goldenkirstein - Tumblr blog

goldenkirstein · 1 year

Note

cielo beloved do u happen to have any spare megumi thoughts mayhaps maybe perhaps

of course i do. of course i do.

um. don’t perceive me. PLS don't perceive me after this. this has been haunting me tbh.

pairing: aged up!megumi fushiguro x f!reader

wc: 3k WHAT IS MY PROBLEM IM SO ASHAMED. thought about turning this into a full fic but. it's too late. it's already typed in lower case. i'm done.

cw: smut, reader has her period, cramps, period sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, blood, probably grammar mistakes and typos.

***

the door to your apartment unlocks slowly, carefully, like your intruder is trying to be quiet in the hush of night.

it is late.

he must assume that you are asleep, curled beneath familiar bed sheets, sleeping soft and safe in the comfort of your own apartment.

perhaps it’s sweet, that he’s trying to be quiet.

you gave megumi a key to your apartment a long time ago–before whatever entanglement you have more recently began to develop. he just never gave it back. you’d never ask for it back. it belongs on his key chain now and in his hands, belongs in the lock, so that he can always get to you. you realized early on that megumi never wants you to be far from his reach or out of his grasp. he doesn’t want any locks or doors between you.

he reminds you of a dog you had as a child; scratched and howled and whined at your door at night until you let him in, until he could get to you.

megumi’s shadow haunts the arch of your bedroom door now.

he’s home from his mission early.

“you’re awake,” he says and he must know from your breathing or maybe something else entirely. strange, observant man that he is.

you hum, turning your head to get a better look at him; broad in the shoulders, tighter in the waist. so tall and looming, especially in this blue dark. his hair has grown out lately, shaggier than usual, coming up against the nape of his neck, curling behind his ears.

“you’re home early,” you say back.

“its late,” he responds.

in truth, you’d been awake with cramps, rolling around beneath your sheets and trying to find reprieve. your lower back aches something fierce, like you can feel your insides churning and twisting, slow like molasses, but painful and searing. beyond that, you feel bruised and tender, like a too-ripe fruit.

you hold your stomach like it might still your insides from all their contracting.

“cant sleep.” you respond to his silent question as he wanders deeper into the room. he sets his duffel bag down, begins to make himself at home again in your space.

for a moment, you’re so happy to have him back early, you could almost forget the pain. especially when he crawls into bed beside you, sidles as close as he can get himself, pressing all up against you, before slotting his mouth over yours in a rough little kiss. desperate man that he is. hungry.

you can feel the rasp of his stubble against your lips, coming up rough against your softness. your hands wind into his hair, pulling and tugging gently.

he makes a soft noise of relief, like coming home to your arms is what he needed, all he ever needs. you can feel his hands squeeze at your hips, grabbing at your curves appreciatively, eagerly.

he can’t say it first–he never can–so you do, “missed you.”

in response he makes another noise against your neck, ducking down to nuzzle into your throat, pressing wet kisses against your pulse. skimming his teeth against your skin.

he's always needy when he comes home from missions, sometimes half-frantic, sometimes painfully needy, painfully exhausted and craving whatever comfort you manage to provide him.

he feels your breath hitch when he hollows his cheeks to suck a pulsing little bruise into your throat.

fire catches to dry kindle with him, and suddenly he's fanned his desire into a flame. he has a habit of rushing, sometimes, like he's starved. touches and kisses you like you might flee from him at any moment.

sometimes, you think he sees you as a rabbit-hearted girl and his desire is too frightening a predator for you, too big for you to take, too vicious for you to survive. you think he considers his lust half-beast, half-cannibal, and able to maul you. devour you whole.

it'd be a fine way to go, you think, your hand tangling in his wild hair.

he hitches your leg up over his waist and you can feel the way he slots himself against you. you can feel the heat from him, the hardness that catches against where you’re tender and half-hurting.

you make a little noise of surprise and he encourages the rock of your hips, comes back up to kiss you hard again. to kiss you mean, teeth in your lip, fingers flexing possessively at your waist. to swallow any sounds you make now; you know he likes to feel them up against his mouth.

he's all raw man when he gets like this, maybe part animal, single-minded and wholly overwhelming. you can hardly catch your breath. and usually it's fine, it's good, but tonight–

his nimble fingers hook in the front of your little sleep shorts.

–you tense up, pulling away from his mouth and immediately grabbing for his wrist to stop him.

“not tonight,” you murmur and he tilts his head, so you add, “i got my period earlier.”

something passes over his face.

he keeps his fingers hooked in the material, frozen. stubborn.

he licks his lips.

you can’t see it fully in the dark, but you think his cheeks have darkened, flushed all scarlet.

“i don’t mind,” he finally manages to rasp.

his fingers twitch.

your heart trips up. this is new territory.

“no—megumi, that’s alright—“

“i want to.” he says this time and it’s so raw it almost startles you.

you freeze. you swallow hard.

“no, it’s okay—you don’t need to.”

“i want to.” he says again, this time more deliberate.

“i can help you out if you’re so pent up, you know?” you say it with a little laugh, like that might diffuse the tension. it doesn’t.

“no—“ he gets out, “no, i want to.”

