her hand hovers near your lower back, loosening your corset just a little. "Better?"

"Much better." You smile, giving her a kiss on her cheek, over the stupid helmet of course. Before Sevika can scold you on being so openly affectionate you're off, entering the ballroom once more. Stunned, Sevika takes a few seconds longer before she's following you back inside, hot on your tail as you march towards your father, knowing you were about to do something... something he wouldn't like.

She knew that smile, she knew that glint in your eye.

"Father, a word? Upstairs." You interrupt his conversation with no shame whatsoever. It was highly inappropriate for 'a woman of your title' but you didn't care, not one bit.

Apologising profusely your father steps away, following you out of the ballroom and up to his study. The silence is deafening, heavy with tension and an brewing argument. As always Sevika follows a few paces behind, waiting outside the closed door, ready to comfort you- or calm you down when inevitably you storm out. You were stubborn as a mule, so was your father.

"I'm not marrying a Prince- no scratch that. I'm not marrying a man."

The silence stretches, longer and longer with each passing second. You watch your fathers jaw tick as he pours himself a bourbon and take a seat at his desk, oddly calm despite your little outburst. Then he laughs, a full on, belly shaking laugh. "Oh you got me there princess-"

"I'm serious. I will marry Sevika, or I won't marry at all." That stops him, shuts him up real quick. His little girl, the one he raised to sit up straight and be quiet was not only defying him by denying to marry a Prince, but she wanted to marry a commoner. Her own Knight.

"Absolutely not. I will not allow it, end of discussion." He throws back his bourbon, setting the glass down with a loud thud on his oak desk. One that will be yours one day...

"See... you don't really have a choice *daddy*." You say with slight mockery in your tone as you take the seat opposite his desk. "I'm your heir. Your ONLY heir, and unless you have someone lined up to take over who isn't blood... then you don't have a choice." Just to rub salt in the wound, you sit with your arms folded, closed off, rude, 'un-ladylike'.

"Are you threatening me, daughter?" He leans on his forearms, glaring at you like you'd set his world on fire. Only you meet his glare with a smile.

"Of course not, I'm simply stating what will happen if you keep pushing me, father. You see this isn't the 1900's anymore... your sweet little girl is gay, and there's nothing you can do about that. What you can do is be the supportive, progressive King everybody thinks you are and overturn the law that states I'm to marry into royalty."

You can tell he wants to speak, but for the first time, he lets you continue even though you can tell he's pissed.

"Either overturn the law and let me marry Sevika, or I'll abdicate. Your whole empire you've built? Will be given to some other man who can't run it the way you wish... and there will be a whole new bloodline. One that isn't your pure, royal blood. You wouldn't want that, right daddy?" He shakes his head, already poring himself another drink.

"You're forcing my hand, Princess. What happened to my little girl?" You almost feel bad at his tone, but you refuse to let him break you down.

"I grew up. I can take the backlash, I can defend my love and who I choose to share it with. So yes, I'm forcing you to man the fuck up and do what is right, otherwise you'll lose me completely. No matter how this conversation ends... whether I become queen or not, I am marrying Sevika, and you can't stop me."

Silence once more. It's almost overwhelming, you can see the gears turning in his mind, weighing up his options here.

Outside, unaware to you both is Sevika, listening to the entire conversation. Your fierce defense of her, how you claim to love her and chose her over your entire life... It's too much. Under her helmet, tears are rolling down her cheek as she whispers to herself one phrase, one mantra. "That's my girl."

Looking at you father, he seems defeated a look you rarely see on his old, withered face. "I don't support it, I think you're making a terrible mistake and I'll be here to pick up the pieces when it inevitably fails because no matter what you're my daughter. I will overturn the law, and you will... marry her."

Taking a deep breath you force yourself to overlook his very clear hatred for Sevika to remind yourself he just agreed. He agreed to overturn the law. No more hiding, no more sneaking around... admittedly you'll miss it, the rush you get, but it's nothing compared to the freeing feeling you have to be able to love her openly, without fear or an ounce of shame. "And when you're rolling around in your grave, watching us run your country better than ever did, you'll finally admit that I was right."

Biting his tongue he wafts a hand, dismissing you. "Go. I have work to do... lots of work to do now." With a smile you walk towards the door, giving him one last victorious look over your shoulder before you slip out of the door... to be met with a very tearful Sevika.

You probably should of told her first... right?

⊹˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

"Does this mean we're getting married? I haven't even propsed to you yet! Or was that you proposing to me?... And does that mean I'm goign to be like a proper royal now? I can't be a royal! I don't know how to-" you clamp a hand over her mouth where her head was resting on your thigh.

"Sevika. Yes we're getting married, yes you're going to be a royal and yes you can do it. Now stop worrying and enjoy our first night together as a couple. Please?" Slowly you pull your hand away, just waiting for her to start spewing nonsense again... admittedly it was adorable, watching her flail.

She buries her face in between your thighs over your nightgown, though it does nothing as you can still feel her breath on your skin. "You're so hot when you get all demanding, and that's coming from me, who hates being told what to do." A giggle escapes you as she kisses you all over, your thighs, hips tummy- anywhere she can reach from where she's lay between your legs. Her uniform was discareded the minute you returned to your chambers, as was your gown and corset, swapped out for a simple nightgown.

"You like it when your future Queen controls you, don't you love?" You tangle your fingers in her messed up hair, tugging until she looks up at you. Her hands stilled on your hips, eyes full of love and arousal as she gazed up at you. "Yes, Your Highness."

Beneath her you shift, your legs falling open wider natraully. "Then prove it, love. Worship me, remind me why I'm marrying you." Sevika doesn't hesitate to move, pushing your nightgown up to bunch around your hips, the smell of your arousal flooding her senses instantly.

This was your fist night where she could take her time, she didn't have to hide how much she loved you, and she was going to make sure you felt it. She starts at your ankle, kissing her way slowly up your calf, her tongje dragging across the skin as she nips and bites your flesh, leaving her mark on her territory. "Gooood girl, that's it love." Your lips twitch as the little whimper that escapes her lips just as she reaches your knee.

"Anything for you, princess. Anything you want..." her fingers were already tucked into the waistband of your panties, ready to pull them off and devour you until you were satisfied. Admittedly, you were soaked. Sevika got you hot in ways you couldn't describe, she always had. But there was something about her, your protector, metaphorically on her knees for you... yeah, the wet patch on your white lace was justified.

Her kisses never stopped, never once faltered until she reached your core. Warm, wet and so inviting she couldn't help the shudder than ran over her. "This excited to get a taste love? You must be starved..." the teasing was worse. So much worse because it was true. Having to sneak around often left you both unable to get this far most of the time. Her birthday had come 8 months early. "I need to taste you princess... please?"

You lift her chin with two fingers, pulling her eyes away from your soaked panties. "Address me properly, use your words." Her eyes meet yours, heavy with lust and need like you'd never seen before.

"Please may I touch you, Your Highness? I promise to make you feel so, so good..." with a small nod you allow her to look back down, her eyes zeroing in on how your panties were sticking to your soaked folds. "Lift for me princess..."

As she peeled your spoiled panties down your thighs, the groan that left her was primal, natrual, like she had genuinely been so starved that she couldn't hold it in. Her hands groped your thighs, sure tk leave finger shaped bruises by morning as she dove in, burying her face into your heat like a woman starved. "Oh god... that's it love, make me f-feel good! Ohhh..." any preamble of being quiet was out the window, not that you needed to hide anymore, her warm, wet tongje dragging over your throbbing clit was enough to send waves of pleasure through every nerve ending in your body.

"So good... mmm taste- so good princess..." Sevika surprisingly managed to get out between desperate, needy licks and sucks on your cunt. Her nails were digging into your thighs deliciously as she feasted, your own arousal dripping down her chin, smeared all over her face. "Y-you're so messy love..." you cry out, tugging on her hair as she dips her tongue inside, her nose rubbing against your clit with each precise thrust.