“megumi,” you try to soothe, “you don’t understand. it’s—it’s gross, and—“

he swallows, “i don’t think it is.”

you blink at him in the soft dark, opening your mouth and then shutting it.

“are you in pain?” he then asks, softer now, voice just a rumble against your jaw. “do you have cramps?”

you nod dumbly.

slowly, carefully as not to spook you, he lets his hand fan out over your skin and slide to your lower back. he massages slow, works at the muscles gently, creeping higher up your back every few times, maybe dipping a little lower, too.

you groan softly, head falling back to reveal your throat.

“feels good,” you slur a little, arching into his touch like a preening cat.

he tucks his face back against your exposed neck to mouth and teethe gently, tongue dipping out in a blossom of wet heat.

you undulate your hips a little against him, against his large hand that flexes and circles at your aching muscles.

his hand slips lower on your back, fingers easing beneath the waist band of your shorts once more. but this time, he continues to massage, up and down, over and over against your cramping lower back. you squirm somewhat, but ultimately melt into his large hands.

until one of his hands finally plunges a little deeper into your shorts and you lock up.

“megumi—“ your voice is strained with warning.

“it’ll make you feel better.” he murmurs, pausing his hand, though, halfway down your little pajama shorts. and you know he's supposed to be soothing you, but his breath is lost, soft voice a little ragged at the thought.

“n-no. you don’t understand how messy it is or—“

“do you think i’m scared of blood?” he asks, perhaps a little too bluntly, “do you think i care?”

“yes-?”

his fingers move again, as if to prove you wrong, slipping beneath your panties now.

“megumi!” you gasp, you scold, you try to squirm away from him but he holds fast to you.

and it’s so—

horribly embarrassing. you can feel heat whip through you like a storm, burning your face, your chest, low in your stomach.

he doesn’t care about the pad you have on or how you try to twist away from him. it's horrible. you want to curl in on yourself. you want to cry. you want–

his fingers find where you’re burning and slippery.

he inhales a little sharp, off-kilter.

you’re fisting tight to the front of his shirt, head digging into his chest like you’re trying to disappear inside of him.

“megumi, i told you—“ your voice is high and thin and near breaking.

“it’s okay,” he hushes. and again, “i want to—want you. like this.”

and then he gently, carefully, dips his finger inside of you. and you’re sure he feels you constrict and flutter around him, feels your whine up against his throat, embarrassed and needy.

his own breath is tight, held in, as he slowly crooks his finger. then begins to massage, begins to stroke in a way that has your eyes fluttering.

it only takes a few strokes.

and then you lift your hips a little for him and he makes a strangled sound, half a groan as he begins to bolden, strengthen his fingers.

mindlessly, desperately, you realize how good it feels. your mouth parts in surprise, in pleasure, against your will. mortification is a serpent around your throat, holding fast to your voice, to any sound that might escape you. you choke on any pleas for more, wouldn't dare ask him for anything else, and dig our nails into him. you try to anchor yourself. you try to hide in his chest.

you don’t have to plead or ask, though, don't have to do a thing when he gently eases in a second finger. you feel yourself stretch around them, walls constricting, throbbing in a way that finally makes a keen rupture from you.

it makes megumi groan, raw, from his throat, fingers sinking in deeper.

"i want–" he gets out, "i want to taste–"

"megumi!" you gasp, cut him off, can't even hear him say it, squirming in his hold again. maybe out of further embarrassment, maybe out of–

arousal.

your head spins.

it's made even worse when he removes his fingers from you, suddenly shifts, and before you can protest or move, he's got your shorts and panties off, tossed in a bundled heap. and you're on your stomach, suddenly with your hips hitched up.

"you're gonna make a mess–" you try to warn him again, but you don't think he's concerned much, as he gets his pants down only low enough to free himself. you peek over your shoulder to see his hand stroking slowly over his cock, mouth slackened as he looks at you. his eyes are half wild, a little dazed, wholly enamored.

you feel heat scorch across your face and bury it into the pillow like you might be able to hide.

"i'll–" he swallows, inching forward until you feel the tip slip up against your folds. he groans a little, "i'll clean up after. we can take a shower."

you're surprised he even managed to answer you coherently; often, when he gets that look in his eye, he tends to lose all sensibility. for someone usually so rational, this is the one place it slips from him–or perhaps it's the one place he's able to let go of it. to just feel and be and take in a way he never allows himself to.

he finds reprieve, maybe, in getting lost in you.

you yelp when you feel him push the head of his cock just barely inside, splitting you open slowly. you try to inch away from him out of reflex, but one of his hands clamps down on your waist and forces you back. he can feel you fight him a little, pull against his hold, and you think if he wasn't so gone, it'd make him pause.

but then that hand begins to squeeze and massage, pushing up over your lower back again, moving in slow, firm circles.

"relax," he says, but his voice is tight. like he's a bow string pulled taught, ready to release. he holds himself on a sharp leash, though. he rubs soothingly at your back, works into the muscles with his thumbs, until you're easing up. settling back deeper into your hips, opening yourself up to him in a way that makes him slip deeper inside.

you can tell his restraint is threadbare.