"Need to get you some lessons in how to eat like a lady, don't I?" You tease softly, reveling in the little whine Sevika lets out into your cunt, the vibration only making it feels ten times better. Whether it was purely the fact that you were touch starved, or that it was Sevika or both... you were already so close. Your nails digging into her scaly, fists tugging her hair hard as your hips grind down, chasing her tongue despite it never leaving your heat.

"Please... please let me taste you princess..." Sevika mumbled, looking up at you from between your thighs with nothing but love and hunger swimming in those grey eyes. The combination of her tongue, her voice and her pure need sends you over the edge. Without hesitation Sevika laps up each drop of your release, simultaneously cleaning you up as you let go, unwilling to leave a single drop behind. She only stops -albeit with a whine- when you weakly tug at her hair, your hips twitching from overstimulation.

"That's enough love... you did so good just... give me a minute yeah?" You look down weakly, your fingers carding through her hair soothingly from where you had tugged on it too hard.

"We got all the time in the world now... right?"

"That's right. We've got it all."

⊹˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Not only did the King overturn the law requiring you to marry a royal, he wrote a new law, that the heir must not be married to be coronated as King or Queen. With the way your father acted and spoke about you your entire life you never thanked him, a last, subtle 'fuck you' to him. The media was in uproar, some claiming this was progressive and exactly what the world needed, other claiming it was a devastation and a 'disgrace to the Royal family'.

You could give less of a fuck what the medis thought, both you and Sevika handled it with grace in the public eye without letting yourselves be walked over, women had spent centuries taking it laying down and you would rather die than sit back and watch it happen for another second.

With your father aging and getting old, too old to deal with the uproar you caused... he abdicated, leaving you to step up and take the role. Which you did so happily. On your 26th birthday, your coronation was aired for the world to see, with Sevika looking devastatingly handsome at your side in her tailored suit- which you could tell she hated with how she kept clenching her jaw.

Later that summer, the two of you would marry. The first Lesbian royal wedding the world had ever seen... people expected the grand gestures, guest lists thousands long, extravagant dresses and flowers galore.

So when you didn't even air it live and had a simple video uploaded of your normal sized, intimate wedding people were a little disappointed to say the least. You wouldn't give in, you being the first two royal women to marry gave them no merit to turn your marrige into a spectacle, into something for their own enjoyment.

Sevika was immensely proud of you, her wife, the powerful woman you were always meant to be with her lifelong protector at her side... even if behind those doors she was on her knees for you the instant you asked.

There were several reasons why Harry liked being Princess Y/n’s on-duty guard. The first was that when the king called the calvary together for battle, the princess had insisted to her father that only Harry could watch over her properly, that she trusted no one else and because she always got what she wanted, the king allowed Harry to continue his station at the castle as the princess’s full-time guardian and protector. Being Y/n’s watcher was far better work than going into battle and getting one’s head chopped off, he thought. The second reason he liked being around the princess was that, as rude as she could be, she was entertaining. He enjoyed the unnecessary drama she caused, though he couldn’t tell you why he did. The third and most important reason was something he’d never tell anyone. It was because he was in love with her. And that third reason probably explained the second reason, but Harry didn’t try to think too deeply about that.

They were in the square that day. The princess had wanted to go shopping, and so Harry went with her, as was his duty. He stood about three feet back as he watched Y/n speak with some nobleman who he thought was standing a little too close for his liking. He shifted, hand on his belt, and narrowed his eyes at the man in his finely tailored getup. Y/n laughed and then casually looked over her shoulder, meeting Harry’s gaze and grinned. He knew the look. She was about to cause trouble again.

When she looked back at the man, she slid her arm into his, and they began to walk toward the fountain together. Harry swallowed and kept his usual distance, though now his attention and his focus were heightened. He would only allow this man to get as close as he was for just a little longer before he stepped in to intervene. And the princess knew that.

The moment they reached the fountain, Harry understood she had chosen the spot on purpose. Because the square was busy enough to make a scene risky, open enough that he could not very well drag her away without causing one himself, and close enough that he had an unobstructed view of the nobleman hovering at her side like a buzzing fly. The square around them was full of life and people milling about. And right in front of him, Princess Y/n was setting a trap, and only Harry was privy to what she was doing.

She paused at the fountain’s edge and pulled a coin from the little silk purse hanging at her wrist. The nobleman leaned closer, smiling as though he’d been granted some great intimacy. Harry’s posture drew tight as he watched.

Y/n turned the coin over between two fingers, glanced at the water, then bent slightly at the waist to toss it in, pressing her palm against the stone. It was hardly enough of a movement to warrant concern. Hardly enough for anyone to think she might fall. But she knew what she was doing, and the man next to her played right into her plan.

The nobleman shifted, his hands landed at her hips in a mockery of helpfulness, fingers spreading over the curve of her waist as though he had any right in the world.

And Harry, without much thought, moved before the coin had finished breaking the water. “Step away from her.”

His voice cut cleanly through the noise of the square, causing a few passersby to turn into spectators, slowing their steps to watch the performance.

The nobleman startled and removed his hands, though not quickly enough to satisfy Harry. Y/n straightened and turned, looking between them with a bright expression, waiting for the fire she started to be put out by her knight. Once again.

The man recovered himself with a forced smile. “The princess has asked me to accompany her.”

Harry stopped just in front of him, close enough now that the nobleman had to tip his chin up a fraction to maintain eye contact.

“I am the one accompanying her,” Harry said evenly. “And she did not ask you to place your hands on her.”

A flush rose in the man’s face. “I meant no offense, Sir Harry.”

“And yet you offend.”

The nobleman blinked, glancing at Y/n. “I was only… assisting.”

Harry flashed a look at Y/n. She was watching with open amusement, one gloved hand still laid flat over the fountain’s stone lip, as if this were all some private entertainment arranged solely for her. Which, he supposed, it was as this was her doing.

He looked back at the man. “You may leave now. She doesn't require your assistance.”

The nobleman puffed himself up then, offended now that there were more sets of eyes drifting their way, bits of attention catching on the edge of the confrontation. “You overstep yourself, knight.”

Harry stepped closer, then, only half a pace, but it was enough. Enough for the nobleman to acknowledge the warning in his posture. Enough for him to notice Harry’s hand settling on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“I guard her,” Harry said quietly, dangerously. “And I have reason to believe your intentions are not honorable. This is your last warning.”

The man looked at Harry’s hand, then at his face, searching perhaps for bluff, for hesitation, for some sign this might still be argued into a victory he could save face with. But there was no victory for the nobleman here. Even the princesses’s expression told him that much.

The look on his face soured. He gave Y/n a stiff bow that she did not bother returning with any sincerity, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the gathering crowd of onlookers.

Harry watched until the nobleman was fully swallowed by the movement of the square before he let his hand fall from his sword. Beside him, Y/n hummed in satisfaction and slid her arm through his as if nothing at all had happened. As if he had not spent the last minute imagining several deeply inappropriate ways he could use his sword on that nobleman.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughter tucked warm inside her voice, “there you go again, scaring off men needlessly.”

He kept his gaze on the square, posture straight, expression fixed into cool indifference, something he had spent years perfecting around her. “It was not needless.”

Her fingers tightened more snugly around his arm. “You looked ready to kill him.”

“He put his hands on you.”

“That is hardly a crime.”

“It was uninvited.”

That made her smile widen. He didn't need to look at her to know it was there.

She tipped her head, looking up at him. “And here I thought my guard was simply meant to be doing his duty.”

“I was.”

“Mm.” She let the sound linger. “Your duty does not include scaring away every man who speaks to me.”

Harry swallowed, not answering this time, eyes still shifting over the faces of the people in the square. That, more than any defense he could have made, seemed to amuse her.

They began to walk again at an unhurried pace, his stride even with hers. The people who’d been watching went back to their business as Y/n leaned into him just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but just enough that he had no chance of not feeling the warmth of her against his arm.

“Unless,” she said lightly, “I am meant to think you were jealous.”

His face stayed composed. “I am not jealous, Princess.”

She laughed softly, but there was an undercurrent of wickedness lying just beneath. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled through his nose and kept scanning the square, though every instinct he possessed was fixed on the woman at his side. And she knew it just as well as he did. They’d been at this for long enough to know what they were doing.

After a moment, she sighed with exaggerated disappointment. “Well. Whether it was jealousy or simply your usual impossible temperament, I cannot let it go unanswered.”

At that, his shoulders went subtly rigid, and he inhaled a heavier breath, already knowing what she meant.

Her thumb brushed over the sleeve at his forearm, a tiny hidden stroke no one else would notice. “You know what happens now.”

His throat bobbed as he forced a swallow. “Princess,” he said carefully, a warning that never once worked on her.

She only leaned closer, her mouth near enough that he caught the scent of her perfume. “You have been very possessive today, Sir Harry,” she murmured. “And since you insist on behaving so badly, I suppose you shall have to be punished tonight.”

He tensed his jaw, glancing down at her briefly and already imagining the scene in his head, knowing what was coming.

She drew back just enough to look up and meet his eyes. Her expression was full of false innocence and glittering mischief. “Tonight, you’ll stand guard inside my room, facing the door until I tell you otherwise.”

Harry’s cold features remained steady, but inside him, something hot and terrible turned over. They’d done this before. In fact, it had turned into a somewhat frequent punishment, if it could be called that. More like a tease. A forbidden fruit dangled just behind him, not allowed to look at it, or taste, or touch. He would only be allowed to listen and yearn while he stood with his cock hard and throbbing.

Y/n smiled and patted his arm, delighted with herself, and guided him farther into the square as though she had not just ruined him with a single sentence. And Harry, who would have followed her into hell itself if she asked, walked beside her in silence and began, already, imagining what sort of cruelty his princess would conjure up this time.

Harry stood near the center of the princesses’s room as she moved farther in without a word. She drifted through her room leisurely, as though this were any other night and not one carefully arranged to test the limits of his self-command.

Her chambers were as excessive as the princess herself. The ceilings soared overhead, tall windows framed the darkening sky, their long curtains stirred by a soft draft, beeswax candles burned in silver stands, mixing their warm sweetness with her perfume and the powdery lavender tucked into the linens by her maids. At the far end of the room stood her vast, canopied bed. Silk and feathers and secrets… Harry had imagined himself in it before, but he’d never allow himself to break his oath. He knew better than to risk it.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and watched her cross to the mirror. She took her time removing her gloves, peeling each finger free with excessive care before laying them on the dressing table. Then came the outer layer of her gown, the decorative sash first, then the jeweled pins at her shoulders. She hadn’t said a single word yet, nor had she looked at him. That was part of the game too. She knew he was watching. Knew his eyes would track every movement but he’d look away the moment she told him to.

Only after she had shrugged the heavier layer from her shoulders did she glance at him through the mirror. Harry’s expression was just as stoic as always, and Y/n smiled.

The lighter fabric beneath clung more closely when she moved, tracing the line of her back and waist before falling loose again. Almost indecent. Almost sheer, but not quite. Just enough to let him know she was thinking very carefully about what she was doing to him.

He hated how willingly he let her tease him this way, but still, he indulged in the sight of her while he had the chance. Because soon he’d be left with the view of the heavy oak doors and the sound of her doing things very unbecoming of a princess.

She crossed to the armoire, the huge carved thing nearly as tall as the posters on her bed, and drew it open. Inside hung silks and velvet and lace in creams and jewel tones, garments fit for a spoiled rich princess. She slid her fingers along them as though considering her choices, though Harry knew it was all just a show.

From one shelf she grabbed a thin folded fabric, then draped it over her arm, and from another she selected something smaller, which disappeared into her hand before he could make out what it was.

She closed the armoire and moved to the low chest of drawers beside it, the one tucked half out of sight near the bed. Harry swallowed as he watched her smile to herself and pull the top drawer open slowly. He knew better than to let his mind linger on what she kept there. He already knew in part that it was filled with things she kept secret. She looked back at him over her shoulder with a smirk that had no business appearing so innocent on her face as she reached inside.

She drew out two small objects and turned them over in her hands, as though they were no more scandalous than a comb or a ribbon. But if anyone had seen what Harry was, they’d be scandalized. They’d avert their eyes in shock that the princess had possession of such sordid things.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I am observing my surroundings, Princess.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “Of course you are. Obedient. Observant. Possessive…” She turned and looked at him, eyes sharp. “Maybe one day you’ll be brave enough to act on it. To forgo your orders and your oath and give in.”

Harry kept his mouth pressed together as he stood there, heart pounding. If he broke his command, his oath, he’d regret it, but he’d certainly enjoy it while it lasted. His fear was that he’d lose his post with her if he ever gave in to his desires. If he ever gave in to her.

She set one item on the bed and kept the other in hand as she pressed her knee into the soft blankets of her bed. The mattress dipped as the gauze curtains shifted around her. He watched as she climbed in, palms and knees pressed delicately into the down, her eyes on his with the slope of her throat exposed, the bare skin newly revealed where her earlier layers no longer concealed her as thoroughly.

Harry held himself still. Even if she was trying to tempt him, trying to get him to slip up, he would not.

“You were very bold today,” she said, running one fingertip over the bedcover beside her. “Putting your hand on your sword in the middle of the square. All that just for me?”

“He put his hands on you.”

“And you frightened him away for it.”

He blinked, looking at the item in her hand. “That was the intention.”

Her mouth curved. “Jealous, then.”

“No.” The lie came too quickly. They both knew it was lie.

Y/n sat back and smiled. “You do make this easy.”

Harry kept his hands locked behind his back. The picture of focus and rigidity. A man with the strength to resist his desires.

Her eyes flicked over his face, reading everything he would never say aloud. “That is enough.” She smiled playfully. “Take your place, Sir Harry. Face the doors.”

And because she had asked it of him, because she was his princess and his ruin, he obeyed, turning away to remove his gaze from her.

The doors stood tall and immovable before him with elegantly carved panels. A simple thing of wood and iron. Something he could fix his attention on, something that did not move, did not breathe, did not tempt.

Behind him, though, she began, and he took a breath, readying himself for the torture that was to come. He heard her sigh, then heard the whisper of silk sliding behind him, her last layers coming off, leaving her bare. He was already imagining the sweetest and prettiest thing spread out on her silk bed, only feet away, watching his back with a sly grin on her face.

Harry drew in another slow breath through his nose, held it, then released it carefully. An attempt to calm his racing heart and delay the inevitable rise of heat to his groin.

The bed shifted beneath her weight with a low creak, then a breath pushed from her mouth. The sound was soft at first, as if she were settling into the moment, tasting it, readying herself for what she was about to do.

“Comfortable?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, Princess.”

She hummed. “You don’t sound comfortable.”

“That is irrelevant.”

A breathy laugh drifted across the room. “Mm. Always so proper. So outwardly detached… Yet I wonder what goes on in that head of yours.”

There was another shift of fabric and Harry fixed his gaze harder on the door. To the iron handle. The grain of the wood. A small imperfection near the lower panel where time had worn the polish.

“It would be very easy, you know,” she said after a moment, voice quieter now, closer to something intimate. “To turn around.”

His jaw set. “I will not.”

“No?” There was a gentle lilt in her tone, coaxing. “Not even a little peek?”

“No.”

Behind him, she shifted again. The bed creaked softly in response, followed by a quiet, almost thoughtful exhale.

“I know… But I do wonder,” she mused, “how long it would take.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, forcing his focus back to the door. “For what, Princess?”