"megumi–" you whimper helplessly, mortified, and needy.

it snaps with a firm push of his hips until you feel his thighs up against the back of yours.

he presses deeper into your lower back with his fingers, flexing, massaging, perhaps forcing you down into the bed and molding you to his hands like a sculptor to their art.

he drags himself out slowly and it makes you keenly aware of the stretch of him, of the way your walls flutter faintly, tender and aching.

you feel like an open wound, a live wire, an exposed nerve.

you hiccup a moan out, mewl into the pillow.

but he keeps the slow and deep pace, easing in and out of you, in and out, until you're arching into it–into his hands, into the feeling of him filling you.

you spread yourself for him more, sink down into it and feel your hips open in a way that brings relief–it gives more of yourself to him. you open for him, vulnerable and shaking, tentative and terrified. and when he realizes it, a sound crawls up his throat, a growl that tapers off into what could be a whine.

his hips snap forward this time and your answering cry sets him off. his thrusts turn harsher, deeper, more forceful. but it feels good, in the depths of you, where your insides are stirring. it feels–

exposing in a completely new way. raw. aching and open for him.

animalistic—

you can feel the slippery, sticky mess against your thighs, against his navel, the desperate way your body keens towards him now. you arch yourself into a pretty bend just to get more, just feel him root down inside of you, desperate to get him deeper. harder.

you feel his hand cascade over the arch, appreciative, up to the nape of your neck, around to your throat. fingers hooking around your jaw, and then prying into the heat of your mouth, which you eagerly open for. you close your lips around his middle finger with a tattered groan. you suck sweetly, whimpering behind his finger, eyes bleary and dazed.

when they slip from your mouth, he suddenly hauls you up, so your back is against his chest. your head tips onto his shoulder and he sinks so much deeper that you moan from from the pit of your chest, fingers squabbling for purchase on his muscled thighs.

once you’re this close, he’s got his arms around you, face tucked into your neck, huffing and growling against your skin.

“fuck—“ he spits out, pulling your hips down onto his cock, rutting up into you deep and hard.

“feels so good,” you babble, gasping in between, “you feel so good—it feels so good.”

the praise makes him whine, perhaps with less dignity than he’d like, but he buries his face into your throat. his hand suddenly moves, slips over your abdomen and—

it’s all stained from earlier.

god, it’s humiliating. its terrifying. it makes your stomach flip sharply, like you’re at the top of the world looking down.

your blood all over his hands as they slip back down to find your sensitive clit, swollen to the touch and desperate. your blood all over his body. over yours.

“so tight—“ megumi finally breaks, fingers decidedly slow even as his thrusts remain strong and deep, “and wet. and hot. and—“ he catches a groan behind his teeth, “and you needed this, didn’t you?”

his other hand smoothes over your stomach, flattening out over your where he knows you're hurting so badly, “n-needed me in here, right?” he nips at your ear, tugs it between his teeth.

he’s seeking reassurance, so you gasp out a yes. yes.

“fuck,” he curses again, low and biting, “thought about this all the time—and you, begging for it—for me—“

you can tell by the shakiness in his voice that it’s a horrifying admittance, that maybe he’s pulling teeth to get it out, or that maybe he’s so gone to your body and your walls squeezing tight and the—the blood all over his body. yours. that he doesn’t even realize he’s saying it.

“wanna—“ he tucks his face away to hide again and you reach a hand behind you to tangle in his hair, to push him deeper into your body, to pull and claw a little. “wanna fuck you through the whole week. want to keep you bare and—and—“

his admittance cuts off into a groan, both yours and his, as his fingers work quicker finally.

as your body tightens and bows against his, mounting pleasure like pressure in the sky before a big storm. electricity under your skin. you’re just going to burst—

your gasp is torn from your throat, shattering so hard you almost curl forward, in on yourself, on your throbbing body, if it weren’t for megumi holding you up.

the noise he makes is all animal, raw, when he feels your walls pulse and flutter desperately, wildly, deep pulls of your muscles that damn near make his eyes cross.

he reaches between your legs just to feel it, feel with his hands the way you throb deep and hard. can feel it constricting around his cock in a way that you know he won’t last long with.

his thrusts get erratic, rougher, a little meaner. tears bead at your eyes, breath ragged, as he finally buries himself in to the hilt and floods your already aching cunt with soothing heat.

this time he sits back on his haunches, takes you with him, let’s you lean back into the cradle of his body.

your both still panting, ragged, and you’re still shivering with aftershocks that he can feel. his hands twitch and squeeze around your hips.

his thumb digs back into the meat of your lower back, massaging in circles. another pulse makes him huff a little and messily, he plants kisses at your cheek, your temple.

he nuzzles into you like a cat.

when you speak, your voice is barely a croak, “what got into you?”

he dots kisses at a bite wound on your neck.

“i’ve always wanted to do that.” he admits quietly.

you can’t say you’re entirely surprised now, but—

“always?” you ask, turning your face a little as if you might catch a glimpse of his.

you can see his ears turn pink in the dark.

he swallows, “yeah.”

and the honesty in it is enough to make heat rise to your own face now.

after a moment, he murmurs, “are you okay?”

blearily, you laugh, “yeah. ‘m okay. i feel gross.”

megumi kisses at your jaw, perhaps apologetically, “we can shower.”

“you’re cleaning the sheets.”

“i said i would,” he snips and you feel his teeth in your throat like a warning. “but for now,” he continues, voice low and soft and reverberating against your back, “just stay like this.”

and his hands squeeze again around your waist before slipping between your bodies to massage deeply.

another groan slides from you, honey slow and relieved.

and you have to admit, it feels good, with him still nestled deep inside you, and his hands on your lower back like that.

“want you to come to me from now on—“ he murmurs and it stirs something inside you all over again, “want you to come to me now when you’re hurting like this.”

and he can’t say it first, so you do, “i love you.”

he turns your face towards his suddenly to catch you in a burning, sweet kiss. desperate man that he is.

and against your mouth, he murmurs, “i love you, too.”

#oh.#this did something to me.#this rewired a part of my brain.#oh #OH #raf recs

261 notes · View notes

goldenkirstein · 1 year

Text

promised

tags: 18+ MDNI, choso x fem!reader, jjk royal!AU, princess!reader & prince!choso, childhood friends to lovers, arranged marriage, slight angst, fertility mention, suggested virginity loss, reader wears a dress, alcohol consumption, masturbation, soft dom!choso, teasing, unprotected sex

wc: 5.5k // crossposted to AO3

In your kingdom, there has never been a shortage of other children for you to build friendships with. You bonded, played games together, and you had not wanted or asked for more. But you had never considered that one could be ranked as an equal. He comes from elsewhere, somewhere you’ve yet to hear of, but you’re told it’s a place that the Throne has put its trust in. From an upstairs window, you watch as his horse-pulled carriage glides up to the entrance of the castle, and as he steps out with his parents and a smaller boy.

You dash down the staircase, quick, but quiet, and peer from behind a pillar while he and his family are ushered in by royal guards. From here, he looks to be a head taller than you, and you guess he is probably less than three years older. The younger boy, who you assume is his brother, cannot be older than four. The two of them hold hands as they bow low and politely to their appointed guide.

When he introduces himself, you hear that he is titled with the name of prince, which matches yours of princess.

A nearby staff member snickers at your hiding, and she leans down to whisper in your ear that he is your betrothed. You turn your head to look at her with furrowed brows, and she reads the look of confusion on your face as disbelief, and only nods, but doesn’t offer any explanation as to what she means.

You let her go without asking, instead choosing to examine the boy from behind the column again. His hair is black, and short, and he’s dressed in deep purple satin robes, so long that the bottom hem sweeps against the floor. You’re not sure how you feel about him yet, and scurry from the hall before you can form any sort of opinion.

Later, he is sent outside to find you while you sit under your favorite tree. You had evaded him, his family, and your duty to meet them as a host. But he locates you quickly, standing tall in front of you, casting his long shadow on your face and blocking you from the sun. The wind blows, and you stare at each other for a few long moments.

“My name is Choso,” He finally says.

You blink, “I know.”

That seems to be enough for him, because he turns to sit down next to you, uninvited.

It doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would. You fold your hands in your lap while he gets situated, and think of what to say next.

“Someone told me that we are- that you are my- bre…” You can’t remember the sound of the word.

“Betrothed.”

“Betrothed,” You repeat, and side-eye him for an answer to a question you haven’t asked, but he’s too busy admiring the colorful hydrangea bush in front of you to notice, “Do you know what it means?”

He looks at you with a neutral face, “We are to be married.”

Your eyes widen, and jaw drops, and he smiles when you ask, frantically, “Today?”

“No, not today,” He turns his face to his lap, “When we are older.”

You let out a breath of relief, and lean back into the tree behind you. Your shoulders brush, but neither of you flinch away.

Unceremoniously, you tell him your name, and age, as you should have before, but he doesn’t seem like the type to turn up his nose at informalities. You learn that he is thirteen, and a little less than two years older than you. With introductions out of the way, you can offer to teach him your favorite garden game. He accepts.

That night, as you sleep, the silk of royal purple robes drape over the background of your dreaming mind, elegant and sleek. Dark eyes stare at you through a curtain of black hair, and though you only see tiny hints of his pale skin, you know you are looking at the Prince.

When he’s away, back at home, he sends you letters. At first, they’re simple, like someone instructed him to send them, and because he thought that it was what he was supposed to do. Over time, the more you learn him, you start to read them in his voice rather than your own, like you can feel his intent through each character scribbled onto the parchment. His handwriting is thin, and gracious, but it never changes throughout the years, even as he grows into a man who looks too big to write so delicately. You save all of his letters in a little ornate box beneath your bed.

Through these letters, he tells you in detail about home, and all the things he wishes to share with you one day, like the kind of food they are served, the types of flowers planted in their garden, the view from his window. It’s strange that he always comes to you, considering you will be the one to marry into his kingdom. Because you are not the eldest heir, and the throne would seat too many other relatives before the line ever reached you. But Choso is a king in waiting, next to inherit the throne, and you were the one chosen to stand beside him when it happened. For now, you’re satisfied to learn all about your future home through him.

Once, he writes about how he misses you. How he wishes you were there with him. You don’t understand why it makes your cheeks burn the way they do.

Another cycle of spring brings him back into your castle with it. Each of your parents had agreed that building a relationship before your marriage would be beneficial for you both. Choso’s visits become annual, and your fondness for each other grows each time. After a certain age, he comes alone, no longer accompanied by his parents or brother. The weather on the scheduled day of his arrival is bright, and breezy, and you wait for him beneath your tree, until you can hear his carriage crunching over the gravel of the roadway.