“For you to forget your duty.”

“I will not forget. You have told me to face the door, and that is what I shall do.”

Her voice softened, threading something warmer through the teasing. “You’ve thought about it. Disobeying. Taking a look. Touching…”

Harry inhaled through his nose, chest rising and falling a little harder just as she made a small noise. Pleasure and need, barely a sound, but a breath in, then easing out again.

“You could,” she continued. “No one would know. The door is closed. The other guards are posted outside and they can’t hear. If I told you to turn and watch, would you?”

Harry swallowed. He didn’t know how he survived her teasing, in truth. She drove him mad.

“If you commanded it, then I would do as I was told.”

“Mmm…” she moaned. “But I want to see you break your orders.”

“My duty is not conditional.”

“But,” she said, a hint of laughter slipping through, “you wish you could.”

“I only wish to do as you tell me.”

“Liar. I know you wish you could see this.”

She shifted behind him again. Movement and fabric. A quiet rhythm beginning and then a soft gasp. Harry’s breath grew heavier, and he fixed his eyes on the polish of the wood, steadying himself.

“You are cruel to me, Princess,” he said, voice low.

“Am I?” she replied, pleased.

Another breath left her, slipping free, a little shaky. He realized while she was performing, there was lust in the sound. Whatever she was doing, it felt good for her.

Harry’s fingers curled slightly against his palms, skin heating under his regimental garb.

“You’re listening very closely,” she said lightly.

“I am standing guard.”

“Of course you are.” Her breath shuttered. “Keep listening. Want you to hear it all.”

The rhythm behind him shifted again, just enough to break whatever fragile composure he had managed to reconstruct.

“Harry…” she moaned his name.

He shut his eyes and swallowed. “Yes, Princess.”

She answered with another soft inhale, then his name was breathed into the air again. Her tone was warmer, less playful now. He knew it was only a matter of time before she lost control of the sounds she made at all. Before she was moaning his name like he was the one there in her bed, fucking her and not the phallus-shaped wand she liked to use on herself.

The sounds she made began to settle low in his chest, warmth spreading fast to his stomach and then crawling lower, taking hold of his cock. Never had he been reduced to a panting, leaking mess without being touched before. Only with her. His spoiled princess.

“If you could see this,” she whispered. “Just once, you wouldn’t be able to resist again.”

“No.” His voice came out rougher now.

She made a soft sound. “You are too good, knight. Too obedient.”

The bed creaked again, a little louder this time, followed by a breath that broke unevenly before smoothing out to a soft hiss.

“One day you will lose this fight. It will be so sweet to see you give in.”

Harry exhaled slowly, forcing the tension back into something he could barely contain. He stood facing the door, every muscle locked in place, every sense betraying him, every thought circling the same impossible desire, but still, he obeyed.

The next sound she made wasn’t soft at all. It slipped out of her like something she couldn’t hold any longer, a breath breaking into a needy, open-mouthed moan that echoed off the high ceilings. The shift in tone alone was enough to make Harry’s spine go rigid, his shoulders pulling tighter as if he could physically brace himself against it.

There was no mistaking it now. He could hear that she was fully lost in it. Completely taken by lust and pleasure.

The bed creaked again, more insistently this time, the rhythm no longer tentative. He could practically imagine her hand moving, wrapped around the wand, fucking herself as she stared at his back. Then it was wet, the softest claps of sound came from her bed as she thrust the thing into herself in smooth strokes. Or maybe she was humping it over her pillow, bouncing her little cunt on the wand, legs spread as she lifted and lowered. Both images were equally enticing.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw as the unmistakable slick sound reached him, timed with her panting breaths. His mind betrayed him, painting the picture he was forbidden to see… his princess spread open on her silk sheets, fingers glistening, that damned wand tucked deep inside of her.

“Harry…” she breathed again, and this time his name dragged, stretched thin with want. “Can you hear me? Hear the way I get so wet for you.”

“Princess…” He warned, not wanting to play into it too much but still hopelessly wishing he could see it with his own eyes.

“Harry… my big knight… Tell me you hear me.”

“Yes,” he said, though the word felt tight in his throat. He blinked hard as his cock swelled against his trousers.

“Good.” A shaky inhale. “Then listen to it properly.”

Of course he was listening properly. He wouldn’t have been able to ignore any of it even if he tried. Not when it was her behind him, naked, hot, wet, with his name on her tongue.

“I’ve got my fingers on myself—oh! On my clit…” she moaned. “But if it were your fingers...” A soft, breathy laugh followed, almost embarrassed at how easily the words came now. “I know you’d take your time… You’d take such good care of me.”

His hand twitched behind his back, and he huffed through his nose. If he were ever permitted to touch her that way, he would take care of her. He’d explore every part and have her coming over and over again before he even allowed himself the pleasure to come. He’d force orgasm after orgasm from her just so he could see it and hear her begging for mercy, but just as she never seemed to let up with him, he wouldn’t let up either. He’d have her bawling and exhausted by the time he was done with her.

“Your hands are so big,” she went on, almost thoughtfully, though her breathing kept catching. “I’d get your palm all wet... I keep thinking about how you’d fill me too… how you’d stretch me properly. Just your fingers…”

Harry shut his eyes hard again, a quiet, controlled inhale doing nothing to cool the throbbing of his heavy cock. He’d already imagined his hand wet with her many times. He’d see to it that she made a mess… He scolded himself for humoring those thoughts, even if hidden only in his head.

“I would not—”

“You would,” she cut in softly, almost lazily, though her voice trembled. “You just won’t admit it.”

The wet sounds grew louder. Faster.

“And this—” she continued, breath rising, “this little wand…” A faint hum of pleasure vibrated through her words. “It barely does it for me.”

He swallowed. He could imagine her fully. See every crevice, every bend, the soft skin on her hips, the way her belly would quiver the closer she got. Her pretty breasts… He’d never seen her naked, but he knew she would be pretty. He knew she’d bring him to his knees if he ever saw her like that.

“Oh…” she panted, almost sweetly. “It’s hitting deep—” Her voice broke into an unrestrained gasp. “Oh my god, Harry…” A small mewl fell from her as the slushy sound of her cunt wrapped around the wand reached his ears once again. “But you would stuff me so full, wouldn’t you, knight? You’d show me what it really felt like to be with a man…”

His composure cracked just slightly as his head dipped forward a fraction, breath deepening. But this was the way. Sometimes she did it fast, other times she took so much time getting herself off he’d get dizzy from need. He was on the verge right then. Goosebumps scattering over his skin as he checked his urge to pull his cock out and pump himself.

Behind him, the pace picked up. The bed answered with a louder creak, the canopy swaying faintly as it shifted with her movements. Her breathing turned uneven, little gasps breaking through with increasing frequency, each one sharper than the last.

“Oh, yessss…” she said, broken. “My pussy is so wet... For you.”

He clutched his hands tight, resisting his urges, refusing to break.

“Please,” she pressed, voice slipping into something almost delirious. “Oh, my god… It feels so good.”

Harry shifted his weight, subtle but necessary, his stance tightening as the pressure became impossible to ignore. His arms moved from behind his back without thought, settling in front of him, one hand pressing briefly against the front of his trousers before stilling again like he’d burned himself.

Behind him, she laughed softly when she saw it.

“There it is,” she breathed. “You want it. How big has your cock grown?”

“I am maintaining my post,” he said, though his voice had lost its edge of control.

“As you always do,” she whispered, but there was no bite in it anymore. Only heat.

The rhythm on the bed turned frantic, the princess losing all of her composure. Her sounds spilled freely now… moans, gasps, broken little cries of his name threaded through it all. The slick, insistent noise of her movements filled the space between them, wrapping around him, dragging him deeper into something he could no longer pretend he wasn’t part of.