He’s dressed differently this time, with a white robe that has flared sleeves, under a purple gi-like vest. More casual than usual. He let his hair grow longer, as is tradition in his family, and it nearly brushes his shoulders now. He tends to push it from his face by running both hands through it, so it sits back and leaves his face unobstructed.

For a few moments, you consider this change in silence, but ultimately decide that it suits him.

You drag him by an arm to show him everything that has been altered in his absence, and he obliges without protest. A small smile lingers on his face as he follows, as he nods and hums while he listens to you speak, content to lend you an ear. He has always been the quieter one out of the pair of you, but neither of you had ever minded.

Minding his manners, he greets your family as you pass them, bowing and thanking each of them for inviting him back into your home. They bat you away, like you’re still children and not teenagers, but you lead him back into the garden like you are anyway. You assume position beneath your tree again, but with him beside you this time.

Your head rests back on the bark of the tree while you silently pick out all the extra things that have changed about him, things you couldn’t have spotted if you weren’t close enough. He looks older, more grown, and you can't help but feel like he’s leaving you behind. You want him to stop so you can catch up.

He glances sideways at you, and lifts a brow when he catches you staring.

It prompts you to say, “You look different.”

He pouts, and reflects for a moment, “Is it my hair?”

“Yes,” you reason, “But not only that.”

He waits for you to continue, but you don't, “Then what?”

“I’m not sure,” You answer, brows furrowed, like you’re thinking.

He chuckles, “Is it a good different?”

You don't know why you smile, “Yes.”

“Okay.”

You bump your shoulder against his, and poke, “What about me?”

His eyebrows raise, “What about you?”

“Have I changed at all?”

A slow grin breaks out on his face, fond, and knowing, like he’s heard a joke that you haven’t, “Not one bit.”

By the time you get up, the scent of grass is woven into the fabric of your clothes.

In the early years, your relationship is nothing but copacetic. However, things start to change when you reach your late teens. For reasons you can’t articulate an answer for, you start to resent him. You suppose you’re angry for your lack of choice, and instead of directing it at your parents, you take it out on him. He’s felt what you’re feeling before, but being older, he’s made his peace with it already, and the idea of never having to look far for a spouse had grown on him. Since childhood, it’s been clear that you were a good match, even if not perfect. You can see the hurt in his eyes every time you push him away, but for some reason, it doesn’t make you stop.

It’s unrelated, but when your relationship with him starts to turn prickly, you’re both rounded into the conference room, to talk about a potential wedding date change. The royal advisor had apparently suggested moving the marriage up sooner, for reasons you deem less than savory.

“They’re young, and the Princess must be fertile. They could make the strongest, healthiest heirs at their age,” He explains to your parents.

Your cheeks burn at the mention of your fertility – you had never thought about it that hard before. But you knew it was expected of you to give Choso an heir, eventually. You catch him peeking at you from the corner of his eye, but you don’t look anywhere but forward, squaring your shoulders back in a subconscious show of confidence that you don’t actually feel. Thankfully, your parents come to your rescue.

“They have their whole lives to bless the kingdom with heirs. We were not married until we were twenty-one, ourselves,” They agree that it’s still too soon, and you and the Prince breathe an audible sigh of relief. You don’t speak when you’re dismissed, and walk out opposite ways from the room.

It’s not until dinner time that you hear from him again. But instead of seeing him at the table, as you usually would, he barges right into your room while you dress.

He’s lucky he didn’t walk in when you were entirely bare, and you were dressed enough to cover everything that should be, though you never were squeamish about that sort of thing with each other before. You don't jump, you don’t scream, only glare from over your shoulder and scold, “Weren’t you taught to knock?”

He looks down and away, towards the floor, embarrassed for something he doesn’t have to be, “I was sent to collect you. Dinner will be served soon.”

“Fine,” You huff, turning back to your mirror, but he still stands in your doorway, “Will that be all?”

He doesn't say anything, just continues staring at the floor. It concerns you, and makes you soften.

“What is it, Choso?” You turn, approaching him, corset only half-laced.

“I don’t like how you’ve been treating me.”

You didn’t, either, “How have I been treating you?”

“Like a nuisance,” He admits, meeting your eyes, “Like an inconvenience.”

Guilty, you stay silent.

“Is that how you feel about me?” He asks.

All of your breath feels like it's being compressed from your lungs, and you can’t keep yourself from frowning, “Of course I don’t.”

“Even when I felt what you’re feeling, it was never because of you. We shouldn’t go through with the marriage if you… Do you not want me?”

For the first time in your life, you feel your heart break in your chest. It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t want him, you both know that. He’s not asking as a prince, but as Choso.

“I do,” You reassure quickly, because you can't stand to let him feel it for a moment longer. You step closer and grab his hand into yours, squeezing, “I do, I’m so sorry. My emotions- I just- I’m confused.”

He breathes a quiet and shaky breath, then nods, understanding, “I will help you.”

You smile at him, for the first time in too long, “Okay.”

Neither of you make a move to step apart, so you ask, closer to his face than you realized, “Will you finish lacing my corset?”

He blinks quick, like he wasn’t expecting it, but agrees. You turn to face the mirror again, and as he moves closer you can feel his breath puff over the back of your neck. He towers behind you, and as he reaches for your laces, you can see the bulge of his bicep beneath the sleeve of his robe, his expression soft as he concentrates. His jaw has sharpened. He’s big, bigger than you remember, and you guess you missed when he crossed over the threshold of boy to man. You quite like the look of him behind you.

You watch as he circles the ties around each of his hands, and pulls them taut, cinching your waist and making your breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

“Too tight?” He asks, sounding as breathless as you feel.

You guess you missed when your emotions crossed over the threshold of fondness to affection.

“Just right,” You answer.

He finishes it with a bow, and lets it hang down your back in big loops. Then his fingers run along the top of your corset, and the touch of them against the bare skin of your shoulder blade makes you want to shiver.

“All done,” He whispers.

You feel him move further into your space, and when you turn your chin towards him, you find that your faces are inches apart.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You haven't been this close since you were children. He looks so pretty from here.

You think you lean in first. It’s softer than you would have imagined it would be. He’s softer than you imagined he would be. For a few seconds longer, you keep yourself pressed to him, and can only wish that you could have more.

You break away first, and he’s stolen your breath, “We should go.”

Choso nods once, curtly, “We should.”

“One more,” You lean in again.

His eyes flick to your lips, “One more.”

When you make it there, you sit side by side at the dinner table, stiff, like the evidence of your lover’s kiss is written plainly all over your lips. But no one seems to notice, and it remains a secret for you both to keep.

During his next stay, once you’re both in your twenties, and less than a year from your marriage date, the Ball of the Spring Equinox falls right in the middle of Choso’s visit. There’s lots of chatter about it around the kingdom, of what fabrics and stitches and styles will be best suited, and it makes you more excited than usual to attend. Naturally, your mind wanders to Choso, and what fabrics and stitches and style he’s chosen to dress himself in. Perhaps it will be his signature royal purple, the color you first met him in, the color you’ve known him for. Or maybe black, to match his shiny dark hair and eyes of pitch.

But he surprises you, and meets you in your corridor dressed in white silk robes. His hair is tied up in two buns, and pieces of it stick out in a way that isn’t messy, but intentional. His collarbones peek out from either side of his neckline, and the skin of his chest is pale and blemishless, milky as the cloth that covers him, and you can’t be sure where the fabric ends and his skin begins.

He looks beautiful, and elegant, like the image of a man meant to be a king.

A tiny smile plays on his lips as you approach him, “Hello,” he whispers.

You smile back, bashful, but true, “Hello.”

“You get more beautiful every time I see you,” He tells you, like it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. He grabs your hand into his before the blush has a chance to consume your cheeks, “Shall we go?”

Choso escorts you into the ballroom with your arm laced into his, the two of you shoulder to shoulder. Everyone is sure to compliment the Princess and her intended, calling the two of you a vision, a sight for sore eyes. As a couple, you’re seen as a fresh breath, an image of youth that the people are not used to having the opportunity to gawk at.

The ballroom is a mosaic of baby pinks and bright yellows, and everyone in it is garbed in pastels to welcome the spring season with open arms. Large arrangements of flowers are meticulously placed all around the room, draped over door frames and sitting in ornate vases. Your dress just brushes the floor, tailored perfectly to your height, cinched and flowing in all the right places. You knick a pair of champagne flutes off of a platter for you and Choso to share, both of you tapping your glasses together before taking a sip. Your cheeks are still plump with a grin while you drink, eyeing him from the side while he downs his glass until it’s empty.

“Slow down.”

“I’m nervous.”

You raise a brow at him, “Nervous?”

“I don’t like dancing,” He confesses, looking straight ahead.

You pause, “You liked it plenty when I was your partner.”

When you reached the age to learn ballroom dance, Choso was always made to practice with you, considering you’d be partners for a lifetime.

He turns red, “That was different.”

“Different?” You clarify.

“Yes. Different.”

“Different how?”

His mouth shuts before he answers, “There weren’t any people around,” He chooses to say, but you can tell that it’s a half-truth. You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, “Our instructor doesn’t count.”

Your shoulders visibly slump, and he chuckles. He plucks another flute off of a passing waiter’s platter and knocks it back, then looks at you with a newfound confidence.

“I’m ready,” He breathes, “Come on.”

“That’s all it takes?” You tease, but he’s not listening, already dragging you forward by the arm.

Others make room for you in the lineup, and you stand across from Choso as he shoots you a lidded gaze. It’s almost inappropriate for the setting, but you don't think anyone can even feel it besides you, because no one else knows the usual look of his eyes just as well. It’s a dance that doesn’t call for much touch between partners, but that doesn’t matter, not with the way he’s studying you. You feel hot all over, like he’s branding you with his stare, and you almost feel yourself get burned when your chests brush together.

It’s a dance you’ve stepped through time and time before with him. But he’s right.

This is different.

Your prince is light on his feet, skillful in his step, and he leaves you feeling ruffled after only a couple of minutes of practiced dancing. The number ends, and everyone on the floor scatters off, but you remain with him for a second longer, to try and make sense of what you’re feeling, as if his face alone could provide you with the answer.