“Harry—” she gasped, louder now, desperate. “Mmm…”

His eyes snapped shut again as he palmed at his cock before clasping his hands into fists and forcing them back to his side.

“I’d let you do anything if you broke your duty,” she rambled on. “You could have me however you like.” Her voice broke into a sharp cry. “Whichever hole you wanted. All of them. Oh… stuff me and fuck me so good I never need this wand again.”

His breath stuttered as his dick twitched. He could feel himself leaking at his tip. His body stiff as a board as the princess fucked herself with a thing that he knew wasn’t giving her the kind of pleasure he could.

“Oh! Ffff… Mmm… M’gonna come… Please…”

The bed knocked lightly against the wall, and she cried out—loud, uncontrolled, her voice echoing.

“Please—please break it—fuck me raw and come inside of me… let me feel it…”

He groaned. She still hadn’t given the proper command for him to do any different, so he wouldn’t. Even if she was begging him to break his duty, he would need her words to say it plainly before he did anything but stare at the door.

“I won’t.”

But now his hand moved back into place over his crotch, pressed harder, grip tightening through the fabric, betraying him completely as he rubbed over himself. His neck strained to keep facing the door, and he let out a quiet, broken gasp of his own.

She was too far gone to care. Her words dissolved into cracked sounds, breath rising and falling frantically as she chased something just out of reach for him to see. The rhythm stammered, then surged, faster, sloppier, the slick sounds turning almost frantic. And the moans coming from her were obscene. Like tiny whimpered noises, hot breaths, soft hisses, whiny panting gasps.

“Harry… Oh, Harry—Yesss! Mmm!”

Then he heard her shatter. A sharp, choked cry tore from her as the bed creaked loudly beneath her, the movement abrupt and uncoordinated as pleasure overtook her completely. He let out a moan just as he heard the canopy rustling, the mattress shifting hard under her as she rode it out, breath coming in ragged, gasping pulls.

He pressed his free palm to the door, head dropped as he worked his thickened cock over his pants the best he could. He wouldn’t come like this, but it gave him relief, nonetheless. It would have to do until he could take a break and finally have his own release.

Harry stood frozen, every muscle locked, except for the hand still pressed tight and smoothing at the front of his trousers. He was so hard he could feel the swollen ridges of his head and down the length of his shaft, even over the fabric. His head bowed just slightly as he fought for control that felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

When her breaths slowed and the slick sounds evaporated as she came down, he bit into his lip and straightened himself back out, hands shaky as he pulled them behind his back, even though his dick was leaking and pulsing with need.

She moaned and then laughed. He heard fabric sliding, heard her breaths, and then her feet hitting the ground. He swallowed, wishing he could just look, but he would not. Not until she told him. Not until she commanded it.

Then he felt her hand on the back of his arm as she came in next to him. “Oh, you poor thing. That must hurt.”

He swallowed, keeping his eyes on the door in front of him. When he didn’t respond, she chuckled and slid in front of him, leaning her back against the door. He still didn’t look, but he could tell she’d put on her robe.

“Stand at ease, Sir Harry. That is your command now. You may look if you wish. You’ve kept your duty well.”

He flitted his eyes down over her. The thin silk robe barely covered much, nor did it hide the swell of her breasts and the peak of her nipples under it. Y/n smiled as soon as she saw where his gaze caught, then lifted a hand and cupped his cheek gently, her palm warm against skin that already felt too hot, too tight, too alive. Her thumb stroked along the sharp line of his cheekbone.

“You are all flushed,” she said, amused and almost sweet. “Warm.” Her mouth quirked up. “I think that was punishment enough, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. It was the safest thing he could do. His throat had gone dry, and he did not trust his own voice not to betray him if he tried to answer properly. Even now, with her robe on and the game apparently done—for now—he could feel his restraint like something physical under his skin, pulled so taut it hurt.

Her eyes glittered when she saw him choose silence over speech.

“Yes,” she said softly, as though confirming something to herself. “That’s what I thought.”

She kept her hand at his face a moment longer, looking him over with that infuriating, intimate attention of hers, as if she enjoyed seeing all the places where discipline failed to conceal what she had done to him. Harry met her gaze because he could do that much, because now she had allowed it, because she stood directly in front of him and he had no command to disobey in looking. But meeting her eyes was scarcely easier than staring at the door had been.

There was too much triumph in her expression. Too much certainty that she knew exactly what lived in him at that moment.

Then she tilted her head and said in a brighter, lighter tone, “One day, I’ll see you losing your control. You cannot keep denying yourself forever, good knight.”

A rough sound left him before he could smooth it away, almost a grunt, almost a laugh. He blinked and managed to speak, “I will never disobey the princess’s command.”

Y/n clicked her tongue at him. “Always the same answer,” she said. “Duty, duty, duty.” Her fingers slipped from his cheek and began a slow path downward, gliding over the front of his garb, tracing the embroidered edge near his collar, then down the center of his chest with no hurry at all. “You hide behind it all so well.”

He could feel her hand through the fabric. The drag of her palm, the press of her fingertips, the warmth of her skin carried through linen and leather and all the useless layers meant for modesty and protection and rank. None of them did a damn thing. Not against her. Even if he appeared unbothered.

She stopped with her hand splayed over his heart, then she hummed, pleased, because of course she felt it. The pounding. The wild, humiliating force of it that he simply could not control. He had faced battle lines with a steadier pulse than this. He had stood bloodied and half-blind in rain and mud with calmer breath than he had now, with her in her silk robe against the door, her hand over his chest, smiling like she had discovered some private little miracle beneath his ribs.

“My,” she said. “The way your heart is pounding...”

He clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to her palm and then sliding back up to look at her face.

She leaned in a touch more, pressing her palm more firmly over his heart as if to test whether it could beat any harder. “It’s almost as though you care,” she said.

“I do care, princess. You know I do.”

Her expression softened, the mischief still there, the delight still there, but touched now by something quieter. Something sweeter now. Then she smiled again and slid her hand from his chest down to the belt at his waist, not enough to be considered a mercy, but enough to make him inhale sharply and set every muscle in his body on edge.

“This is why I keep you,” she said softly.

Harry stared down at her. She was infuriating and beautiful, and he didn’t know which was truly worse. She scraped the nails of two fingers lightly against the center of his belt, then let her hand fall away before his control could splinter further.

“Be grateful,” she said, stepping around him at last. “I am in a merciful mood tonight.”

Harry turned his head to follow her with his eyes. She crossed back toward the bed, thin silk flowing around her legs, one hand gathering the robe closer though she knew perfectly well it hid very little. She glanced over her shoulder and found him still watching.

“Go on,” she said. “Brood. Glower. Stand there and convince yourself this is all beneath your dignity.”

A tiny smile tugged, unwilling, at the corner of his mouth, and she saw it. Her brows lifted.

“There,” she said, delighted. “Proof that you enjoy it. Aside from that big hard-on you’re suffering with.” She glanced down at his crotch.

He gave a slow exhale through his nose. “I apologize, Princess. It is improper, but I am not able to control it when you—”

“When I… what?” she laughed, turning away again. “When I get off and moan your name while you listen? Yes, I know. But it would be awfully disappointing if you didn’t get hard. If you truly didn’t care. That would hurt my feelings.”

This was a game to her, and to him too in many ways. A contest made of duty and temptation, command and obedience, honed every time she smiled at another man just to see Harry intervene, every time she ordered him to stand facing a door while she ruined him by inches from the other side of his discipline. A private war fought in the space between what she commanded and what he ached to do.

One day, one of them would lose.

Either Harry would finally break, turn at the wrong moment, reach for her without permission, let want outrun honor and drag duty down with it… Or she would tire of winning by rule, summon him to her bedside with that same spoiled little smile, and command him not to look away again.

Y/n settled herself against the pillows and reached for a book from the table beside her, as though she had not just spent the evening torturing him for sport. “Come. Read to me.”