You do your duty to make your kingdom proud, and politely dance with your people when they ask. It’s quite fun, bonding with them through movement, sharing dialogue without any words. It goes this way for hours, because the people love their time with the Princess, but they respect that there’s someone who loves their time together more.

They give you back to Choso when they feel you’ve had enough, and you fit yourself into his side easily, watching as the crowd moves in waves, singing and shouting in joy.

“Having fun?” He asks.

“Much.”

He glances at the gloss over your eyes, “Are you tired?”

You smile, “Quite.”

Everyone’s too distracted to watch as you nudge into him.

“We could slip away right now,” You whisper, as close as you can get to his ear, “No one would notice.”

He turns his face to look at you, and you see his eyes flick to your lips, even if only for a nanosecond.

“Lead the way,” He rasps.

The halls are empty, besides the guards, but none of them interrupt while you pull Choso to your room. You practically push him into it before shutting the door behind you, then the two of you size each other up, like animals do when something is foreign to them. You take a step towards him, and he doesn’t move, just lets you press your bodies together like you did on the dance floor and pet his chest while you purr up at him.

“Can you kiss me?”

One of his fingers raises to trail on the line of your jaw, “I can,” He affirms, smirking, not giving you what you want on purpose.

“Please?”

His eyes soften on you, then he’s leaning down into your space.

For the first few moments, your breaths intermingle, lips touching, but not locked. Your eyes fall shut right before you purse, connecting to him, and your belly flutters in delight beneath your dress. You move your lips against his, gently introducing your tongue, and together, you learn a new dance. You wrap your arms around his neck and both of you pull the other in deeper to get a better taste of what you’ve never had before. He kisses you messy, but soft, and if he wasn’t clutching you by the waist you think your knees would buckle from under you.

You break away, but you don’t go far, and you look up at him through eyes he’s never seen before.

Wanting. Needing. Lustful.

Your hand moves to lightly fist into his collar, using it to pull him even closer to you, “Soil me, because I am yours,” You kiss him once, twice, and plead with him,“I have always been yours.”

That night, Choso loves you in a way he’s never shown you before.

Days pass, and every night Choso finds himself in your bed, and every morning after you two have to pretend like nothing has changed between you, even though everything has. You spend time wherever you can get the most privacy, but never cross the line of intimacy, not until you’re in the confines of your bedroom. The fleeting touches under the dining table aren’t enough, and there’s an endless longing in your gut until the moment he can get his hands on you again.

Everyone around you is none the wiser, and you’re lucky that the guards are sworn to secrecy. Once again, he slips through your door after nightfall, and lets you press all the kisses you want into his skin.

“We can’t keep meeting like this, my love,” Choso tells you, but falls into your open arms easily, with a smile plastered on his lips.

“Sure we can,” You tell him, equally jovial, because you know he doesn’t mean it. After all, something keeps him coming back every night. You kiss him again for good measure, “Come lay with me.”

He walks backward with you until you fall on the sheets, where you quickly and familiarly mold yourselves together, nestled in close like you need him for warmth. He pecks you again.

“You taste sweet,” He says, licking his lips as he pulls away.

“Don’t I always?”

He chuckles, “What’ve you eaten?”

“They brought me plums for dessert.”

“Did they?” He leans in to brush his tongue against yours again, unabashedly chasing after the flavor on you, “And you didn’t think to share with me?”

“Is this not sharing?” You speak into his lips.

He entangles one big hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, and his nails scratch into your scalp, making you shiver. With gentle force, he pushes you forward, meeting you in another wet and sticky french.

Between kisses, you try to tell him, “If it makes it any better,” smack, “I thought of you as I ate them.”

“Oh,” The side of his mouth quirks up, before you fall back into each other, “That fixes it.”

When you break away again, he gives you his rapt attention as you divulge, “There’s never a moment that I’m not thinking of you.”

The color of them reminded you of his royal robes. Of the purple veins that trail and twist under his pale skin. If you looked at the insides of his wrists, you’d be able to see them where they sit, violet underneath milky white, like the roots of a tree, alive and pumping. All of the small things that fill your day make you think of him – he is everything you ever dream of.

“You are precious to me,” You admit, nearly inaudible, as you lay a hand on his cheek.

Choso breathes in a shaky breath, like he’s just suffered a blow, and nuzzles the side of his face into your grasp. He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels his nose prickle with emotion, though he doesn’t want to spend one moment not adoring your beautiful face. He settles with laying a kiss on your open palm, and hopes it can tell you everything he can’t.

When he feels strong enough, he kicks a leg over your hips to straddle you, and playfully pins both your wrists on either side of your head, taking care to not drop his full weight down. You see him peek at you through the hair that falls in thick strands over his face. You’d brush them back for him, if you could.

You're clad only in a nightgown, with thin straps, and nothing underneath. In this position, it’s smothering your breasts, and one right move can make them spill out of it. He’s dressed in a simple robe, and you feel giddy when you realize that with one pull, you can have him undressed beneath your hands. By now, you’ve seen him bare countless of times before, but getting him naked under your stare never seems to lose its appeal.

“I stretched myself for you,” You tell him with an innocent smile.

“You- You what?”