He inclined his head and moved toward her. It was not typical for a royal knight to read books as part of his guard duty, but for Harry, nothing about his post with Y/n was typical. But that was part of what made it so fun.

Secretly, he loved reading to her. Liked the way she’d cuddle into her pillow and blink her pretty eyes up at him and smile as he spoke the words on the page in his deep, slow drone. Loved watching her eyelids grow heavy and the way her breath would even out before she fell asleep.

He settled into the cushioned chair next to her bed, and she rolled to her side to face him as he reached for the book. He opened it, flipping to the page where they’d left off from the night before, and cleared his throat.

“Chapter Seven,” he said, as Y/n’s lashes lowered and her smile turned small and satisfied against the pillow, her eyes on him as he began to read.

And even if he’d been left with an unquenchable thirst for the young woman lying in her bed next to where he sat, he felt more than fulfilled just to be there with her at all. To be at her beck and call, to read books to her at night, to listen while she pleased herself in hopes of making him break. He would take whatever closeness and whatever cruelty she gave him and ask for nothing more.

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"You were not at the party this evening." 

"Oh really? Who told you that?"

"The walls have ears, Princess." He stepped forward, not fully into your chambers but at a respectable distance for his standing. "Your father asked me to bring you." 

You rolled your eyes. "Spare me. I wasn't planning on going anyway." 

"Your father, the king—" he reminded you sternly, as if you're not constantly reminded enough, "—said he wanted to see you—"

"Please, he doesn't want to see me. He wants to keep up appearances for his guests. Show them a fairy tale of a father and daughter who are happy." 

"If it were true, it's still rude to miss your father's birthday celebration—"

Your groan interrupted him, loud and obnoxious. The type of groan a teenage daughter would give to a parent—but it was far from it. He was your knight, the one who swore to protect and serve you. The one who was capable of killing another for your honor. A duty he doesn't take lightly you've noticed, based on many occasions in which you were threatened by opposing foes in your father's wake. 

You trusted him, he trusted you. A pledge written in the stars. But trust can only go so far. 

“What will you do when you become queen?" He questioned, "You will rule one day, become the people's hope. You can not keep ignoring your duties to the throne—" he stopped when you slammed the book you were reading shut. "— and… to your father." He continued cautiously. " A princess does what she is asked of, a Queen does what's needed—"

“If I were Queen," you ignored his words of wisdom. "I would do whatever I want without a rude knight occupying my every move.” 

"Interesting dream," he huffed a laugh, "but I'm afraid that is impossible." 

"And why is that?"

"Your father wouldn't allow it."

"Oh don't be so sure." You quipped, standing up from your bed. "And maybe, I'll find a knight who'll let me be. Someone who will do whatever I say."

For as long as he's been your knight, he's been at your heel 24/7. Constantly monitoring your every move and decisions— something your father no doubt instilled in him to do. 

"I do whatever you say," He said with offense, "that is my duty—"

"No, you do whatever my father says. Not the same." 

You walked across the room until you met the round table stationed a few feet away from Remmick. You placed your hand on the table, admiring the makeshift layout of the kingdom, wooden figures created by hand that were given to you by your father on your tenth name day— a small gift in hopes that you would understand what you would rule over one day once he meets the same fate as your late mother. 

"Could you close the door for me?" You asked. 

Remmick bowed his head, turning to shut the doors of your chambers. 

"My father, the king, has enough puppets in his hand. I, for one, refuse to be one of them." you grumbled, "He rules with a fist, I want to rule with my heart."

"And what does your heart say?"

Your gaze found his, "I'm…I'm not sure. But I am sure that I will find it when that day comes." Your gaze dropped, "For now, I want to hold what little freedom I have in this kingdom and not go to a party filled with cunts who my father will hope I marry someday." 

You knocked over the figure shaped like a knight, something Remmick noticed straight away. 

"Come now, I have an offer to make."

He watched as you trailed around the table, stalking over to the edge. You faced him, giving him your full undivided attention— eyes boring into him like a storm waiting to happen. 

“As your Princess, you would do anything for me, yes?”

Remmick's lips quirked, "Of course, but what are you getting at?"

"So… as your future Queen that also still stands?"

"Yes." He said, unsure of what you were trying to pull. 

"A Queen," you said slowly, "deserves to have the highest loyalty in the kingdom. Trusted servants and people who believe in her— are willing to bring her comfort and satisfaction on all accounts. Someone who is devoted to her and her only. " You crossed your arms over your chest. 

He tilted his head. 

“So…as your future Queen, I commend you, ser Remmick—"

His eyes widened at your next choice of words. 

"I want you to get on your knees and swear loyalty to me. Not to my father, but to me and me alone.” 

It wasn't a request, much less a command. It was your birthright, what you were destined to be the moment you came into life. 

He didn't have to think about it. He took a few steps towards you and then slowly got down on one knee, eyes never breaking from yours. Loyalty and devotion at the front. 

"As your knight," he breathed, the words flowing out as a testament to his sworn allegiance. "I will serve and protect you."

"Forever?"

"Forever." 

You frowned slightly, unsure if his words were fully true. "You will do as I say with no questions asked?"

"With you, there will be no questions for your words are true." He said, bowing his head "My duty is to you and you alone. Anything you want from me shall be granted no matter the price to pay."

He shuddered when he felt your hand soothing over his head, fingers curling through the thick black strands. 

"I am devoted to you—" he lifted his head, eyes peering up like a guard dog embraced in its master's love. "Your Grace." 

The moment your hand found his face, thumb brushing over his cheek, he nuzzled softly into your skin, shutting his eyes in content. He inhaled harshly and then exhaled softly, relief suddenly found in the palm of your hand. 

"What a loyal dog you've become Ser Remmick." you cooed, "Perhaps you deserve a reward for showing me how proud you are of me?"

His eyes snapped open. 

"Princess—" a strong tug against his scalp corrected him. "Y-Your grace?"

"Sniff." You commanded. 

He turned his head, nose burying into your palm. He took a deep sniff, breathing in the small scent of your hand— the smell of old wood and parched paper, things you touched while you've been declaring your position of power. His lips found your skin and he placed a sweet delicate kiss, shutting his eyes once more, delivering more and more without a complaint in sight. 

He turned your hand over, his lips finding the back of your hand and he placed a kiss there too. "Y-Your Grace, I give my life to you and you alone. I will do whatever you ask of me." 

"Show me." 

"Let me bring you relief," he started, "let me worship you as one does a God." 

You didn't need to ask what he meant, you've seen that look before, that hunger deep in his face— the type of look a man with nothing to lose had to offer. 

"Oh, Ser Remmick, do you deserve that sort of reward?"

"Please," he begged, "I shall do my duty in making sure you are satisfied." 

"Very well." 

His mouth watered when you grabbed your dress to pull it up, the bottom half of it sitting over your hips, holding it tightly in place. 

"Eat." 

He crawled closer to you, his gloved fingers finding your hips. He inhaled sharply when he caught sight of your exposed gem hidden underneath, waiting for its knight to claim. 

You spread your legs open, inviting him to taste. "Well?" 

"Thank you, your grace. I shall make sure I don't disappoint." 

"Good."

He kissed along your knee first, then over your plush thighs. Breathing in the heavy scent of you the closer he got. He pulled one of your legs up to rest on his shoulder, spreading open more for his head to nudge between your legs. 

He kissed the inside of your thigh, licking at the warmth spread over your skin. And then he found your cunt waiting, begging for him to come closer and closer— like a bee to honey. A gracious feat that no man could ever deny. 

He pressed his nose in first, breathed you in, shuddered at the sweet smell of your warmth. 

"Ser Remmick," you said, breathlessly, white-hot need brewing in your core. "Don't tease." 

"I'm sorry, your grace." 

He kissed your mound with love, using his hands to hook over your bottom to press you closer. 

His mouth found your cunt easily, flicking out to lick over the short coarse hair, perfectly content in his role as your makeshift lover of sorts. 

He guided you to spread yourself further open, cunt opening up to him like a treasure chest, and when his lips found that sensitive bud he craved oh so dearly— sucking you in like a man parched. Your knees buckled immediately, your weight dropping over his face. 

"S-Ser Remmick—" you gasped, knuckles going white around the table. 

Your moans sharpened when the tip of his tongue circled over, a light vibration ringing through his mouth at the taste of your undoing. 

He bared your weight with honor, tasted you with grace, melted into the sweet sounds of your voice— duties fulfilled at the utmost highest regard. 

One of his large hands found your waist, beckoning you to do as you please, pulling you forward so that your cunt could roll over his face— his nose digging into the heat of your body. He sniffed, unashamed, committing you to memory for nights where he will have to spend his time alone in the coldness of his chambers. 

"S-Ser—" you dropped the title when his tongue dipped past your folds and into the source of your core. "R-Remmick!"

When you looked down, your face sizzled with warmth at how deeply his eyes were staring up at you. Dark and hungry, swirled with a mix of want and eagerness to swallow you whole. 

He pulled his mouth away just slightly, not wanting to be too far. "Y-Your grace— you taste divine, like the richest wine one could acquire." He licked his lips, cleaning off the slick with pride. "Will you grant me the honor of serving me more?" 

"M-More?" 

"More." 

You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. 

"Thank you, your grace." 

He didn't waste time diving back in, licking you clean, greedy for more. He guided you to rock into him, your cunt grinding down on his face. He stayed completely still on his knees, his trousers growing tight— his cock filling with an ache he'll deal with after. 

Unless you were to grant him another reward for a job well done. 

His nose kept bumping against your clit, forcing deep gasps to slur from your mouth. 

"G-Good— right there—" 

His tongue found its way to go deeper, feeling your cunt catch around him, igniting a soft purr to brew from his chest. 

Your back dug into the edge of the table, your hips no longer yours to control for he held onto you tightly, forcing you to roll over his face harder— his hand squeezing around your bottom to push you forward at his will. 

He wanted to feel you come, wanted you to know that it was his doing that served you and you alone. 

Your knight— the one who was fully devoted to your every need. 

"Rem—" you gasped, throwing your head back with a harsh whine. "Fuck— I'm—"

He dragged his tongue up from your hole, catching against your folds until he wrapped his lips back around your bud, circling with feverish desperation. 

You nearly tumbled over when his teeth grazed, tugging at your clit with teasing light pulls. 

"C-Careful!" You cried. 

He blinked up at you, apologizing with a slow lick, and then he went back down to slip his tongue past your folds as he did before. 

You shut your eyes, groaning out curses and praises, holding onto his hair like a handle— pulling and jerking when you felt heat pool lower into your stomach. 

"Y-Your Queen is near—" you warned, finding a small rhythm of your own by rolling your hips back to meet his harsh pull forward. "R-Remmick— f-fuck— I'm close—" 

He acknowledged your statement with a short hum, a groan soon following when your other thigh met his ear, both legs now resting over his shoulders. Securing him in place with his tongue deep into your cunt and his nose squished against your clit. Your back bended, the new position placing you on top. 

You couldn't hold your weight anymore, couldn't carry on much longer— but he kept still while you took over, grinding down on his face with no remorse. His cock ached when he felt your cunt pulse, groaning softly when you moaned his name, slurring the R and the M, voice jumping another octave like you were singing the climax of a musical note. 

He stayed in place as all knights should, serving their queen with everything they have. It didn't matter that you were merely suffocating him, as long as you found your relief in him, that's all that mattered. 

He stayed there until you came back down, hips still rocking forward to find a quiet end, dripping over his face like honey. 

Soon, you found the strength to hold your body back up, legs falling over his shoulders with wobbly balance but he held you in place. You straightened your legs gradually, taking a tiny step back 

You almost gasped when you saw him. 

His bangs were damp against his forehead, his nose and the bottom portion of his face glistened, the light catching over. His tongue peeked out to run over his top lip, a smirk in place, cleaning over remnants of your sinful act. 

"Ser… you look—"

"D-Did my Queen enjoy herself?" He ignored your concern, having little interest in the way he looked. "I am honored your grace allowed me to show her how devoted I am." He bowed his head but then quickly looked back up at you. "For this kind offer, I am forever in your debt." 

You sighed softly, a quiet laugh forming. "Please, you flatter me. I was merely rewarding my favorite knight."

"I'm your only knight." 

You couldn't help but notice the possessive tone in his statement. 

"Perhaps," your hand found his soaked chin, thumb rolling over slick. "But for your gracious act, I shall keep you." You rolled your slicked thumb over his bottom lip, until the tip slipped into his mouth and he welcomed it easily. Lips wrapping around your digit. 

"What do you think of that?" You pulled your thumb out, earning a small grumble from your knight. 

"T-Thank you, your grace." 

You cleaned your thumb over his cheek, patting his face like a master does to its favorite companion. 

"My, should I help you with that?"

Remmick froze, catching your gaze pointed downward. The strain against his trousers was prominent enough to bulge through the fabric. 

"Y-Your grace— I don't think—" 

"Stay down, Ser Remmick," You grinned, your foot finding his lap "let your Queen treat her hound." 

Your foot pressed against his cock, rubbing it back and forth— laughing lightly at his tiny gasps and whines. 

He looked at you with the most precious puppy dog face a human could muster, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. "—Grace— I—" 

"You dare decline my gift?" You punctuated with a hard push against the indent of his cock. Your authoritative tone, crippled with a mean offense to his ego, made him snap his mouth shut. 

You pressed down harder, "Apologize." 

"I-I'm sorry—s- shit—" his hips lifted from the ground, "your grace— i-I'm sorry—"

"Mhm, you can do better than that." 

He rocked his hips forward, breathing hard and heavy, teeth shredding his bottom lip. He felt his end drawing near, your foot rolling over his cock in quick sharp jerks— your eyes like daggers as you watched him crumble like paper. 

"Y-Your grace— f-fuck— your g-grace— please—" he slurred in tight gasps, "I'm sorry—"

You hummed, never taking your weight off his length. "Good boy— think you deserve to find that sweet release for your impudence?"

"N-No—" he almost broke down into a frenzy when you took your foot off, moving to place your legs between his spread thighs. 

"As your gracious Queen, I've been known to show mercy for those who need it." Your hand found the crown of his head, fingers intertwining with his damp curls. "Show me how devoted you are to me." 

He didn't need to ask what you meant, his body moved for him. Arms wrapping around your leg, his cock pressed against your shin, begging for that warmth he tasted, wishing it could be in but denied. He stared up at you, cheeks flushed, mouth dropped open and did the unthinkable. 

"Y-Yes, your Grace." 

He humped your leg like a dog in heat, snapping his hips forward with uncontrollable lust. He panted and whined, spit dribbling at the corner of his mouth, eyes dropping shut from pure bliss— but you tugged at his scalp, forcing him to keep his gaze on you. 

"T-Thank you," he gasped, "F-For your mercy—" he sucked in a breath when your knee pressed into his chest, bringing your leg into him further. "Y-Your Grace—"

"That's it, keep going."

" I'm c-close—"

"Not until I say so." 

He held his tongue, refusing to talk back, lest he earn a punishment far worse. He kept his head up, kissing along your knee, licking at your skin to taste the bead of sweat forming from his face constantly pressing against it. 

"C-Can I?"

"Hold it." 

He swallowed hard, throat suddenly too dry, body burning for some form of relief. 

He continued to fuck against your leg, a glossy haze forming over his eyes. "N-Now?"

You shook your head. 

"Y-Your Grace— I-I can't hold—fuck— I can't—"

"You're so pretty when you beg." 