“Put my fingers inside to prepare. Got myself wet and ready, so you didn’t have to,” You’re about to continue, and tell him all the filthy details, until you see the look on his face, “Why don’t you seem pleased?”

“I don’t mind doing that for you,” He says, brows furrowed, because he’s worried he’s made you think otherwise, “I like it.”

You blink, “Okay. I didn’t-”

“Don’t do it again,” He commands, stern, “You know that I’m not the type of man to neglect your needs.”

Your voice is small when you apologize to him.

“Really?” He leans down, and fits his face into your neck, until you can feel his hot breath puff over your warming skin, “Show me how sorry you are.”

His tongue drags along the side of your throat, and you pant, “How?”

“Do it again. Let me watch.”

“N-Now?”

“Oh, we can wait, if you want,” You hear him purr right beside your ear, “But I thought you were ready for me right now. Unless you did a lousy job.”

You have to stifle a shudder when his lips start to run along the shell of your ear. You knew he was working you up intentionally, but you let yourself get annoyed by his shallow attempt at teasing anyway, “I am ready,” you try to bite, “I’ll show you.”

He takes his cue, and sits up to shuffle off of you, lounging to the side, watching as you spread your legs quickly and waste no time burying two fingers in to the hilt.

“S-See? I’m-” Your face contorts in pleasure when you can't help but curl them up inside you, “All ready.”

You’re about to slip them out, but he swiftly catches your wrist in a big palm, and pushes your hand down, forcing your fingers in deeper and making you keen.

“I didn’t say you were done.”

He’s never been so strict with you, but you couldn’t say that you dislike it. In fact, it’s making you feel hotter than ever, and your pussy drips under his stare. You hook your other hand around your hip to rub at your clit, keeping the other where it stuffs you. You work fast, because you think he’ll give himself to you sooner that way. It doesn’t take long for you to start panting to the room, and you’re close again, like before, when you were lamentably alone. It’s hard to deny, especially when you feel his lips graze on the calf he lifted up to his face.

Choso watches you work yourself until you cum, and holds the leg in his hand tighter when it starts trembling against his mouth. For a few beats, he lets you cool down, then moves to untie his robe and push it off of his shoulders, gifting you with the view of all of his delicious ridges and curves. His shoulders are broad, his biceps are thick. His tummy looks hard to the touch, but you know that the skin is as silky as the robes he wears. He pushes his underwear down, freeing his cock, barely giving you an eyeful before he’s manhandling you to lay on your side and fitting himself right behind you.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” He says into the skin of your shoulder, nosing his way upward, “I can't wait to start our life together.”

“We already have,” A long time ago, goes unsaid.

You feel him smile against your neck, “You know what I mean.”

His fingers snake over the dip of your waist, and he slides his hand between your thighs to push them apart, holding the top one in the air and slipping his own leg between them, instructing you to keep yours open for him.

He leans back to watch as he uses a thumb to drag his cock through the slick your cunt is leaking. His tip catches on your entrance, and he takes the deepening stretch of your leg as an invitation inside. He accepts, pushing himself in until your pussy is stretched to capacity and his balls are buried in your pubes. His hips halt, stopping while he’s pressed deep, to let you adjust, to force you to feel it.

To make use of this time, he pulls the neckline of your nightie down and sucks the side of your tit into his mouth, latched with intent to mark. He listens to you struggle to inhale a full breath in, and he kisses up to your face messily, leaving tacky trails of saliva as he goes, until he can nibble on your earlobe.

Atop the sheets of your bed, Choso squeezes the fat of your thigh in his hand, merciless, and thrusts once inside you so hard that you think it’ll bruise. He has to use the other hand to cover your mouth and keep you from whimpering. You clench around him, and his fingertips caress the soft skin of your face as he starts to make love to you.

Afterwards, he softly pinches the hem of your nightgown between two fingers and sits it back in place on your thighs, then shimmies the neckline he pulled down back above your breasts for your modesty. He coaxes you to fall asleep on him, while you’re snugly tucked into the crook of his arm, murmuring to you until you’re asleep and breathing lightly. He refrains from running his fingers over the plush skin of your face again.

Choso uses one hand to clear your hair from the concave of your neck before he fits his face into the dip of it. He noses over your pulse for a few beats, inhaling the scent of your skin, before he lays two unhurried kisses onto you.

“Rest well, my sweet girl,” He whispers, but you only sigh in your sleep. He names you with ownership, disregarding technicalities, because you were promised to him long before you’ll be bound by law. His lips pucker delicately to blow out the last of the candles on your nightstand, leaving your room to be engulfed by darkness and taking the two of you with it.

In the morning, he’ll scramble to get up, and you’ll kick him out with more of your kisses and a smile on your face. He’ll have to sneak out from your corridor, careful not to be seen, and at breakfast, you’ll sit apart, like he’s still not yours. He’ll wink at you from his seat and watch as it flusters you, but no one will catch it. And at night, the cycle will repeat.

For now, he’ll curl over you, and listen to you breathe until he falls asleep, too.

#gnawing at the bars of my cage #i have butterflies ??!?!?@?#dndnndndnddndjjdjeekejend dndjdndrnjddjej #FUcK this is my shit #my god #im so im love rn #raf recs

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