He shuddered, thighs drawing closed. "Now—"

"Preceded." 

His words went into a loop, chanting thank you over and over until he couldn't, rocking into your legs with uncontrollable lust. He came, a messy wet stain beading at the front of his clothes within seconds, a messy declaration sitting proudly between his legs. 

"Tha—nk you— t-thank you— thank- y-ou—" he chanted, gasping in between, pumping everything that has been pent up since the moment he swore his life to you. 

You pushed his sweaty bangs back from his forehead, admiring how pretty he looked debauched — pathetic at the hands of his future Queen. 

"Hm, you did a good job," you hummed softly. "Should we get to that party now? Can't have my father waiting any longer, now can we?"

"Y-Yes—" he gave a slight nod, "Your Grace." 

⤷user: The speed of his like was actually athletic

⤷user: HE IS AN ATHLETE HELLO😭

⤷user: His thumb broke the sound barrier

ferrariofficial: 👋

⤷user: THIS IS SO SUS

⤷user: okay what

⤷what's with these people😭

⤷user: ADMIN BLINK IF CHARLES IS DATING THE PRINCESS

⤷user: but why would you all think charles is dating the princess😅

⤷user: GIRLIE YOU'RE NOT UPDATED, THERE ARE ALREADY LOTS OFFF LEAK😭

⤷user: is that fucking real

⤷user: OH MY GOD WHAT

user: he liked one post too fast and you guys are acting crazy

user: but don't deny it make sense😭

user: for real like it doesn't make sense but it does at the same time😔

user: crazy theory from one like but if this actually becomes real, Monaco be like...👑🏎

user: I know damn sure you typed this so fast cause the errors are crazy

user: Probably tryna get it out of his brain😂

user: My grandma says she saw the princess at a florist last week with a man I’m not even joking

user: I need confirmation immediately, I'm gonna lose my mind😭

private message between you and Charles

user: BACK DOOR EXIT IS SO BOYFRIEND BEHAVIOR I’M SCREAMING

user: security looked very stressed in those photos

user: and in the parking lot for fucking sake, he parked practically next to the palace driver, mate's awful at being subtle😭

user: Not Charles thinking the hood would hide his entire identity💀

user: it was too obvious too, in a ferrari hoodie😭

user: you guys are crazy🤡

user: who wouldn't?? it's the princess of Monaco and charles leclerc, it's basically a bomb🤷‍♀️

group chat of wags (without you)

user: is that the princess

user: yes

user: why is she not wearing her usual

user: that's the point, she probably went somewhere with charles😭

user: WHY CHARLES😭

user: IDK GIRLIE

user: she must be going somewhere different, stop trying to make it a big deal

user: SHE'S THE PRINCESS OF MONACO🙄

user: SO WHAT? LET HER BE

user: this is why royalties wants to step down, y'all watching every move😩

charlesleclerc

liked by landonorris, palacehandler, oscarpiastri and others

charlesleclerc somewhere quiet

POST IS DELETED

user: he fucking posted after all rumors and deleted it a second after

user: that's the hand of the princess, he ain't fooling us😭

user: maybe it's not the princess, let's all calm down

user: THAT'S THE PRINCESS, LOOK AT HER DELICATE HAND

grid group chat

private message between you and charles

user: High-profile athlete HELLO??? THEY’RE COOKING

user: the higher athletes I know in F1 are Lewis and Max tho😔

user: oh come on have you look at charles? that man looks like a freaking royalty

user: Ferrari hospitality mentioned in the article should be the sign tbh, Palace is too strict for that😭

user: Whoever wrote this article is basically screaming CHARLES LECLERC.

user: THE PALACE WROTE IT😭😭

user: If this isn’t about Charles I’ll eat my balcony

user: your what

user: I'll screenshot this for the future, get ready😏

private message between you and charles

- DAY AFTER -

user: AND THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT?

user: Bro I literally found out here too

maxverstappen: this was the last thing I expected when opening Twitter, congrats

user: A princess. insane. Congrats!!!

youruncle: Our Princess and her Prince-to-be! What a beautiful announcement🕊️

user: CHARLES BAGGED AN ENTIRE PRINCESS. KING BEHAVIOR.

user: Charles Leclerc being a future royal is not something I had in my 2025 bingo card

user: bro married the country he grew up racing in this is poetic cinema

user: DON'T WORD IT LIKE THAT WTF😭

user: HELP??? HE’S GONNA BE IN LAWS WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY?? CHARLES HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO JUST BE NORMAL.

user: thinking about the fact he probably had to ask the queen and king for permission ??? my knees are weak

user: OMG RIGHT I WONDER HOW

user: TEACH US YOUR WAYS LECLERC

user: drop the tut🤣🙏

user: ferrari strategists when they realize their driver is becoming royalty..🤯

user: I just know he proposed at sunset somewhere stupidly romantic

user: FR LIKEEEE

user: must have cost a lot

user: IT SHOULD BE! PRINCESS MONACO IS WHAT HE BAGGED😩

user: Monaco is about to have the wedding of the century and I will be there (digitally because I’m broke)

user: bold of you to assume they gonna stream it

user: let's not expect a stream man, it's gonna be extravagant but exclusively

private message between you and charles

grid group chat

pierregasly: can’t believe Charles going to be my king one day

user: YOU'RE NEXT PIERRE😂

user: THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PR MOVE OF MY LIFE

user: now I understand why charles said he like to keep some things to himself YEAH HE WAS KEEPING A DAMN WHOLE PRINCESS

user: charles went from “I’m private :)” to “here’s my engagement to a princess”

user: not that I'm complaining, the chemistry is giving

user: THE CHILDREN WILL LOOK INSANELY HANDSOME OR PRETTY FOR SURE😭

user: THE PRINCESS??? IN THE PADDOCK??? AGAIN?

user: this time the world world knows why will she be there tho

user: FOR HIS FIANCEEEE

user: one of the drivers will accidentally call her your majesty I FEEL IT

user: oscar rehearsing how to say hello without dying of awkwardness right now

user: charles is definitely cleaning his whole drivers room

user: if she shows up in a red dress the entire world will stop spinning

user: we all damn well she will😭

user: the fact that FIA and palace security are coordinating… imagine her having a custom padock pass with a crown on it

user: OMG THAT'S TRUE

user: damn, a custom paddock pass would be crazy

user: well she's a princess, FIA should put lots of effort😤

Private message between you and charles

user: IT'S CONFIRMED, WAKE UP WAKE UP, CONFIRMED

user: charles sweating somewhere because his princess is about to enter his workplace finally for him🤣

user: GP tickets after this announcement jumped in price like 200% IM CRYING

user: someone check on the other drivers😂

user: can she please teach the paddock how to dress

user: DON'T DO MY MAX DIRTY LIKE THIS

user: I din't even mention any names...

user: 😭

- A WEEK LATER -

user: as expected of our princess🥰

user: HER FIT OMG, THE FACT SHE MATCHED CHARLES WITHOUT STEALING THE SPOTLIGHT??? QUEEN BEHAVIOR

user: our soon to be queen😳

user: the dress is simple but tailored perfectly.

user: well rich people's minimalism is different

user: that's true...

user: I wonder what our knight Lewis is feeling right now😂

user: I’m bawling, I'm actually is

user: the way he posted this like it’s a love letter…he’s insane for her and i respect it

user: Charles, you have time for phone? Race is about to start😭

user: i’m not crying, you’re crying (also charles bro wtf this is so cute)

user: I actually can’t look at it my heart is melting helppp

user: charles we need you to lock in today

user: ALL OUT LECLERC

user: Imagine if he actually really win today

user: his new lucky charm😂

mediaofficial

liked by landonorris, georgerussell, ferrarofficial, vogueofficial and others

mediaofficial photoshoot of Her highness, y/n and Charles Leclerc's road to forever

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Fin.